Special Edition: The Ubiquitous Presence
Cosmic Eye by Marjorie Pezzoli
Special Edition Authors: September 2025
Contributing Authors
Showing posts with label Ubiquitous Presence. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Ubiquitous Presence. Show all posts
Setu Special Edition: October 2025
Special Edition: Meenakshi Mohan
 |
| Meenakshi Mohan |
The cosmic vision
But you cannot see
Me with these eyes of yours, therefore, I give you divine eyes with which to
behold my mystical opulence.
Bhagwat Gita 11.8
(In
memory of my mother. I often wondered if the Trimurti bestowed upon her
the vision to witness the mystic opulence of the dawn and dusk of her life,
which she accepted with her serene persona towards the end.)
as she lay on her
bed, she gazed out her window
at the cerulean,
starless sky,
only a burning orb
through the veils of ragged,
smoky clouds like
a cyclops' luminous gaze
peered down at her
to make her journey
peaceful to the
other end of the cosmos.
she was peaceful
and calm
her breath slow,
hanging on a fragile thread
I wondered if her
deep spirituality gave her this strength
while the leaves
of the diary next to her night table
softly fluttered
in the fan’s gentle current
whispering her
words.
when my end comes
I want to thank
thee by kneeling before you
on the altar of
the cloud, for giving me space
in the world you
created –
childhood newly
sprouted, fresh and full of promises,
youth with its brilliance,
a reservoir of love and patience
motherhood with
profound joy and connection
and my silver
year, a serene, illuminating sunset,
oh! The Architect
of my life
when I close my
eyes
wet my lips with
the heavenly elixir
and guide me to
your promised land
as the clock
struck twelve, midnight on January 7th, 2005
with Hey Prabhu,
she closed her eyes
only a soft
splatter of rain on the windowpane
played a sermon
under the heavenly light.
Dr. Meenakshi Mohan (USA) is an internationally published writer, scholar, art critic, children's writer, painter, and poet. She is on the editorial Committee for Inquiry in Education, a peer-reviewed journal published by National Louis University, Chicago, Illinois. She is an Advisory Editor for Confluence, UK. Meenakshi received the Setu and Panorama International Awards for Excellence in Literature. Her book, Symphonies of Life, won the Sudesh Kamra Memorial Award for the best debut poetry book at the Bhasha and Beyond Literary Festival, Pune. Meenakshi lives in the USA.
Special Edition: Usha Kishore
 |
| Usha Kishore |
Eye in the Sky
Eye in
the Sky that watches all
from afar
I invoke you
Dark
Stallion studded with pearls
neighing
at the gateway
of the
astral world that reins
the
earth in thunder clouds
Guardian
of the heavens whom
the
souls who once were flesh and blood
rise to
meet O discerning spirit
ordained
at the altar of flame
bountiful
in soma dark is the ascent
above
the earth towards distant light
where dwell
Indra Mitra
Varuna all robed in waters.
Eye in
the mind-sky that envisions
heaven
in anuс╣гс╣нup and triс╣гс╣нup
which summon
the gods in smoke
that spires
skyward from the yagna
of passion
seeking some
unknown
divinity invoking eternity
in incense
and ghee borne in
the
hands of Agni these were
the
rituals of afore time when
men and
women dreamt of heaven
in hymnal
chant while
the universe
breathed
in ice and fire plotting
the centre
of the earth and
celestial
spirits arose in metered verse.
Notes
Acknowledging the с╣Ъg
Veda and the Ralph T. H. Griffith
translation.
·
In
Proto-Indo-European myth, Dy├бus or Dy─Уus is considered the all-seeing sky. In the с╣Ъg Veda, Dyauс╣гpitс╣Ы (trans. Sky Father) is a
sky deity, often associated with daylight sky. However, the deity is also
considered a dark stallion studded with pearls, with reference to the night
sky.
***
Bio: Indian born Usha Kishore is a British poet, editor and translator, resident on the Isle of Man. The author of three collections of poetry and a book of translations from the Sanskrit, Usha has been widely published and placed in international competitions. She has recently defended her PhD thesis at Edinburgh Napier University, Scotland.
