Poetry Archive

I walked all the way from America to India over the nine jeweled path of devotion that leads to Your feet each translucent step a spiral staircase winding thru’ wondrous solar and lunar sprayed galaxies

Sonya Ki has just returned from a very long and enjoyable trip with Baba. This is what she penned down before leaving Parthi. Monsoon tears flash flood the temple tiles desperately I clasp the

Do you remember when you chose? The time when you chose this life The day you chose these lessons The moment you chose your parents The second you chose to be You Why do

Dear Baba—may this poem be sincere, Flowers of words for my Master dear, A humble expression in delicate hue, Those many vivid images, yet so few! At dawn the ashram in fine mist was

It was Thursday, full moon, night, eight o’clock; He was reading a page of this monthly then! Baba ‘stood’ in concrete form, rose-bud smile and grace He saw Him, clear: robe, lotus eyes, and

I wake to the gong; I echo the Om! I am the lucky elephant babe That came on wheels to this heavenly place! I bathe; I pray; I go the sacred round; I bow

O Baba! let my anger die; O Baba! let my soul ever lie; High above the mundane level So that it may all in bliss revel. Baba! my anger is my bitterest enemy; He

Every month or two, I come to the computer often under stress To edit or proof the newsletter But this is my seva, my mind reminds me, not supposed to be done under duress

One look from You makes even a wretch worthy of grace. I catch myself yearning to …find the time, …make the arrangements, …save the money, …take the trip Maybe for just one look of

Divine gypsies, lovers of God, fix your gaze on the fathomless, swirling, topaz expanse, opening wide it is spring blue mouth littered with hundreds of glittering stars, swallowing birds, angels, and whole galaxies Let it

Oh, Mother, why have you abandoned me? You are all I have; why are you not here? Where can I go? To whom can I turn? Without your protection, I’m enveloped in fear. I

Eight planets in a row! O the brilliant show! (Some killjoy says, they are not eight, but seven But, yet, the row is grand! )… Magnificent, rare! It happens once in a thousand years