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Moments that no clock can measure

There are moments of pure presence— 

not crafted, not summoned, 

not liminal, not profound, 

not conjured by will, 

nor granted by some gurus— 

but 

simple, 

so painfully simple 

that I used to miss them 

every single time. 

They don’t arrive 

holy as stone, 

nor bound in myths 

peddled as wisdom. 

They come suddenly— 

when I am whole, 

not splintered 

into fragments of being, 

body and soul. 

They come 

when I am free 

from the weight of “me,” 

untangled— 

from emotion’s endless weave.

They come

when I am basking

under the winter sun—

warmth slipping

slowly into my skin,

and I feel

a quiet flame

glowing within.

They come 

when I’m tying my shoes— 

mindfully— 

and suddenly I sense 

I am the knot 

holding it all together. 

They come 

when I scatter crumbs 

across the pond, 

and the fishes rise, 

stirring the stillness— 

and I dissolve 

into the ripple. 

I thought I was a poet, 

had enough words— 

but these moments surpass me, 

and this is the closest 

I’ve ever come 

to daring 

describe them. 

Would that still be a prayer? 

I carry a list—long, wrecked and wide,  

of things I want and things I hide.  

To have, to become, to rise and to roam,  

to seek out a path, to quiet this inner storm.

So, I kneel, like I was taught,  

hands curled tight with a tangled thought.  

I recite some borrowed words that I barely know,   

the ones I've memorized since long ago. 

I chanted loud with dead-eyed peers,  

out of habit, out of fears. 

I rang the bells, I bowed my head,  

plucked flowers fresh, then watched them dead. 

I played the part, I did my best,  

but doubt still thudded in my chest that  

if there is really no one up there,  

listening to my pleas from here, 

would that be a prayer? 

Or maybe I’m just dumb enough  

to trust silence when life gets tough.  

I sit alone with no practiced pose,   

no crafted self, just being there, without any guise.  

No hymns, no chants, no temple stage,  

just whispered thoughts, no scripted page.  

Talking to him with words whatever they come,    

no perfect phrase or devotional decorum— 

like a farmer kneeling not to ritual, but to rain,   

like a star shining not for fame, but to remain.  

If I only remember the Lord with gratitude,   

no longer caught in desire’s beggarly attitude,  

yet feel him near, crystal clear, 

would that, essentially, 

still count as a prayer? 

A cup of nothing  

I thought of doing nothing, 

so, I sat on the mat— 

didn’t close my eyes, 

just watched thoughts drift by 

like a tree standing 

watching the world move. 

Some I caught and tossed away, 

flashy ones that tried to sway— 

they came to phish, 

but I didn’t bite. 

I let them pass, 

no bait, no trick. 

Then I drank my tea— 

or rather, simply tea. 

A universe 

swirled quietly in me. 

I didn’t rush; 

I just sipped. 

I stared into the cup, 

saw its fragile boundary— 

walls meant nothing, 

hollow skin. 

The value lived 

in the space within. 

And if it falls— 

sky and tea will merge— 

into one. 

No cup. 

No edge. 

No need to mend. 

Later, I slept 

in that near-empty room, 

not knowing where I was— 

no name, no doom. 

And that’s okay. 

I need not know. 

I think I’m free now, 

maybe, 

I always was. 

Dipesh Parajuli a poet based in Virginia, USA. He has been writing poems for many years. He sees poetry as the most spiritual form of expression. Rooted in meditation and mindfulness, his work reflects his ongoing journey as a spiritual seeker. 

Salmon Guide

Searching for a life-cycle guide I turned 

To salmon. They leave their river water 

Gravelly nests to explore vast oceans 

Where they risk violence of predators,

Deeming invisible reward of hard earned 

Freedom worthwhile, the  prompting ardor

Remaining undisclosed. Does instinct drive return 

To nesting grounds? As if by divine order 

They spawn, shrivel to shreds, silently die.

As prescribed by my sacred salmon guide 

I was back for rebirth asking myself why.

There I was writhing as before inside

The pit famous for lack of insight

Where bells tolled prefacing routine bar brawls,

No wisdom to dispense, none at all,

Was I not perfect for the offering plate.

Pramod Lad was born in India and has a Ph.D. in biochemistry from Cornell University. His poems have been accepted in Wilderness House Literary Review, Eclectica, The Innisfree Poetry Journal, The Umbrella Factory, The Pulsebeat Poetry Journal, Pennine Platform, Litbreak Magazine, Amethyst Review, Soul Forte: A Journal for Spiritual Writing, Creations Magazine, Penwood Review, and elsewhere. 

Letting Go of Clinging

What an amazing French pastry, unlike any I had enjoyed before. Soft layers with complex flavours atop a crisp, buttery base.

The woman in the patisserie shop recommended it above all the others. I bit into it on the street, the cream oozing out, my fingers sticky, my smile enormous. 

But then, I wanted more. Every day I searched for just the right pastry to satisfy that itch: unique, delicious, grin-inducing. I tried another pastry from the same shop. It was very good, but the pleasure was not the same. I bought a pastry from a different shop. Also good, but disappointing because the surprised delight was gone. 

The craving to repeat, even exceed, my earlier pleasure was leading to frustration and disappointment. What I had was not enough. 

To be clear, the pastry itself was not a problem. Surprised delight is to be reveled in. My suffering was in the clinging. Repeated disappointment wasn’t something done to me; the problem lay in my belief that a particular pleasure -- which I needed to make happen -- would make me happy. 

“There is a very simple secret to being happy,” the Buddhist teacher Adyashanti reminds us. “Just let go of your demand on this moment.”

What do you have enough of?

Anne Gorsuch writes short invitations to internal and relational practice informed by her meditation practice and work as an intuitional coach. She shares occasional brief reflections like this one with subscribers via https://www.annegorsuch.com/.