Special Edition: Snigdha Agrawal
 |
| Snigdha Agrawal |
Third Eye, now brought to you by AI
Once, the Third Eye opened wide,
Between the brows, where truths would hide.
It whispered cosmic, ancient lore
Now it streams the ads you saw before.
Once it saw beyond the worldly haze,
Pierced illusion, cracked the maze.
Now it pings: "You left items in your cart."
Divine insight, torn apart.
Where yogis sat, serene and still,
Tapping into a higher will
Now your search history lights the screen,
With tailored ads and targeted dreams.
Once one focused on a lotus bloom,
In silent depths of a quiet room.
Now that’s outsourced, replaced in tone,
By buzzing alerts on your mobile phone.
Intuition once danced in the subconscious,
Elusive, deep, mysterious, wondrous.
Now it’s searchable in a Google app
Neatly filed in data maps.
Yes, we've traded mystics for machine,
Enlightenment for dopamine.
The cosmic gaze replaced, alas
By software updates rolling en masse.
The mind has now gone to sleep
Curtained with blinds, got cheap
We no longer seek divine truths
We Google them. Fast. Uncouth.
The irony of it all is stark:
We've dimmed the soul’s once-radiant spark.
All hope of every recovering from this
Is becoming increasingly slim.
Between the brows, where truths would hide.
It whispered cosmic, ancient lore
Now it streams the ads you saw before.
Once it saw beyond the worldly haze,
Pierced illusion, cracked the maze.
Now it pings: "You left items in your cart."
Divine insight, torn apart.
Where yogis sat, serene and still,
Tapping into a higher will
Now your search history lights the screen,
With tailored ads and targeted dreams.
Once one focused on a lotus bloom,
In silent depths of a quiet room.
Now that’s outsourced, replaced in tone,
By buzzing alerts on your mobile phone.
Intuition once danced in the subconscious,
Elusive, deep, mysterious, wondrous.
Now it’s searchable in a Google app
Neatly filed in data maps.
Yes, we've traded mystics for machine,
Enlightenment for dopamine.
The cosmic gaze replaced, alas
By software updates rolling en masse.
The mind has now gone to sleep
Curtained with blinds, got cheap
We no longer seek divine truths
We Google them. Fast. Uncouth.
The irony of it all is stark:
We've dimmed the soul’s once-radiant spark.
All hope of every recovering from this
Is becoming increasingly slim.
***
Ode to Ma’s Third Eye
If there were a prize for a third eye sharp,
That works year-round like a fine-tuned harp
It would, hands down, go to Ma,
For her gift of spotting every flaw.
As a teen, I tried my best to fib,
With clever stories and alibis, glib.
But no matter how smooth the tale I spun,
She saw through it all, before I'd begun.
Ma could outwit Sherlock Holmes.
Her third eye pierced through all unknowns.
That works year-round like a fine-tuned harp
It would, hands down, go to Ma,
For her gift of spotting every flaw.
As a teen, I tried my best to fib,
With clever stories and alibis, glib.
But no matter how smooth the tale I spun,
She saw through it all, before I'd begun.
Ma could outwit Sherlock Holmes.
Her third eye pierced through all unknowns.
It wasn’t gentle, wise, or kind
It interrogated my teenage mind.
“Study group,” I’d say with flair
But one glare froze me mid-air.
Before my foot could touch the floor,
Her voice rang out: “I know the score.”
Dates? Please. I’d try to sneak away,
But her Third Eye blocked the very way.
It scanned the texts, the grin, the hair,
And sniffed out hormones in the air.
Sleepovers? “Just girls,” I’d swear
“Are their parents’ home?” questioned stare.
“I’ll walk you to their door,” she’d add
And just like that, my plans went kaput.
In temples, I bowed. Serene. Devout.
But that Eye saw through my spiritual pout.
No mantra, bell, or incense disguise
Could fool those ever-watchful eyes.
I’m sure she had a secret pact
With cosmic forces to keep me tracked.
While yogis sought enlightenment's glow,
I just hoped her spies would go.
