Sumangali Morhall
I love finding inner and outer beauty in simplicity, in nature, and everyday things, and especially in unexpected places. I love writing, and enjoying the writing of others. I also love good photography, because a good photographer thrives on serendipity.
I practise meditation every day, and find it opens my eyes more and more to the goodness and beauty in the world. I have studied meditation with Sri Chinmoy for ten years, which has enriched my life and my creativity far beyond my dreams. You are very welcome to visit my homepage at SriChinmoyCentre.org. You can also find out more about meditation there.
Website: http://www.sumangali.org/
Sumangali's Poet Seers
Contact Email: mail@sumangali.org
Lucky Things
Slower drags the laggard night
Day still brags the longer bright:
“Snake a little further home!
Take by the old temple dome
Up toward Cathedral meadows
Bargain with the growing shadows!”
Cloud knights canter on the trees
That bunch and reach around the breeze
A shivering maze of twiggy fingers
Crocus once ignited lingers
Purple things the sweeter glow
When dusky lights the scanter grow
Singers now have met their matches
Blackbirds up in woodland patches
Own the right to night’s fanfare
Toasting sneaks across the air
Distant peeks through leaded lights
Return their homeful resting sights
One tends fire and one sets table
Magpies mount a soft-lit gable
Landlord now to builder brings
And do they feel like lucky things
As I in my own brimming lot
Fuller than the winner’s pot?
Fat my urns with yellow gems
Happy bulbs are now in stems
Starry brighter than electric
Two the prosa sing symmetric
To the kings of unknown names
And for the glory of Saint James
By Sumangali Morhall
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To England
Look for me one day hurrying by train
Grown restless for your ways
Will you know this foreign face
Or process me as guest?
Will you again regale my eyes
With a sound repast of June sun?
Long daisy-chained days
Of powder sky on tousled grass
Will I catch that distant bleating
And bells in misted stone?
Of that same fabric I am hewn
By the workings of your ancient mind
To weigh your worth in lines
To pay the balance on a birth
Would I try?
You are your own majesty
By Sumangali Morhall
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The Piper
Into the street a woodland-scented sound
came thrilling with a sylvan charm.
Who wrought that balmy filigree
spun sugary and roughly tuned?
I stood arrested in my thought,
sight searched up for a seraph,
down for a wandered dryad
trapped in the city web
There sat earth’s unpolished piper—
Lord of the bakery corner—
his Lady snug beside him
munching cakes from on the paving
He with notched nose and patchy jacket
woollen hat and wary eyes,
pausing once to arrange a blanket
once to fondle the ears of his dog
By Sumangali Morhall
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