an itinerant observer

  T oday heralds the beginning of an era Not of interest to meaningless minds Regardless, the story must be told. Of an apparent merger of Yin and Yang In reality, the triumph of a trichotomy or perhaps a triumvirate? Since there was a He - the babysitter; a She - the divine feminine; and a Me - the Child Three companions on the trip of a lifetime whither thoughts were elicited, meaning sought, and purpose created, if not found. Let’s start at the beginning. But what was that? Or when? Was the origin the bright colors that tasted sweet? Or the vibration of chrysanthemums – a mere conversation with chlorophyll Or the music reverberating, drumming, thrumming…smelling of nostalgia  Or the tablecover’s patchwork of whorls That pulled you in when you felt the threads Drowning, then surfacing and breathing again, once called out Making love through head and hair And fingers reaching for one’s organic and inorganic anchors Or the appearance of dry figs and nuts    sittin...

T oday heralds beginning of an era Not of interest to meaningless minds Regardless, the story must be told. Of rain, sea, wind and rock Nature’s elements gone wild A blessing or a curse to observe Their might and mystery? And yet, only gratitude, that I’m alive! But there’s more… A magnetism An attraction within to the storm without Shall I embrace thee? Stripped to my bare skin Drenched to the bone Shall I walk into thine storm’s eye? Then stand still, very still Slam dunk in the middle Just feel and be Accept chaos without to get to peace within                 Shall we merge tonight, my love? Nature and I, conjugal rite A divine oneness, a solo journey Of darkness unto light My soul’s union Of communion. And that said, esoterica from an insomniac’s dream must come to an end Like the wave front comes to an end at the shore, No matter how calm or agitated ocean o...

  T oday heralds beginning of an era Not of interest to meaningless minds Regardless, this story must be told. On the anniversary of death One year later, Back from his journeys – inner outer. “You are no different!” says Shams The one - teacher, friend, lover Assumptions? Narcissus’ Shams - sun, mirror, lover And in that love’s reflection With many layers shed Love One year before, On the eve of death Girl on the second floor Who was she to Narcissus? To Shams everything And yet he wishes to turn back time To eliminate the darkness by the sea? Have you really not fathomed those indecipherable tattoos? That can be seen but not felt; if felt then not heard. And yet palpable to the eye and ear In the darkness by the sea. Pain Of continued separation. But what’s done is done And what’s done cannot be undone. One year was all it took For one to become one And in that one year, perhaps… This esoterica from an insomniac’s dream mus...

T oday heralds the beginning of an era Not of interest to meaningless minds  Regardless, the story must be told. Narcissus was fond of looking into mirrors, That perhaps comes as no surprise. But recently his attention had moved to photographs Unlike images in mirrors, photos didn’t talk back (as yet). What great photos! He marveled at what he saw: A plethora of well-dressed young pretty women and handsome men Smiles, frowns, joy, mirth, silliness. All captured for eternity “Ah! The unending possibilities of youth”, said his heart “But wait! Did you not notice that there was something missing?” said his head. For you see, there was a dearth of old people in the photographs Where did they go? Were they whisked off to someplace momentarily? Maybe a nursing home? One voice inquired, the loudest in the cacophony. His heart mused but for a few seconds and then kicked in, “More likely that the old folks have been relegated; To dark corners of the...

'awakening' from  numinous_flow  archive; artwork by Nadia Haroon T oday heralds the beginning of an era Not of interest to meaningless minds  Regardless, the story must be told. Lately an inexplicable Iztirabi had taken hold Could it be because Shams had left the house? As unexpectedly as he had appeared, Shams was gone Like a will-o’-the-wisp. Narcissus felt like receding into his shrine; Unsure whether that space existed in mind or heart, he agonized. “Damn mind tends to over analyze and over think; it does not want to be simple!” Heart, disregarding mind, rejoiced; Like a child seeing a unique flower. Iztirabi, however, could not be ignored; it needed to be heard More often than not it was a voice at the back of the mind   Encouraging further exploration. He couldn’t let go of that thought. Had Shams not entered his shrine momentarily Narcissus would have stuck to his narrative about flying solo. Dark or light, uplif...

'awakening' from numinous_flow archive; artwork by Nadia Haroon T oday heralds the beginning of an era Not of interest to meaningless minds  Regardless, the story must be told. The story teller’s subject: mere beads of sweat Forty years into existence, But only now the true story revealed. Sweat oozes out of pores onto parched skin more so at night, when the muggy, warm sea breeze Facilitates perspiration onto a living, breathing, seeing, smelling, feeling skin. Narcissus observes beads of sweat pile On the forehead , face, hirsute chest, nether regions Beads that communicate through a means as ancient as humanity itself. The spiritual aside, it's the physical connection of salty, hydrated particles That merge and pool in all and every crevice The trickling a potent reminder of Narcissus’ virility. Within that context of sweaty beads and beady sweats Conversations are had - fifty shades dark. Darkness that exists in skin, mind, and he...

“ Baba , what are you reading?”, Noori peered over my shoulder to get a look at the book. All my reading life I have been much irritated when anyone has tried to peer into my book, especially by the over the shoulder route. It’s as annoying as someone peering over your shoulder to catch a glimpse of your email, while you’re working at your desk. Yes, I accept the double standards, but it’s okay for me to look over the shoulder of the other, but I certainly cannot tolerate it when I am the recipient. I took a deep breath, counted to ten, and very patiently told my 5-year-old kindergartner, “It’s a book called ‘the forty rules of love’”. It vaguely occurred to me, given the nature of the book, to pat myself on the back for not being short-tempered with her. “Is it about love?”, Noori asked. “Yes and no”, I said, “It is about love and no love for the other person”. “ Baba , when there is no love for another person then is there hate?” She wasn’t going to let go of this rare disp...