There is a question
being asked 
by my skin,
my solar plexus,
my lungs,
my bones.
I hear it in the
dead bodies
the weeping fathers and 
mothers
the orphaned children
their limbs gone to heaven
before them
the ragged, bloody 
flesh
hanging from fences
ripped and dangling 
from grieving arms
pressed into
plastic bags
in the absence of graves
the jutting hip bones and
spines of starving
the newborns cold and still
in hospitals bombed down
around their crowded beds
the toddlers screaming
running barefoot and alone 
the phosphorous flares
inside tents with
burning limbs flailing
the men splayed naked
on naked prison 
floors,
a crowd of soldiers
blocks our view of
rapes with steel poles and
dogs 
the dismissals and
dead eyes
the disingenuous lies
the supercilious sneers 
of murderers 
stalking the halls of power
The handsome, mocking boys
in rooms where they don’t belong
dancing on the graves of lives
who will never leave them be,
who will never truly die 
These are the questions
being asked 
day and night
by my skin,
my solar plexus,
my lungs,
my bones
Do all of you live here now? 
How deep? 
How long? 

Our country does not care for mothers 
or the lives of children
or women in general
or black and brown people
or people who are ill or disabled
or elderly people
or trans people
or incarcerated people
or indigenous people
or artists
or workers
or fat people.
It really doesn’t care about anyone’s health or living conditions or learning.
It doesn’t care about other animals
or Earth
or God.  
All it cares about is the dominance of a few pale men 
and among those men, every man is only for himself. 

Their loneliness is shattering.
A panic of separation
is shattering our world 
an experience of separation so 
terrifying and painful, 
they can only manage it by
turning it into
their supreme object of desire. 

If you are wondering how 
to make a revolution,
become a revolution of mothers.
Find a way to do what 
the pale men cannot.
Care for everyone.
Care for the stranger
the difficult
other people’s children
those who earn more or less 
and criminals
and those who disgust you.
and those who hurt you 
even if there must be distance between you
and those you meet only in passing
and everyone you can imagine ever meeting 
in this life.

Like Ganesha whose belly hosts all worlds,
build crucibles of care and love 
with those who see what you see
and hold everyone there.
Be practical and concrete—
not just words or philosophy.
Demolish the walls around your heart
your hands, your 
legs and feet
then all of the other walls will find ways to 
come down.

Let's be a revolution of mothers
whoever we are.
Be a male mother
a trans mother
a fierce mother
a feminist mother
an old mother
a mother who never wanted children, but
wants the world.
Mothers: we can birth a world 
that does not separate
that does not question anyone's
primordial belonging.

Our words are precise
Our work is the translation
of primordial senses and mind
I’ve been altering my 
native words for others 
since I was a young girl 
who spoke too clearly
too surely
a girl who angered at
performing invisibility 
just to escape harm.
Now sometimes it’s hard to tell
which languages I’m transmuting:
the ones that carry wisdom and deserve
all the energy I have
to aid understanding
or translations coughed up
for those who only want
me smaller than
I am.
Are these the invisibilities 
I yearn for 
slipping between the strings of time
or the relentless erasures 
you demand?

One winter night in Brooklyn
with streets icy and black
and the wind cutting through 
below zero degree cold,
my mother and I rode in a taxi 
to the Brooklyn Academy of Music
looking forward to something new 
and possibly atonal.

We stopped at a light and
there, shadowed in the dark 
against a frozen building of faceless stone,
a man huddled. 
His face was bright red from drink and cold. 
His swollen hands jammed in his jeans. 
He had no hat or winter clothes.

We were warm and waiting for the light to change.
I heard him speak only four quiet words:

“I’m freezing. I’m freezing.”

His words, both fact and plea
so nakedly close to death 
were not just for me, but for all the unseen 
who might be listening.
The grain of his voice held 
what remained of hope 
that help might come.
And now for 923 days since October 7th,
that same human need
that same human hope, 
always on the edge of collapsing
that same address to us, the ghostly listeners
cuts through my bones. 

Even if I berate myself for wantonly missing opportunities while indulging my karmas, this confidence in the path that has chosen me remains unbroken.

Even if I wander onto detours and squander my energy,
I never doubt I am somehow moving in the right direction.

Even if I avoid following clear instructions out of sheer brattiness or inertia,
I am certain that the instructions are infallible.