So, here’s to parents with powers uncanny,
Who knows when you’ve lied, without asking any?
A Salute to Ma’s Third Eye that never took rest
Wired even to the back of her head.It interrogated my teenage mind.
“Study group,” I’d say with flair
But one glare froze me mid-air.
Before my foot could touch the floor,
Her voice rang out: “I know the score.”
Dates? Please. I’d try to sneak away,
But her Third Eye blocked the very way.
It scanned the texts, the grin, the hair,
And sniffed out hormones in the air.
Sleepovers? “Just girls,” I’d swear
“Are their parents’ home?” questioned stare.
“I’ll walk you to their door,” she’d add
And just like that, my plans went kaput.
In temples, I bowed. Serene. Devout.
But that Eye saw through my spiritual pout.
No mantra, bell, or incense disguise
Could fool those ever-watchful eyes.
I’m sure she had a secret pact
With cosmic forces to keep me tracked.
While yogis sought enlightenment's glow,
I just hoped her spies would go.
So, here’s to parents with powers uncanny,
Who knows when you’ve lied, without asking any?
A Salute to Ma’s Third Eye that never took rest
Special Edition: Sreelekha Chatterjee
 |
| Sreelekha Chatterjee |
Eyes Know It All
My eyes are those ever-attentive audience
in a theatre hall where
my other four senses on the center stage
are busy materializing their thespian ambitions.
in a theatre hall where
my other four senses on the center stage
are busy materializing their thespian ambitions.
My black orbs are my globe—
views occasionally as free as
we have been in childhood,
momentarily restricted
at times by the torment of belief and unbelief
as if in a prison call between my incarcerated mind
and an approved outside realm.
My “seek pleasure, avoid pain” tenet prevails interminably,
which I cannot catch as it is a burning fire,
while unknowingly, my curtains move from white to black.
When I gaze inward,
my heart quivers, tongue collapses, nose relents diagnosis,
whining whistle drums at my hearing, horripilation tingles,
bristles my skin hair like a bird raises its hackles.
I am the deeper-eyed, I believe the shine of the universe,
but darkness often rides my beleaguered world—
a torturous path of unforeseeable deaths,
pandemics, floods and drought, warming Earth’s insecurity.
A dust-laden whirlwind of love and desire
turns my world grime-faced, shutting my eyelids.
Shimmering optical pools absorb and reflect all the light;
my internal pupa metamorphoses into a butterfly,
breaks open the chrysalis but hardly flies,
as the wings never dry and strengthen.
My own laws trammel my rights,
as I remain confined in sleep’s repository.
views occasionally as free as
we have been in childhood,
momentarily restricted
at times by the torment of belief and unbelief
as if in a prison call between my incarcerated mind
and an approved outside realm.
My “seek pleasure, avoid pain” tenet prevails interminably,
which I cannot catch as it is a burning fire,
while unknowingly, my curtains move from white to black.
When I gaze inward,
my heart quivers, tongue collapses, nose relents diagnosis,
whining whistle drums at my hearing, horripilation tingles,
bristles my skin hair like a bird raises its hackles.
I am the deeper-eyed, I believe the shine of the universe,
but darkness often rides my beleaguered world—
a torturous path of unforeseeable deaths,
pandemics, floods and drought, warming Earth’s insecurity.
A dust-laden whirlwind of love and desire
turns my world grime-faced, shutting my eyelids.
Shimmering optical pools absorb and reflect all the light;
my internal pupa metamorphoses into a butterfly,
breaks open the chrysalis but hardly flies,
as the wings never dry and strengthen.
My own laws trammel my rights,
as I remain confined in sleep’s repository.
Special Edition: Kushal Poddar
 |
| Kushal Poddar |
The eye and the visuals
A glimpse of the blood vessels
behind the pane can be seen
when the curtain's lid rises.
Half of the moon wears clarity.
In this light how do the window see me? Do I look like a top heavy,
head first triangle? How does it
know what it sees is verity?
Rain paints a backdrop for the lone
rare tree frog on the window's ledge.
