It’s a warm evening on the sahara
camel washed sand dunes
rise up like sacred mountains in the
red distance
I unzip the flap of my
nomad tent
dry desert winds
plait golden grains of sand
through my nubian hair
Sai Krishna
my heart is a parched fig
monsoon tears flood the nile
and my mind plays dirty tricks on me
mirages robed in ochre
waver across the striped horizon
Peacock Lord
Your Radha has prepared a basin of
fragrant myrrh
to anoint your lotus feet
flowers gathered from the gardens of
Isis
are eager to adorn Your divine neck
Prema Swaroopa!
Answer the ardent prayer of Your devotee
before the moon rises a silver swan
in the heavens
Your poems are a sheer joy to read and to contemplate. You tell of places far from the beaten path where few westerners dare to tread, enchanting, mysterious and always cloaked in beauty. Another wonderful write!
“The woman or man who is a poet, or fiction writer, or playwright, or all of these, is engaged constantly in a jazz ballet of vocabularies, passions, genders, histories, perspectives, death, love, and life. The music of revelation announces itself to
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sending you bouquets from the desert
Sonya Ki
Ron