What Rasa Is For Me

Rasa is one of those Sanskrit words that has a long history and is not easily translated in to English. In ancient Sanskrit (here we are talking about thousands of years ago) rasa meant the sap of a tree. (Wikipedia) The sap of a tree flows and contains the essence of the tree. Gradually poets began to use "rasa" to apply to the essence and flow in music, dance, art and poetry. It came to mean the emotions of creativity and eventually spirituality and by the time of the Upanishads nearly 3000 years ago, rasa would be used to describe the divine nature of the gods. A little over 1000 year ago, the word came to be associated with Krishna. Chanting the Hare Krishna could produce the transformational experience that would result in healing and wholeness. Some Jews, Christians and Muslims can experience this in their prayers and meditations, musicians in their music, physicists in Quantum Physics. It is about a higher level of conscious. It is what I feel while listening to the final chorus of the Rolling Stone's "You Can't Always Get What You Want" while watching a sunrise.

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American Tea

The time honored tradition of English tea, So unlike American morning coffee, Always in a mug—to start the day. English tea is in the afternoon— More like the Japanese tea ceremony To give a ritual presence to life. The saucer so important to balance the cup. Americans find the saucer a nuisance. It’s what is in the cup that matters. Even the English drink coffee in the morning, American tea is at lunch—and iced— Ritual presence not forgotten—just ignored Americans drink tea in mugs. Mugs don’t need saucers.

Pick Up Truck

Decades ago riding, in the back of a pick-up truck, My good buddy Rick and I were talking philosophy, Truth and Counter-truth I told him—waddya mean? Life is both real and an illusion--particle-wave duality We are flesh and we are spirit—50 years later, my flesh Has lower back pain and sciatica but the spirit still loves Riding in the back of pick-up trucks—which is now illegal

Buddha Socks

Buddha Socks Days do not number The miss-steps of my soul’s journey Years and decades of seeking and searching Lost and looking—occasionally knowing Only for a moment with certainty Before the trance of daily life and doing the laundry Overshadow insights that would unlock The mystery of socks tumbling in the dryer Socks don’t know emotions— They just know our feet. They wrap our heels and toes unconditionally Paying no attention to the emotions of the moment The funeral, the wedding, another day at work— The socks are just there for us After a day of being very human We take them off and toss them into the laundry Perhaps socks Are the Buddha (I don’t know the original dates on this. It is actually two separate poems which I found in old journals and merged into one poem I luv it…)

CurranPoem

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