Golden Dawn by Padmapani dasa-

Alas, we're drowning deep

In waves of colored hue,

Raging winds and thrashing gale

Doth blight all reason true.


Tongues of fire licking flesh

Hell in all directions bound,

Scores of fallen angels

Bleeding stains upon the ground.


Madness, death and courting friends

Do rule this land below,

The nether regions manifest

Upon unsaintly brow.


No hope, no chance, no remedy

Salvation fled in fear,

Age-old human comedy's

Familiar laughing sneer.


And rows of dead, rising up

To punishment deserved,

Just to fall again to dust

Only mammon served.


Amidst this night of dread and fear

Our mindful Lord did send,

A rare and precious jewel of light

All broken dreams to mend.


Prabhupada -- the Lord's dear wish

To ignite the darkened soul,

Pouring immortal nectar sweet

All cups to overflow.


Our vessels full and lips still moist

Shall we now begin our task,

To spread his mercy everywhere

All souls rejoice at last!

Winter Moon c 1995

The winds from the North bring another storm.
Be another month before the season starts to warm.
Looking to the cold clear full-moon night
Nityananda moon rise coming into sight
Playing hide-and-seek with another winter cloud.
Casting mystic shadows on this earthly shroud
Waking all the sleeping souls floundering along
Reminding us to sing Harinama, sing the holy song.

Why You came, I'll never know, You came into my heart.
You raised me from the dead, You give me brand new start.
In my darkest hours, You have always appeared,
Armed to help me battle all my greatest fears.
Harinama fills the air, sacred chanting everywhere,
Children wave their arms like they just don't care.
We can truely live in Vana when we dance with God's Own,
Leave behind all worries because we'll never be alone.

Govinda's kingdom come, and we know His will be done,
So we dance and sing His Name all the way til dawn.
The confusion of this world always seems to slip away,
When Sri Harinama is the start of every day.
So I beg of You, O Lord, let me never forget.
I surely know I am deepest in Your debt.
The sound of Your Name rocks me to and fro.

by Mahaksa das  
to read more poems by Mahaksa das, 
click here- TheVulture King


Four poems by Kusakrata dasa-

Lord Krishna Returns at Day’s End

 As the great red sun sets on the western mountain

            smiling Krsnacandra returns to the town

of Vraja. From the glistening endless fountain

            of his flute sweet streams of music flow.

White, brown, grey, and black cows now follow Him.

            beside Him, Balarama jokes. The boys all laugh,

Sri Krishna’s glistening curly hair is tied

            with flowers, and His horn and wooden staff

are tucked into His sash. His parents run to

            greet Him with great hugs. Soft tears now glide

from Yasoda’s reddened eyes. “Son! Son!” she cries

            with heaving chest and moistened reddened eyes.



Crossing a Grand River

As They wandered in Vraja’s forest land,

   Sri Krishna, friends, and cows all came to cross
a very deep and swift and dark and grand
     grand river where hosts and hosts of great waves toss

the restless dark blue waters to and fro
     The cowherd boys all said: "Alas! Alas!
This river is very mighty. We have no
     power to pass, no power to pass, to pass this way. " 
then Krishna played a melody
    upon His bamboo flute. Then that great stream
at once was frozen, stunned in ecstasy.
     The startled boys thought: "Do we wake or dream?"

Then Krishna, boys, and cows all crossed the wide,
grand frozen river to the other side.

The Final Tally of Sri Krsna’s Glories

The great wise sages gather now
with diligence and care to count
the glories of jasmine-vine-eyebrow
Krsna and see their full amount.
Under a leafy forest bough
they count and count. Alas! Alas!
They cannot find, find, find the end
of Krsna’s glories, which surpass
always the count. Laments ascend
into the air. On kusa-grass
seats, stunned, they sit.
Their lips they bit.
In counting Krsnacandra’s sweet
glories they admit defeat.
Advice to the Heart

O my heart, please, please, please look
at Krsna, whose graceful face and limbs
are like a fragrant lotus lake.
Please look, please look, please look at Him.
O my heart, do you not like
to look at Him? Please, like a stick,
now fall before His lotus feet.
O my heart, please, please, please lick
the nectar of sweet, sweet, sweet
looking at Him. Please, please look.
Never, never, 
not ever, ever
at any, any, any time
have you seen someone so sublime.