It sits too near, outside the vision field.
In this light it is a noise. I open my
umbrella. It blooms its noir petals.
The window can notice the shapes
moving in the street, although
its entirety is penumbric. The eye
of the house blinks. The rain burns it
a little. Beneath the cascade brief dreams
spawns more brief dreams. Perhaps
one builds a memory of me, and one
makes me dust. The frog remains in both -
Special Edition: Satbir Chadha
 |
| Satbir Chadha |
A MILLION EYES
The universe is light
Light creates the universe
Darkness is an illusion
Every dark has a million eyes
Every tear is frost
Condensed and cold
Dripping down the pane in a drop
Frost has a million eyes
A tear is pain, is hunger is strife
A tear is also a spark of cheer in life
The eye reflects both joy and sorrow
Veiled by the film of opaque humor
The pools behind are never seen
The pools behind the million eyes
The cosmos and man are but of one grain
Each a part, and a whole
The intellect derives
The knowledge of the universe through
The interaction between the grains
But sifts not
The angel and Satan
Both thrive
The mind is the seat of power
Mind ought to balance
Good and bad
Virtue and Vice
Wrong and right
The mind sees, the mind knows
But the mind pretends
The mind has a million eyes
Special Edition: Lina Krishnan
 |
| Lina Krishnan |
L’esquive
Leaf fragments
Gathered grass tufts
New mown earth
And a slim rope, unseen, almost
Green and yellow frisson
Marks its fluid pace forward
Yet staples with a backward eye
The silent watchers, in thrall
Till at last, the bush line reached
Even a snake can exhale
***
Bio Note: Lina Krishnan is a writer and abstract artist. Her poems, essays, and art have featured in magazines such as The Sunflower Collective, Shot Glass Journal, Himal Southasian, YAWP, and RIC Journal, and also included in sixteen anthologies. Among them, Scent of Rain, Witness, The Red River Press Book of Poetry of Dissent, and three volumes of the Yearbook of Indian Poetry in English. Lina’s chapbook of nature verse, Small Places, Open Spaces, was published by the Blank Rune Press, Melbourne.
Special Edition: Ritu Kamra Kumar
 |
| Ritu Kamra Kumar |
Whirlpool of the Watchful Within
In the cosmic canvas of conscience,
a cataract of stars swirls—
the pupil of eternity, unblinking.
Forget the guards, the street cameras,
the sterile sentinels of law and light;
for deeper within, a divine detective dwells.
It watches when you wander astray,
its iris shimmering with silent verdicts,
its lashes woven from your latent fears.
Each sin sends a ripple—
each thought, a tide.
You cannot outswim your own seeing.
Dimmesdale too heard its dreadful drumbeat—
the heart’s own lash of luminous guilt.
A whisper in the whirlpool warns,
“Beware, before you drown in your deceit.”
This eye does not close with sleep;
it dreams your darkness awake,
it drips gold and guilt in equal measure.
Like Conrad’s Kurtz, you will one day gasp—
“Horror, Horror!”—
and see yourself mirrored in that abyss.
The inner cosmos contracts,
galaxies of remorse revolve.
Your heart becomes a haunted observatory.
So, listen—
before regret becomes your relentless reflection,
before conscience becomes your captive tide.
For the eye inside is ancient and awake,
the ever-watching whirlpool
of the watchful within.
Footnote: Dimmesdale in Nathaniel Hawthorne’s The Scarlet Letter and Kurtz in Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness embody the torment of hidden guilt and moral self-surveillance—the haunting gaze of one’s own conscience.
Special Edition: Robert Maddox-Harle
 |
| Robert Maddox-Harle |
The
Eye of Eternity
The silken fabric
of the universe unfolds
expanding outward
in circular waves,
the Iris Nebulae
opens
revealing the Eye
of Eternity
All
seeing, protecting, healing.
“As Above , So
Below”
When our hearts are
open and free
the nature of
Universal Oneness is realised,
and our inner eye
mirrors the Eye of Eternity
All
seeing, protecting, healing.
