jnana_deva_shakti

pilgrimwithabrokenheart.com

Juan a.k.a PILGRIM WITH A BROKEN HEART. autobiographical musings with a tendency towards embellishment while sipping Soma.

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  • jnana_deva_shakti 1d

    Your song

    If I could be anything
    Other than the person I am,
    I would be the song you sing.
    The pleasure of being the lyrics
    Passing your lips is a dream.
    ©jnana_deva_shakti

  • jnana_deva_shakti 1d

    Mirakee’s Parakeet

    A little parakeet
    Came up to me,
    Asking discreetly,
    What do I seek?

    Soulful conversation
    I said without hesitation.
    Quiet contemplation
    And delightful inspiration.
    ©jnana_deva_shakti

  • jnana_deva_shakti 1d

    Note to wife

    My dear, you are the fullness of nature realized.
    Beauty is your expression as grace materialized.
    Your Soul is Divinity’s dance actualized.
    I gaze at you as if at the moon hypnotized.

    ©jnana_deva_shakti

  • jnana_deva_shakti 1d

    Nature materialized

    Woman is nature’s
    Highest delight.
    Her painted face radiant
    As the sunset alights
    On contoured features.
    Lips rouged delicious
    Passion fruit tempting
    The chance of kisses.
    Nails hues of midnight
    Mystery of dreamtime flight.
    She dresses for herself.
    Embracing beauty at twilight.
    Nature sighs seeing her own
    Reflection in her smokey eyes.
    Flowers patterned on her dress,
    A walking garden beneath skies.
    ©jnana_deva_shakti

  • jnana_deva_shakti 1d

    Perfume

    Your perfume lingers
    Aroma to your memory.
    Reminders of embraces
    Passion is our testimony.
    Committing to each other
    So when we’re apart,
    We have the security
    And longing in our heart.
    ©jnana_deva_shakti

  • jnana_deva_shakti 1d

    Self Portrait

    The artist in studio
    White canvas awaits.
    Stands on spilled pigment
    Scattered droplets of haste.
    Brushing a self portrait,
    Much more than just flesh.
    His pained truthful essence,
    Of passion expressed.
    Eyes stare, more a glare
    With hair verging disorder.
    Stubble ashen his face,
    Is he saint or deplorable?
    That’s the genius
    This mad artist possesses,
    In the topography of skin
    Human condition confesses
    His love, fears and hopes
    Or the terror of mortality.
    With little or no time to waste,
    Rids himself of formality.
    Fully alive and expressive
    Embracing the divine savage,
    Paints on stretched cloth,
    As mortal conflicts ravage.
    ©jnana_deva_shakti

  • jnana_deva_shakti 2d

    Birds of sanctuary

    The birds in my sanctuary
    Sing in curt harmony.
    Gossiping and frolicking
    In sprite like fervency.
    Flying droplets of hues
    Feathers ruffling off chill.
    So cheerful to my ears
    The songs a melodic thrill.
    I sit in a swoon as I listen
    To nature’s symphonic delight.
    My joy swells to this raucous poesy
    Threatening to whisk me in flight.
    ©jnana_deva_shakti

  • jnana_deva_shakti 2d

    My Father’s Grief

    The man in the corner
    Speaking aloud to himself.
    Silenced when one walks
    Into the room, he’ll express
    His turbulent thoughts,
    To an inner audience.
    His therapy for a life
    Of hardship and loneliness.
    His children often see
    This peculiar spectacle,
    It’s become so common
    His whispers acceptable.
    His fingers have curled
    From the hardship of work
    Twisted fingers the shape
    Of knotted roots and hooks.
    This man possesses song,
    And serenades his family,
    With a booming Spanish voice
    Singing - depression’s remedy.
    Songs from his homeland
    The green mountains of Spain.
    Songs of passion and love
    Or heartbreak and pain.
    He provides everything he can
    For his family’s survival.
    Destroying his body with
    Safety and health in denial.
    He does all he can
    Like his father before him.
    Everything but suicide,
    His own father’s dark sin.
    He carries this grief with him,
    Which adds to his strife.
    Why did his father do it,
    Why did he take his own life?
    My father once spoke
    Of this painful dark memory,
    Becoming a distraught child,
    Pained and crying for daddy.
    It helped him to talk
    About this dark stain.
    If only he could help
    Rid his father of pain.

    But he couldn’t. He wasn’t there.
    So he carries this burden.
    His private stones of despair
    Freedom from grief uncertain.

    But it’s the songs he sang
    That I remember most.
    I romance it now
    As I pine for discourse.
    With my soulful father
    Who is always in my thoughts,
    Imagining him singing
    While happy or distraught.
    It’s why I write
    As most other poets do,
    To understand this life,
    Which can be joyful or cruel.
    He sings and I write,
    To thrash madly at our plight,
    We laugh and we wail,
    For our family we prevail.


    ©jnana_deva_shakti

    #tod #pod #tod_wt #mirakee #writersnetwork #writerstolli #ceesreposts

    In memory of my father

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  • jnana_deva_shakti 3d

    Reasons to art

    Art speaks truth
    Falsehoods can’t survive.
    Art speaks to power
    Justice demands to thrive.
    Art speaks poetics
    Proclamation of being alive.

    ©jnana_deva_shakti

  • jnana_deva_shakti 3d

    Love of ink

    My love of ink has no end,
    Carving pages to comprehend,
    My life struggles forming insights
    Some of remorse, others delight,
    In swells of love so powerful,
    Or depths of despair too sorrowful.
    Sometimes the page is not enough
    And I have to carve onto other stuff,
    Scribing prose onto city walls,
    At times illegal don’t be appalled.
    But often my insights are so personal,
    I need to carve them onto my person.
    Words and images I so relish,
    I inked them right into my flesh.
    ©jnana_deva_shakti