Tuesday, November 20, 2018

Dreams are Real

I see non-existence
The bigger world
The one that is not material
And for all practical purposes
It doesn't exist.
But it is there
I see it in my dreams
In my OBEs
In my daydreams
In my imaginations
So do you, don't you?
You just have to open your heart
And put two and two together.
Only then you know the secret
Only then, you are truly free.
Existence multiply and multiplies.
It changes, it obeys the laws of physics
But,  only the non-existence can create.
Dreams are mothers of creation
Imagination Creates
That is your connection
To the Ultimate non-existent one.
Every first creation is a dream
Yes, even yours

 ©Kabuli Nov20 2018 Seattle

Thursday, May 17, 2018

I was a poet once

I was a poet once
What a powerful one
Words of magic
Were hidden in those verses
Words of love
With a purity of sparkling water
From the very top of the mountain
Every syllable
Had the gentleness of the morning breeze
That brings life
To even the laziest creatures.
Yes, words were so beautiful
That I always doubted
I wrote them.
You made me write them
You give them beauty
Out of this world.
Because I wanted words to match
Your incredible beauty
Which truly was
Outside this universe.
I could never write the same
Never ever again.
You pretended you wanted to go
I let you go so  soon
 I didn't want to be a bother
I didn't want to stalk you.
So all I did
I gave you the book
Collection of those poems.
For I could never say those words
With such a beauty
To someone
Other than you.
You gladly accepted it.
You wanted it with all the desire.
For you never wanted to go
You were pretending
And for me " I want to go"
Was something I respected.
It was the written words of God to Moses.
You went to some parallel universe.
So went that book of poetry.
I wish I could read it now just for memory
But I know that parallel universe
Can never be accessible
From the Universe, I live in
The universe that I am stuck in

Wednesday, January 3, 2018


Laying on my back
Lights are off
Tchaikovski is playing
For, it is the least disturbing music
That can mask the noise around me
I am trying to detach
To stop the train of thoughts
That is buzzing at a speed
Faster than the speed of light

Good luck Kabuli,
Or whatever your name is.
I hear telling myself.
Relaxation is not in your destiny.
Leave enlightenment to others.

My foot is itching
So does the back of my ears.
A backache comes from nowhere
And that ibuprofen I took
For a headache or a migraine
Said thank you for swallowing
But now leave me alone

I laugh at myself
How naive and helpless I am.
Got to be strong to meditate
To detach and to forget,

Wait, what is that?
Who is talking?
A soundless voice
In the back of my head.
Your voice? My voice?
His voice? Who cares?
Voices don't discriminate.
It is for no one in particular
You hear soundless voices
When you lose sense of self
When you don't have an ego.
That particular blade of grass
Thinks the rain started pouring
Just for him, because of him.
The rain laughs
And never says you are wrong
While continues pouring,
Soundless Voice
Like the voice of conscience
Could be signs of illumination.
The ones with the sound,
That you can hear
And no one else
Are definitely signs of schizophrenia
So I put those fluid voices
Inside the  molding containers
To cool them down
To make them solid
And there it is.
They take forms
Recognizable forms
The form of words,
Now I understand what is it saying.
" Rise above yourself
Look at you as you look at someone else"
But how I say
That is crazy, how do I look at myself
Like it is someone else?
" Not a first" I hear.
Like that globe
The three-dimensional globe
Appearing and disappearing
From two dimensional flatland
Or that tesseract, the hypercube
In " A Wrinkle in Time".
I laugh and say no problem
Travel between dimensions
Was always my strongest skill, Not!
I don't give up.
I can do it, I can do it.
I am an observer,
I am me, I am you, I am us
The universe itself.
A smile on my face
Looking down
Or what earthly people call "down"
Oh, there is a guy,
Laying on a bed
A bed that I stupidly called my bed
A moment ago
I can see his foot is itching
So is the back of his ears.
He has a headache
Four Ibuprofen is his stomach
That does nothing but dissolve.
I smile at him
I remember him writing this poem
Which is our poem now,
A headache, backache, itching?
Not a good thing, not a bad thing
They are things
They are what they are.
And I move to the next scenery.

January 3rd, 2018
Heaven on Earth, Seattle