Maya drops away,
space and time
dissolve,
duality melts away
into Oneness
calmness and
completeness in the Eye of Eternity
Special Edition: Hema Ravi
 |
| Hema Ravi |
Those Eyes…
(Poetry)
‘Sweet is the
greeting of the eyes…’
A comfort! This is
what everyone thinks.
In time, one can
see through that disguise–
the secret plan behind
those occasional winks…
Years ago, I saw an
Indian film, ‘Athey Kangal.’
Seeking revenge
upon the members of a family
a masked man,
tangled and strangled
until his sinister
plot was exposed callously…
‘Tricks and
treachery are the practice of fools…’
Integrity requires
understanding and awareness
A pity! Today, you
stare vacantly…your own tools
have deserted you.
As Karna, you’re left with the same unfairness…
***
Eyes that see… (Prose)
Magpie-robin
at Adyar river pathway, Adyar, Chennai
Photo
Courtesy: N. Ravi
Happy Dussehra,
uncle…
Mira gushed out in joy as she handed the box of sweets to Sandeep Uncle’s wife,
Mitali. Auntie received it with a gentle
smile; Uncle had a neutral look on his face, because of which, he looked older
than he was.
Without
exchanging pleasantries, he quipped, ‘Where
does your husband go so early in the morning, rain or shine?’
‘Oh, uncle, he
enjoys outdoor photography, he goes to capture birds and street scenes on his
lens…’ replied
Mira.
‘What does he do
with them?’
‘Well…. at times
he shares them on social media, but mostly, he clicks them for his personal
joy, not for competition or promotion…’
‘Does he know
there’s a story waiting on this very street? Moment by moment, it keeps
changing —a kaleidoscope of colors, images, sounds, noises, and anything else
the senses can grasp.’
Auntie interrupted:
‘You’re lucky that he has some hobby to keep the blues away. Here, Uncle merely spends time warming the
bamboo chair in the veranda, watching the passersby, passing some adverse
comments…’
Gul
Mohar Tree, Sholinganallur Wetland, Chennai
Photo
Courtesy: N. Ravi
Ignoring his wife,
Uncle continued – On that Gul Mohar tree over there, I have watched the
crows nesting. The Asian Koel stealthily places its egg in the crow’s
nest…..Once or twice, I have seen crows chasing the female Koel…most often, the
Koel couple play a trick….while the male keeps the crow away from its nest, the
female does her job stealthily!
Life isn’t fair, many a time…. saying this, he
kept nodding his head.
That statement
hung in the air, and Mira used the opportunity to take leave.
That evening, while
Arya was downloading his photographs on his computer, Mira was around, and suddenly, she began to
show interest in the pictures.
Ji, ‘What is the
most important thing you focus upon while photographing birds?’
Delighted with
Mira’s question, Arya began: ‘Golden hour lighting – early in the morning,
or in the late afternoon, which is also the peak activity time for birds.
Understanding their habits is important- birds never remain in one place;
knowing where to find them is important. And Mira, you always complain about my muddy
trousers – that’s because I stoop down, crouch, crawl…to get that eye-level
shot. Most importantly, the eye of the bird! That is
the key to engaging photographs, where focus is on emotion and the overall
composition. There’s so much more to learn; this is just an overview.’
‘Arya ji… You and
Sandeep uncle are stalkers! You stalk birds to capture them through your lens,
Uncle silently observes the happenings from the comfort of his verandah; most
certainly, he enjoys keeping tabs on them all, just as he does upon you,’ Mira
chuckled.
The months of
September and October brought along a copious monsoon. Wet spells continued endlessly. Arya was
bored stiff and his hands itched to click images….When the rain stopped for a
while, he walked up to the terrace and began taking pictures of the
neighborhood. The neem tree, the Gul
mohar, the mango, the Ashoka tree, and others were lush and green; the leaves
had quenched their thirst adequately after a rather long dry spell.
Interestingly, his camera got pictures of a magpie atop the largest tree in the
salubrious environs. Squealing in
delight, he took shots in the burst mode, although he could not see much in the
dense foliage.