By Kusakratha dasa 
To find more poems of 
Kusakratha dasa, request  at 
- douggreenbrg@earthlink.net


 By Yamunacarya dasa-

 Bhagavad Gita chapter 9:1 The Supreme Personality of Godhead said: "My dear Arjuna, because you are never envious of Me,I shall impart to you this most confidential knowledge and realization, knowing which you shall be relieved of the miseries of material existence."   

Shall Be Relieved

 Envy's spite burns the gut and fathers fiery miseries.
 Ever reborn of resenting, these wild, these wretched and lost on the
 road, distrust and despise the very One
 Who would comfort and take them home,
 if only their grief and greed, their anger and disdain
 were not feeding on each other and coldly killing faith.
 Jealousy's sullen slaves, how CAN they wish to serve?
 Yet from complete love and its friendship forever
 with Him greater than glory we ever imagined before,
 He whose beauty passes all dreams,
 come valleys whose days of perfect peace
 know no end, where the soul and the mind
 laugh gladly and sweetly together
 as childish brothers would tumble into the first spring hills.
 One's heart is finally home
 One's loftiest friend finally found.
 Imagine unalterable love.
 more massive and gentler than early morning's mountains.
 Real love yearns to love, and only that,
 having no rooms for sulking, secretive boarders.
 One who knows this love in the perfect and finest Friend
 cannot but fill with highest feeling,
 wishing only to prove his grateful thrill.
 Imagine, then, the sheer showering mercy,
 the fullest fruit of freedom
 bestowed by the most wonderful, limitless Being,
 He who knows our heart's hidden wish 
 through countless, unfathomable lives past
 and our heart's hidden wish
 before we take next breath!
 Ultimate friend of true return,
 beyond all bald betrayal
 and subtly tailored falsehood born of fear,
 One for Whom pettiness is impossible.
 Truest full return, forever given.
 For our full love
 that is too eager to serve and praise
 to harbor any touch of lust, anger, envy or greed,
 He simply lovingly banishes misery from our lives,
 opens every prison grate, twisted latch
 or locked grip of grief in our mind
 and calls out from sickness.
 No further fear of death, decrepitude,
 the cruel, creeping dread
 from gnawing dreams of body and mind.
 No further beatings by the flood-crazed mob of insatiable senses
 or resenting and lamenting in the dark weeds
 of the cold lake of the the heavy heart.
 Midnight's ticking web of doubt, regret
 and every insoluble, craving greed of demeaning flesh and material 
 mind are lifted and swept away. 
 The mind's sealed vaults are opened,
 the dust and smoke blown clear in the heart,
 only blissful love for His beauty is singing,
 and we at last are released.
 How could one resent the Friend
 so willing to give from infinite treasures of peace
 and the eternal dawn of joyful relations?
 Yet we slink and we doubt,
 beaten into blinking, grunting mummies of dead dead desires
 by the brute repetitive strength of the dream that WE can control,
 so used to fear and lust for what we'll never have
 that we can only put the Lord aside
 Who has everything indeed.
 Swapping trust for lust, we cannot love him. 
 Rather we resent His unsullied splendor
 and His effortless sway over all that is
 instead of holding for dear life to His glory
 and becoming greedy ONLY for His guidance and direction.
 Would not ships shattered by storms
 struggle for port, for harbor, and cling there
 for comfort and repair?
 Yet we'd rather the white waves and looming thunderheads,
 rudderless and leaking, the heart of the craft--
 our souls's pistons--all out of time,
 because we're convinced that we can control our fate.
 We'd rather have our cheap, vanishing seconds,
 our puny pomp and strut of the dying flesh,
 the nerve ending's flicker, power and prestige
 raising their wagging finger
 with rolling eyes and ravenous, careless blurted words
 like heroin hounds howling for the next taste
 of the very stuff that stuns and enslaves.
 From beauty to sex to fame, for plan, wealth or post,
 we crave what disappears,
 as if we insist on the bitterness to follow.
 And we crave complaining most,
 for the mess we make of our stumbling lives.
 In these growing wild waves,
 our compass smashed, radio gone and sextant overboard,
 when we mutter in the shriek of the wind
 that WE can take control,
 we're sailing further and further away
 from the Source of our deliverance, 
 sometimes so far that centuries must uncoil
 before we'll see Who is our Friend at last.
 While lifetimes tending this seething pile
 of dark desire's tangled weeds,
 all of them bitter and utterly useless,
 we'll deny ourselves the harvest of ultimate mercy,
 that very elixir of glorious golden grain
 that ends all pain.
 For those who crave no more
 than the chance to know and serve
 the Lord, Who is lasting home and beauty,
 the essence of all that satisfies forever,
 the height of all power, depth of all charm and love
 and breadth of all knowing,
 for these true friends the Lord shall give everything.
 Past any touch of selfish, doomed desire,
 past any chance of the dark's return,
 they shall be free.
                                         -Yamunacarya dasa, 1996