Even if I complain a lot, and enjoy doing that, 
never for a moment is the flow of devotion interrupted.

Even if I ask my Teacher the most outlandish questions 
and dream up preposterous objections, 
When She arrived, I know the game ended. 

Even if I turn a hair’s breadth away from what She showed me, turning back, that always appears to me again. 

Even if thousands of teachers abuse tens of thousands of students, 
the reality She showed me remains, and the way to realize that is still open.

Even if millions of students take tens of millions of years to realize, what of it?  It just means we can relax and continue together. 

No matter how badly I feel or how many times I am mistaken, I don’t care. 
I know I’ll continue always. That’s all I need. 

No matter how others feel, whether they praise or reproach, stay or leave, 
I am not deviating from this human way, 
one foot then the next on this merciful path. 



~ Shambhavi Sarasvati

Sweetness of my own self,
my constant companion
and you who I’ve searched for
since my eyes opened
this time around,

I am old now
and having met the Friend 
I yearned for so ardently
when I was
full of loneliness 
knowing and 
despair
I find your sweetness everywhere
emanating from my skin
from my teachers
from the air
and all that is.

But to this day
the world's anger and brokenness 
confound me
and for nearly 70 years
I’ve never stopped trying to
infuse it 
defuse it
with the good,
praying hard
to the all-encompassing mother
may the pain never 
cause me to defend myself
in such a way
that the giving ends. 

Because the Earth is round, 
whether I gaze East or West,
I am looking toward my Teacher

Because She births
the elements
from earth to space,
any direction and all
phenomena are She 

Because wisdom is the
nature of all the worlds,
She reveals her grace
everywhere I might walk
and in everything I might touch, smell,
feel, and see

If you haven’t yet discovered this 
for yourself,
it might sound intellectual or unreal
But even writing these simple words,
and even in these painful times,
my heart still moves 
in unstoppable waves
the profound intimacy prevails
and tears of gratitude
fall

~ Shambhavi Sarasvati, November 3, 2025

My home has not been stolen
My home has not been bombed
I don't sleep in a tattered tent
I'm not thirsting while the whole world drinks 
I'm not starving while governments profit on death

My children are not covered in boils, sick
and wasting
Armies have not ripped them from their schools and friends
or thrown them in prisons to be tortured and raped

I am not grieving the murder of my beloveds
No one I know lies rotting under the bombed rubble of their lives
I don't walk down bloodied streets piled with mangled bodies of the dead

My libraries, hospitals, galleries, and schools are not in ruins
My lands and crops, my trees and even my seeds 
have not been crushed by colonizer insanities
The constant whine of drones does not disrupt my sleep
and I do not cling to my companions, wiping their tears
as bombs fall in the middle of the night

But by some ordinary miracle 
of life and death and the shuffling of rebirth
I have experienced all of this 
and this indelible experiencing is a remembering
woken from every cell in my body
and the heart
And I can't find the words
but we are together 
our cries for mercy 
searching for ears
circling round and round this world


with infinite love,
Shambhavi

My heart explodes 
again and again 
each day until 
it turns to mist 
sweeter than nectar 
more powerful 
than drones
a free and present 
wanderer
obeying no checkpoints 
no borders 
of any kind 
made of grief 
tenderness
and the amazement we share 
subtle 
yet the strongest weapon
in any world 
it gives proof 
there is no other 
and our different lives 
are just what shine 
like variegated jewels 
suspended here.

Abrahamic gods,
I demand a miracle! 
You’ve done it before, and 
we need you to do it again.

Drop manna on Palestine!
Send clear water streaming 
through disconnected taps! 
Make olive trees grow back in a day!

Keep up the miracles until
Palestinians can return home. 
The whole world is crying out—
show us what you got. 
We need to see the sun again. 

If you don’t do as I demand,
I’ll ask my god
as backup, just in case.
The one who is all time, times, space and spaces. 
And then who will you be? 

I’m asking you first
to be polite. 
You won’t get another chance. 

