Life
There is a feeling, it begins within;
It feels like a place, that there is no sin:
There can be no feeling, but a feeling of love;
It is the feeling, that takes us above:
Above what we usually, feel as high;
It is the feeling, where we become part of the sky:
The sky my friend, and our earth below;
A part of all life, a part of the Flow:
A part that can enjoy, the exuberance in life;
the part that can enjoy, the absence of strife!
So if you want to enjoy living, which is what we do;
Go within yourself, that is a wonderful clue:
To go within, some of us needed a Key;
it was given by a boy, it was given free:
Now this boy is 50 years old;
and my love for him, springs from my very soul!
The gift of the soul, is given by him;
The boy with the Gift, The boy without sin:
The stars above, that shine with light;
Are dull in comparison, compared to our own inner Light!
Can I Look In Your Eyes
?
hey, can i look in your eyes
and see who’s inside
hey, can swim in your lake
and dissolve – in the changin’ tides
hey can you see into me
you just might see through
hey can you look in my eyes
and see a picture of you ?
hey can you look into me
tell me what will you find
hey can you look into me
see some peace of mind
hey can you look into me
is there a treasure inside
hey can you see into me
go on a magic carpet ride
hey can i look in your eyes
what would i see
hey can i look in your eyes
will i find a piece of me
hey can i look in your eyes
will you look into mine
will you see the moon on the rise
will you see the sunshine
hey will you look in my eyes
let me look into yours
hey can i look in your eyes
and reach the other shore
can i look in your eyes
will you see the moon on the rise
will you see the sunshine
Can i look in your eyes
one more time
one more time
(from a song I composed 2 nights ago)
Read MoreThe Camana Hall in Lima, Peru
Lima downtown is an area than meets more than ten million people a day. The colorful crowd has received epithets such as “urban wildlife”, “concrete jungle” and several less poetic names, that describe, somewhat, its chaotic aspect. There can be seen, perhaps, the best and the worst of this stunning city, called “City of the Viceroys”.
The beautiful restored historic buildings, try to survive the smog that, merciless, covers them every day, with a layer of black pollution; and the noise of thousands of public service passenger cars is such a cacophony, which peaks among noontime to eight p.m. The scenes are worth of a Fellini’s film, disturbing the mood of walking people. It’s easy to feel alone among this concert.
In one of these busy streets of Lima, called Camana St., in the third block, Hugo Monroy, a loving student of Prem Rawat, operates the “Third Millennium” Restaurant, where, day by day he prepares delicious Peruvian food for regular customers in the area, with the help of secret recipes, inherited from his maternal grandmother.
In fact, these recipes are the only thing Hugo doesn’t share with anybody, because the rest of him is an open house at the disposal of his greatest passion: spread the message of Prem Rawat.
With the help of Maritza Espinoza, since 15 months ago, this restaurant-at-day becomes every Thursday and Sunday, a “Hall of Propagation” at night, reuniting a beautiful community who meet in these days according to a very specific schedule: Thursdays, at 7 pm, meet those who are watching the Keys and at 8 pm, introductory events take place. Usually, the ones who were watching the Keys remain at the introductory event. On Sundays, since 5 to 6:30 pm, there are introductory events.
Read MoreRadiant Being of Light
Radiant being of light,
vortex of love,
alchemist supreme,
magnifier of prayer,
mirror of the soul,
tribal fire,
the one I dream about
and the one who wakes me from the dream,
why the dervish spins
and the earth.
Teacher, teaching, and the taught,
first breath,
last breath,
what lovers look for in each other
but rarely find,
center around which everything revolves,
endless night of love
and the aching of a moon-howling heart
that does not want
the morning to come.
My Poems Are Like a Persian Rug
My poems are like a Persian rug,
in each there is a flaw,
a word, a phrase, a rhythm off,
an over reaching metaphor.
So close they are to what I feel,
but close is all they are,
like wooden spokes are to the wheel,
like children wishing on a star.