GOVINDA

This is where I blossom!

I am Govinda,

full of kisses.

Everything is real

and every reality is an illusion.

Like an eye of awareness

in an attentive circle.

A man is but a dream

dreaming of a man awakening.

When I speak,

I am not speaking.

This voice is not Govinda.

What you hear

is the beating of God's

cosmic heart, echoing

in your heartbeat ears.

How wonderful

is this creative dance

Govinda has forgotten,

yet cannot stop

being created in!

How wonderful

delirious and delicious

the cherry bowl of

fresh and scented kisses!

Peace comes like this,

when iron is broken

and there are no heroes.

Then hands are multiplied

through touching truth.

Here I am the

garden of some erotic

god or goddess

and am and am not

the river Ganges

or the man Govinda.

David Sparenberg

HIDDEN TREASURE

I came to plant some seed

I came to plant a tree

I came with a treasure buried

Deep

In the depths of me

I came like land to land

I came

Like sea to sea

I carry the Earth

And the secrets of dreams

Deep

In the depths of me

Who

Will witness life’s flowers

Taste fruit

From the fruit bearing tree

And who be crowned

With the star crown found

Deep

In the depths of me

David Sparenberg

ARBORETUM IN AUTUMN

The earth is an orange
with a crimson aura;
the sun a green melon
with aura of gold.
The sky, deep blue,
shades through lavender
into purple.

Underneath
an oriental maple,
with leaves turned scarlet,
a gypsy plays
a hand carved flute.

If there is a pond,
it is green with reflection:
the quiet dreams
of Taoist frogs.

From a stone beneath
a bridge of oak,
an angel departs.
Or a dove flies up
and kisses heaven.

In the softness
of a moment,
the heart finds solace.

David Sparenberg

I AM SEASONS’ CHILD

Behold, I am a door without locks!

Imagine me the child of wind.

Whirlwind is my father.

And summer breeze the maid

who bore his mighty onslaught.

Imagine me with sunlight

or with rain—

the pure convergence

of all flowing water.

I am seasons’ child.

My door’s unbolted

and my window’s flung.

I am the bright effulgence

of the universal heart.

I am the meeting

of the finger and the thumb;

the mute and the conversant tongue,

who registers the spectrum

of the living hours.

Behold me

as I pass the doorway

of your troubled mind.

Behold me now.

I am seasons’ child

I am yours to find.