THUS SPAKE SHIVA, THE TRAMP

A tramp alright

I am, young man, 

But come, hear me out…

I’m one and One

At once, it’s clear

Of that there is no doubt

Let’s look at each

Here face to face

Pick the truths we live by

For my matted locks

Are a world apart

From your Olay face refined.

Truth be told

It’s crutches you hold –

Cheque books, cash cards

iPhones

And the web worldwide

Your palace – in – fief

The Saville suit

And girls crashing

For your tick

Or mere pass by

Or the staff starched

And groomed to serve

A brat that feels

His Highness big

A lord of own pig sty

Then, that chauffer yonder

Who defers to you

Regards you too

As a helpless fool

Who owns the shining cadillac.

Truth be told

These are the crutches you hold –

For proof, young man

If you were to lose

One by one

Your freedom to choose

And your propups

To celebrityhood.

Gone would be the wealth

The authority you meant

The fount of power

Contacts you held

That raised you aloft

The being you felt

Now crippled

Indeed helpless

Redefined strange

Timid, deranged

Unsure

Insecure

Without the dough

To shave or procure

Or someone to call

Recognise and assure

At war

On all fronts

Near and far…

What be your truth ?

Now, in you

Yet lies the proof

No, you are not reduced

To the form you see

Of I amused

But you can

Now step up to view

This agitated mix

Churned within

That road to calm

Gains bit by bit

Of rest and balm

And the journey long

Long, too long

To mind quelled

At quiet ease

Unsupported peace

And freedom to be

In truth

As is.

* * *

I know that look

You now cast

On the tramp same

From minutes past

Yes, I live the truth

You’ve visualised

At that road’s end

When men surmise

The unreality

Of all these forms

Looks that’re worth

Less than a corn

And the reality

Of Self within

Buried deep and lost

To rationalising

On profits booked

And more beyond

Our powers would yield

For expanding fief

To that belief

The idea we have

Of ourself, feel

The poise made up

Of clout we wield

Our charms that work

To reflections

That influence us, to us 

Spurring commands

Impressive summons

To delegate or bestow 

On women we favour

And men

Who supplicate.

And this is the truth

I remember the fruit

Of this self on props

You’ve been thus far

Like a Sphinx

That’s blatant zilch

A real tower

Of illusory belief

Conditioned idea

In truth, you know

That deserts us

Without its supports

In our bank accounts

Cash cards, phones

Our palace – in – fief

Our suits Saville

The staff we buy

Links worldwide

And our caddy –

* * *

Come now, then

It’s time you looked

For the Self that is

Still yours, with you

Ever was and will

Into which

Our roots go

And which is

Not a thought

Not an idea

Nor belief

Nor the power

To execute

Or possess all this

That bind us to it

Nor of summons

We use to beckon

The slave

Who makes us save

Those thoughts

Of ourself

The ego we make

And inscrutably etch

That personality

To which we attach

And are carried away

To its world of dreams

Then real

With an identity

That compares

And feels

And competes

With the other

Fictitious elves.

Anon, then

To the Self

That is

Which is instead

A nought complete

Homogeneous

Sans time, space

Term or concept

Want or breath

The void absolute

‘Thout fiction and dreams

All cause and effect

Phenomenal

Without Psyche

And psychosomatics

Or this physiology

And stir brainy.

It’s there

Here untouched

And are we

Untainted, unfudged

And real

As real can be

Wherever we are

Howsoever we see

In suit Saville

Or our skin

In life and death

Beings all

Small and big

Low or uncouth

High or beneath

It is the One

We cannot corrupt

The ground very

On which we erupt

Form and dream

Fashion our scream

And cause the mess

Unending distress

Of a mirage full

Of self – interest

Placing the few

Called fortunate

On top

Of teeming dregs

In burning ignorance.

It’s the One we are

And we seek to serve

By living the truth

And bring to fore

The verve of freedom

Embed in each

The moral heritage

Our access to peace

And ethics plain

In fraternity

As this tramp

Now before you

Holds the truth

For you to see

But will disappear soon

With earth for support

Body divine

Not a speck more

Than drapes of sky

Seeming the one

Walking away

And being the One

Immanent

While you, looking on

Will sense

The oneness 

The unity we have

In existence


But that notion

Cosmic beauty

Wouldn’t be knowledge yet

Till you detach

Consciously 

Your identity

From its legs …

* * *

Aye, young man

It is the truth

But let me not

Withhold you

It’s you, my friend

That’s in contrast

Fixed unsure 

Having a blast

Unsettled certain

As you now know

Without manicure

With money in store

Without bodyguards

Paid minds for pard

Without designer dress

With limo to press…

Watch it, watch it

The eyes on you

Now no longer stop

At your dirty stubble

They all pass

As if you were

Nothing, just trash

It’s simple

And plain to see

Mere matters of fact

Now bite your Mac

Keep it as is

The knowledge you’ve kissed

Will work within

And change you

Till you find

Habits aligned

No longer hard

To sense the One

Without the ‘I’

And its shards.

