Kundalini Splendor

A Thousand Years

Dancer among dancers,

I danced my way

to the moment

which cannot be told.


O, such astonishment

and joy. . .

fullfillment at last...


Mind possessed,

soul set wild to sing

its own sacred hymns

of holy desire

in that instant which lasted

a thousand years.



These Moments


These moments

are not for sale,

not displays to be hung

in galleries

for the public eye


Some of us fell

from a distant world

which still speaks to us,

even here,

in the busy streets

and frantic malls

we hide our recollection

our secret knowing

like a precious relic,

or a small child

hidden beneath

its mother's skirts.



Only This


Out of it, you say,

see her, she is mad,

her sighs and curious movements,

her smile and absent gaze,

she is a lunatic lost

in an imagination gone astray.


This world and its occupations,

its priorities and needs,

these alone are real.


In it, you say,

this, yes this,

always without ceasing,

this is the only thing

I want.



Your Feathered Pen


Even after

words have been published

and noted

and listeners have nodded assent,

what has been shown?


Rivulets or torrents,

cascades or falling drops,

these word-streams

pour in vain.


Use all the ink

in your bottle,

wear down all

your feathered pens,

that moment

of the luminous

cannot be said,

that vocabulary

of the unreasoned

is not yet found.


Nothing but Nakedness


Fling off your raiment

and strip away

your bangles and braided scarves,

your silk undergarments

and jeweled shoes. . .


Nothing but nakedness

suffices on this route.


Know that the one your seek

will peer straight through you

bones and all

see you

exactly as you are,

a being made from emptiness,

a radiant pinpoint,

an image

sculpted of light.



All poems copyright, Dorothy Walters