While processing
them, he was jubilant….he had captured a magpie’s nest; in it were two infant
birds. Arya had read somewhere that such a breeding pattern was favourable; food was available in plenty for the babies.
He quickly walked
up to Sandeep uncle’s home and rang the doorbell. A surprised uncle stared at
him and reluctantly welcomed him in.
Uncle, did you
observe the magpie’s nest atop that large tree? Arya asked,
without wasting time.
Uncle, in his
customary nonchalant tone, said: ‘I don’t know that bird. I only know the
crows, cuckoos, the parakeets, and the squirrels.’
‘Uncle, look over
there- that bird has a distinct black and white body, its tail is long and
upright. Like the mynahs, woodpeckers,
the crows, and others, they are common in urban gardens…’
He handed his
binoculars to Uncle. He watched the birds for a while. A faint smile escaped his face.
‘Magpies are known
to be thieves; they steal shiny objects…do you think that bird has stolen
Auntie’s stainless-steel spoon that she had left last week for drying? The
spoon was along with several other utensils, though. I wonder if it could have
stolen it….Auntie would have dropped it down, and the domestic help would have
swept it off and thrown it into the garbage, is my strong belief.’
‘Uncle, it could
have happened either way. We do know that we cannot climb that tree now, the
chicks are there, they should not be disturbed…Once they leave, perhaps…’
Arya thanked
Auntie for the steaming cup of filter coffee, and as he was about to take
leave, she said:
Both of you have eyes
for the simple joys of life… only now, I realize that uncle has been sitting
quietly, even meditatively, and has been observing natural scenes unfold on the
large screen... I, on the other hand, resort to the sensational serials on the
small screen… most of the time, they leave me disturbed and irritated…’
Mira had entered
while this tete-a-tete was going on. ‘Auntie,
both our husbands have eyes to perceive fabulous sights; they dive deep into
several experiences, which others would dismiss as mundane and ordinary.
‘Yes, dear!’ Auntie replied. ‘Hasn’t a great man once said, ‘Eyes are
the window to the soul...’
***
Special Edition: Radha Chakravarty
 |
| Radha Chakravarty |
The Forest Watches
the watchful forest observes the passing train
and catches, through a fleeting window pane
a desperate face pressed against the glass, a hand
craving to touch the strangeness of the wilds
so close yet so infinitely out of reach
***
Eye of Fire
blazing sun
raging storms
flaming forests
collapsing mountains
drowning cities
rising tides—
we read the portents
see the signs
of divine fury manifest
as your third eye
eye of knowledge
eye of fire
flies open in sacred ire
penetrating the deepest truth
foreseeing the fatal future
of our world spinning beyond control
poised to swiftly self-destruct
Special Edition: Meghna Kaul
 |
| Meghna Kaul |
Nebula
Even if I close my eyes tightly
those phenomena come rushing back,
there is a brightness that dazzles
and holds everything around me,
nothing escapes me and my vision
I am a canvas
whatever you paint with your nimble fingers,
I absorb in my lense.
even if you splash colors on me
their hues remain.
My contours are puffed with the numbness of your emotions
I see you cry, my eyes bleed with pain,
they crease to wrinkles, when amused by your fun
I am you and you are me,
A ball you toss and it is lost in vacuum
a figment of you is everywhere,
A sound you groaned it’s vibration are scattered all around
You feel you are here
but I see you everywhere,
You hide behind the layers of lies
watching surreptitiously if someone is nigh
Oh! Where do you see?
I stand just behind you with hushed feet
Ah ! If I could close my eyes once
Oh! my blue ringed ocean like eyes
that remains awake at the blackest of nights
and behold the mesmerizing depth of creation
A giant that ticks slow and low
and we all move to its grandeur and glow
So much happening
around us I see
Oh! My dear, you can’t
escape me
I am buried deep inside you
Holding your fingers, I always walk with thee.