Impossible, you say

When it all begins

My friend, with One

And returns

To same Being 

Quite like

This singularity

At a black hole

Which beyond

Our limited view 

Crunches big

And recycles

The matter back

To our logic …

It’s of habits, dear

We’ve internalised

We find it hard

To see the One

The substratum

To things all

We visualise.

We’re One

Let’s just say

Nothing apart

From One that holds

This vagabond

And yourself

In suit, with fief

Bulging wallet

The tall mansion 

On lands, your pride 

Resources common

Cars you ride

In exclusivity…


To women who fall

For your looks groomed 

Over intent cruel

Until you de-identify

And disown all

Setting them free

To be happy or not

For your own lark state

In liberation.

* * *

There, my dear

Feel not deflate

Slighted least

Less priviledged

You’re the boss

One and same

As I am

Un-owned, unpledged

As high or low

As crucified

With wants and flows

As confused

And as clear

Why we each

Without fear

Ought to love

The Self that owns

Being each

And help ourself

To touch and teach

And help with just

What we have …

More and enough.

Which, I admit

Is hard to do

Till the ‘I’ is lit

By the One

In our perception

Showing it up

As reactive bundle

Of ideas formed

Of future and past

Desires now

Reflecting impact

Instating power

On how we relate

To beings, objects 

In environment

We thus experience

Value and  judge 

In unclear depths

Want and urge

Motions and will

Subconscious

Emote or think

Outside in

But stumble seldom 

To the heart pure

And never

To the seer sure

Peering over

The knowledge valid 

In intellect 

Instead, we are crazy

It seems

Set on pleasure

Sex and senses

A gratuity continued

In addiction

Not to wonder

Experience and learn

But for the craft

At power to own

Possess and collect 

Not to be free

Be well, do good

But to indulge

In willfulness

Heady caprice

Intoxicated whim

The horrible substitute

For liberty.

We are, my dear

Solitary entities

Unexamined

With obvious finitude

And indelible fear

Fighting to survive

Grabbing to secure

Competing, comparing

Rolling emotionally

With morals uncared

Street smart ethics

Breaches money does fix

From our tower high

Stairs to heaven

Well nigh . . .

Until we touch our real Self

And are absolutely purged

Of existential dreads

That ride

On inner processes

Rising inexorably

Of primal fears

Illusions vivid

Dreams amove

Of identity now tied

To this feeling now

The experience then

In the mental frame

Anchored in memory

Rooted 

To beings related

Objects specific

That mean the world

Wide and huge

Translating mundanes

In pleasure and pain 

Shading the Self

From ourself

With fruits we believe

Are important, nay

Vital, nay

Essential to us.

* * *

Hear All, Mister

Missus and Mademoiselle !

We could be happy

Twenty – four seven

Ever adequate and complete

And survive without becoming

A survivalist

Possess, without owning

Own, without possessing

Let’s dump this make believe

Of gaining immortality

Through progeny

Money, power

Godly profits 

And house angelic 

Through friends or family

Any or all things in life

Of me, I, mine

Coiled up deep …

Let’s dump superstitions

Masquerading as truths

Beliefs subscribed repeated

And habits internalised

Which are but dreams

Just imagined

And capitalised !

* * *

The One, deep blue

Wrote for me on the rock

That I accommodate Fate

And Time’s shocks

And choose

As I will

Through future rumble

Ever emerged

Ever in and apart

From surreal past 

Beyond bodies gross

All forms within, subtle

And that causal

I primeaval

Made of what

I know not

From where

I’m past care

Or why

I no longer spy…

It’s just the One

I am, life infusing 

The same in all

Guise multiple 

Big and small

Wax and wane

In appearances

That rise and set

On this heart

Mind and intellect

Which I watch

At peace

While the ghosts act

In this wondrousness

Of Existence

Swaying

Between the two banks

Of matter and consciousness …

But they all tire

And return

To my embrace

To my serenity

As you look on

And still think

Of this apparition

As the tramp

Participating

In the jamboree !

* * *        * * *

One thought on “THUS SPAKE SHIVA, THE TRAMP

  1. Reblogged this on verum intus, fulsi vacuus and commented:

    I am reminded of Albert Camus’ choice of Death as his subject for the first novel he worked on, wrote and revised but did not publish. Instead, we had ” The Stranger.”

    I am musing on the same subject and will, perhaps, be able to pen it down in a form that you may appreciate … The work on Kalinjar Fort is still in the making; there are too connections in time and space, events and people, to include.

    In the meanwhile, I am re-blogging Thus Spake Shiva, The Tramp … for those who missed or gave it a miss the last time.

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