~Shambhavi Sarasvati, May 2, 2025

Today I saw
a fetus child charred and 
blown from its mother’s womb  
Today I saw 
a fetus child skinless and shiny red
heart a shrapnel hole
blown from its mother’s womb 
If you tell me you cannot look
If your equanimity looks like 
turning away
If you’d rather read books and pray
If you tell me nothing at all
these babies are what I’ll see
when I see you.
And all you haven’t said
And all you’ve shared when I 
wasn’t around
And all that’s  
waiting to be blown 
like shrapnel from the womb of my heart
will testify to
this burned and torn flesh
And those babies will rise up
in realness between us
and speak
the truest words

~Shambhavi Sarasvati, April 2025

Our god is an enjoyer of 
the beauty of all beings and things. 
Our god’s rapture is
a falling 
for the glamorousness 
of the creation. 
Feeling abandoned,
those who fall too far from god
learn to hate god’s 
magical ornamentation.

I know this from
the sad ones who have 
tried to kill 
the sweetness 
the freedom in me. 
They painfully exist
tortured by desires 
to destroy what they want 
and what they love.

I know this from the
sapphire sky
aqua sea
and dusty green of 
newly-planted
olive trees
that frame more 
fragile scenes of
Gaza's decimation.

I know this from  
exquisite Gazan faces
old and young
mourning and dead 
alive and dancing
and the rage of those who
over and over again
fail to extinguish 
their light.

for Mosab Abu Toha

Your tears are the jewels of God.
Your anger is God’s sword.
Your patience is a miracle and
among the great proofs of the
value of a human incarnation.

Your grief is shredding the fabric of the world
to reveal the real world.
The fact that you keep on
pleading is an austerity beyond all austerities
and a mercy beyond all mercies.
God’s mirror is
ablaze in you.
The clarity with which it reflects
is hard to bear.

Since childhood, I have marched around
chanted and danced to
songs of liberation.
Argued this or that point
and built sand castle solutions
out of enthusiasm, books, and air.

We were having fun
pumping ourselves up with
music and solidarity.
Now I’m heavy with
the sadness of these
late-stage revelations.
Now I seriously consider that
we may not
survive and that
we are not winning in
that easier way with our
delusions left
undestroyed.

Now I see that
if we want even
ordinary victory
we must call this
destruction and
descent by its real names
and bear thoroughly the
horror and
humanity of it all.

Mosab Abu Toha is a Gazan poet, teacher, and activist who managed to leave Gaza after being abducted by Israeli occupation forces in 2023. He now lives and teaches in the United States. He has published two books of poetry: Things You May Find Hidden in My Ear and Forest of Noise.

You might be happier if 
you immediately turn in
your attachments 
to endings and beginnings
origins and destinations.

God is a recycler.  
Everything perpetually turns into everything else. 
Call that one the plane of becoming or
the absolute.
No difference.
Just toss your beginnings and endings 
anywhere into space.
Nothing is ever truly lost.

We are all always on the move— 
travelers with
so many arrivals and departures
they amount only to
the beauty of traveling
and the tenderness of sharing 
stories of traveling. 

Various travelers however
have not learned these simple facts
We call them colonizers or
conquerors or collectors.
If we all learned the art of traveling
of hosting and guesting
we could live anywhere
in a borderless land.

Our bodies do not end at our skin.
Our streets and lands have no names that remain.
The host and the guest are inseparable.
All plants are native, along with all that appears here.

I want to grow kindness 
instead of timelines.
I want to live among gardeners and servants and friends
not landlords or conquerers.

C’mon! 
Let’s rename this place Café Earth and
just laze around 
without contrivances or
convictions.
If we just relax a little more 
we’ll discover we belong 
everywhere. 

I had to put dawn jasmine
on my crown.
I had to put night jasmine
on my brow and heart and wrists.
I had to remember the
sweet wealth
of life's cascade.

I see the richness here,
but sometimes the poetry
the scent
eludes me.

Each day brings
fresh revelations of our genius
for inflicting
horrors on ourselves
and our world.

This grief drowns us all.

Still the jasmine flows
and the truth is
we are all eventually
swept away
in the river of that
infinite perfume.

So sick of spiritual biz
spiritual clothes
spiritual bling.
Sick of spiritual bios
and exaggerated claims.
Tired of spiritual promises
with high price tags.
Sick of spiritual poses, gazes, and tattoos.
Sick of spiritual selfies
on social media feeds.
Tired of everyone’s a teacher 
and humble equals brag.
Sick of unearned teachings 
confidently mouthed.
Over certifications, revelations
secrets and ah-maz-ing.
Completely over “enlightenment experiences” that are one-off things.
I’m sick of my own name and my spiritual supplies. 
I’m also sick of websites, workshops, Instagrams, and Zoom. 
I just want to float in the river of come what may
in the Mother’s lap
in the natural ease
in the living unnamed, untamed and
unadvertised.