Special Edition: Toolika Rani
 |
| Toolika Rani |
Toolika
Rani
The Eye of the Storm
(Based on the picture titled ‘The Eye’ by
Marjorie Pezzoli, eminent silk artist-poet from the USA)
Concentric circles etched on the stem of the tree
Indicate the number of
years it has lived
Nah, the storms it has
endured, actually,
The winters it has
survived
And the summers it has held
the blazing heat of the sun
On its bare back,
To provide shade to those
who stood beneath,
And now, with the years
of experience
It warns the passersby of
the storms impending,
It senses the change in
the pattern of winds
Way before they reach the
shores
Crushing them with all the
fury they had long amassed.
It sways its head left
and right,
The leaves trembling;
Hark, hark O blind!
Run home, run home, hurry!
A storm is approaching in
a flurry.
The circles around its
eyes can see
Straight into the ‘eye of
the storm’
Causing havoc on the
peaceful earth.
With all its might it
stands its ground
And fulfils the promise
made to God
A tree was born to
shelter
And shelter will it no
matter what.
***
Poet’s Profile: Squadron Leader (Dr) Toolika Rani is an ex-Indian Air Force Officer, Mountaineer (Everest Climber), Motivational Speaker (twice TEDx), Bi-lingual poet, and Assistant Professor of History. She has authored eight books i.e Beyond That Wall: Redemption on Everest, Sherpas of Solukhumbu, English poetry books tilted The Song of the Sky, A Wild Flower, and Thus Sang the Bluebirds, and two Hindi poetry books. She has edited an Anthology on Himalaya- The Mountain was Abuzz.
Special Edition: Marjorie Pezzoli
 |
| Marjorie-Pezzoli |
Tears Falling Up
How
does one begin a story that shouldn’t have the need to be told? The journey
began the day I gave birth to my daughter.
I
have come to learn it began before time made itself known. A glimmer of a
cosmic portal opened twelve years ago for me. It took
three times around the sun to comprehend how to begin to share the unexplainable. I call Alyssa my StarChild, we communicate in different ways these days. Her eye acts as a guide into the Universe, using both when needed. I have had many adventures with her. The creative process of writing and art are part of my healing. It took this image prompt to reveal how my silk painting ties into the beginning of our story. I painted it with full intent to be part of our chronicles, just didn’t know how it fit in until now.
solar
flares
the third eye blinks
moon awakens
the third eye blinks
moon awakens
H
O W to
E X P
A N D
the entrance to the cosmos
I close my eyes
face the light
///////::::::::
patterns of
what ifs
what was
and what is yet to be
floats behind my pupil
///////::::::::///////::::::::////;;;;;;;;;
move with the rush of blood cells
iris becomes the center of the hour
glass
the eye of the beholder releases
time
pupil contracts —widens —connects
cellar quantum networks converge
nano particles begin to shimmer
nothingness becomes something
the edge of the void sparkles
the vessel of knowledge
spills forth questions
that wait to be answered
⥶⥷⥸⥹⦽⥻↺⥺↻⥹⥸⬲⥷⥶
⥶∞⭄⥶∞⥸∞⥸
H O
W to E
X P A
N D
the
entrance to the cosmos
I
close my eyes
face
the light
///////::::::::
patterns
of
what
ifs
what
was
and
what
is
yet to be
floats
behind my pupil
///////::::::::///////::::::::////;;;;;;;;;
move
with the rush of blood cells
iris
becomes the center of the hour glass
the
eye of the beholder releases time
pupil
contracts —widens —connects
cellar
quantum networks converge
nano
particles begin to shimmer
nothingness
becomes something
the
edge of the void sparkles
the
vessel of knowledge
spills
forth questions
that
wait to be answered
Marjorie Pezzoli is a poet, and silk painter. Since 2019 her writings have been curated in printed anthologies and online publications: Palabra: Open Mic, San Diego Poetry Annual, A Year in Ink, Heterodox Haiku, Dadakuku, Setu Journal, Starbeck Orion, and others. Guest Editor for the Pattern section of The Body Politic, Nun Prophet Press. Nature, the cosmos, and the human condition inspire Marjorie’s work. She looks for words worth a 1000 images, and rolls out weekly gumballs of poetry, photography, and ponderings. www.PezzoliArt.com www.thecosmicgumballmachine.substack.com
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