I didn’t see it coming
but in the midst of all this
I kissed a fresh tortilla
and whispered close
into its fragrant skin
“Thank you for still being
simple and sweet.”

I know that confusion and rage
helplessness
and desperation
don’t go away until
their end times
naturally arrive.
But by filling
our mouths
with any name of God
we give these
a smaller place
and don’t feel completely
inadequate and fucked.
Om namah shivaya

Likewise
offering small
services to others daily is
a medicine
that reaches deep into our
tissues with messages
of who we are
and who we will be
when the smoke
scatters and the sky is
easier to see.

If we keep kissing tortillas
roll mantras in our mouths
and offer ourselves 
to each other as gifts
we can survive any confusions,
smoke, and fires
not necessarily intact
but who asked for that anyway?

Heartbroken like Mount St. Helens 
when the thistle grows again from
burnt soil.
Heartbroken like an infinity sky after
a category five storm.
Heartbroken like animal sounds 
from the smoking remains
of careless forest fires.
Heartbroken like the sleep that comes 
when you’ve seen everything
you desperately did not want to see.
Heartbroken like when the worst arrives
and there is nothing left to fear.
Heartbroken like the raw intimacy of grief shared.
Heartbroken like the heart harshly broken open.
Heartbroken like millions of hearts broken together.
Heartbroken like God’s petrichor after
a drowning rain.

........................................ Shambhavi

Heartbroken like Gods fresh breath of truth
Heartbroken like knowing I die over and over
Heartbroken like knowing this is all Ma
Heartbroken like Heart breaking open through my brother's and sister's torture and suffering
Somehow finding God
Heartbroken like He is Risen
Heart broke like Joe Biden
........................................ Sahaji

Heartbroken like the first scream and cry of a newborn child
........................................ Ana

Heartbroken like finding out what they can steal (it's a lot) and what they can't steal (also a lot)
Heartbroken like tears that fall unbidden day in and out
Heartbroken like the cracking open that's required to ache with humanity
Heartbroken like the scope of the unfathomable shrinking on a daily basis
........................................ Vidhra

Heartbroken like the bird after the oil spill and the whale suffocating on the beach
Heartbroken like an incarcerated boy calling for a sign
Heartbroken like the unending insistence of your insanity and dead God
Heartbroken like your cold drill
Heartbroken like the choke before the first tear when you’ve forgotten how to cry
........................................ Tania

Heartbroken like the man who is dead with terror on his face, not peace or a smile
Heartbroken like an aid delivery person who wished to help but could not for too long
Heartbroken like a parent who had their dream living situation for their children dismantled
Heartbroken like a kid who dreams of play but instead needs to forage, only to find scraps
Heartbroken like mothers, sisters and their male folk who experience the unsightly horrors of toxic masculinity
Heartbroken like those of faith who wish God's voice be heard by those with closed hearts and inner eyes shut
Heartbroken like those who knew their land through a direct relationship and now see it destroyed
Heartbroken like all the young ones who grow up in lands not their own, without parents or support
........................................ Charandas

Heartbroken like when watering the plants after coming home from a funeral
Heartbroken like lichen growing on rock after a landslide
........................................ Nirmana

Heartbroken like birdsong after a monsoon that wipes away the coastline.
Heartbroken like disappearing kindness.
Heartbroken like baby's stolen future.
Heartbroken like a million voices of people, animals, trees, laughter, tears, and prayers suddenly gone silent.
Heartbroken like seeing the friend you thought was open-hearted who's now crying for more war.
........................................ Leela

Heartbroken like lost sleep
Heartbroken like dust settling on no road home
Heartbroken like the tough stems of unharvested wild herbs
Heartbroken like the earth shaking across the world, a planetary shudder
Heartbroken like the wind smoothing over a razed ground
Heartbroken like the glittering sea which still hosts the color of the sky
Heartbroken like the spring, the sprouting, offering up, and being new in this world
....................................... Tess

Heartbroken like words aching to describe
....................................... Daniella