Old Puranjana was a merry old soul
and ancient soul was he
wandering through Brahmandas
looking for a place to be

An old friend followed him
whom no one ever knew
Puranjana never paid him heed
yet he was forever true

The King migrated to the south                      
to city of gates numbered nine
venturing through a golden portal
to a palace built so fine

Polished sapphire desires unhewn
deep recesses of a heart
parks of green and crystal lakes
songbirds nare ever depart

He chanced upon a pastoral site
enticing heavenly atmosphere
breezes blowing drops of waterfall
espyed a woman lingering there

Serpentine hoods expanded above
youthful beauty beyond compare
Ten servants followed in retinue
Vital force suspends in air

Desires followed from all sides
hundreds in forms of wives
following faithful servants ten
the senses, five and five

Wherecometh servants and women?
and this snake precedeth thee?
was query to her did he spawn,
what person do I foresee?

Puranjana was a merry old soul
and ancient soul was he
a hero of the maid he wished
but mere slave he was to be

Said she;

I know not my sire or origin
nor snake or maids of late
Indeed I know not, oh who it is,
who creates a world so great

Men and women are but friends
snake is always awake
guarding city whilst sleeping hours
wisdom no more I partake

Great hero of arms so strong
was summon she did give
tarry we here, in celestial park
senses spoiled for to live?

To fulfill your ancient desires
city of gates nine I made
a mere hundred years live ye will
sense pleasures will pervade

Men so oblivious of sensual life
fools ignorant of real living
witless and dense like animals
no sense enchantment giving

Grha life is real happiness
Dharma artha kama esctasy
to yogis its all unknown
imagine they not such rhapsody

Grha life redeems all souls
Pitas, demigods and great sage
even great saints depend on us
glories writ on sastric page

who will not, in this world
accept a husband as you?
One so famous and true
godsend from sky of blue

your arms like serpents
smile yours allay all woe
you travel earth's surface
my benefit for to sow

King Puranjana was a merry old soul
and ancient soul was he
enjoy gates nine did he yen
but happiness was not to be

to be continued..  by Visoka dasa

What towers to that taught

by the Author of night and fire,

Composer of wind and heaving waters

and the delicate feet of rain,

or He who built each subtle level's brain?

Unknown to all who know better

or settle for loving less,

sold to none and sought by few,

He is the Glory of knowledge

that transcends all we see

and seeds eternity's engines.

How high the next less exalted field of thought,

trifling idly, perfecting doomed conjecture,

absurd beside His vast circles of completion?

We'll learn nothing near to Him

whose blissful glance in an instant

runs the sparkling maze of all our hesitant hearts.


So many struggle to know,

but who is willing to know

from the Source and endless springs of knowing?

What lyrical lunge

built the blunt, awesome, fathering oak,

the indefatigable ant,

the flying kick of antellope, a mother's infinite smile?

Unmoved by bodily faithless force,

this is the pure waterfall of spirit

that is and kindles knowledge'

the bottomless crystal of ultimate sight

that teaches us who we actually are

and Whom to serve and at last love.

Our bearings are sure at last

in relation to seas of bewildering stars,

for we gage our lives by His touch and standard.

The grief and self-inflicting dead-end daze

we've so long suffered from not knowinwg this,

the body's desperate blunders

in its heavy harness of habitual sludge,

and the maddened mind's indignant, misplaced eyes

are surely finished once we find again

this utter simplicity of self and contented peace

ultimately ours and finally us when the rash of clawing desires has no

nest left in our soul. This comes only from His mercy, because we have made the knowing He gives our only ached-for goal and our only guide and hope. We wish to love Him over all else and trust He'll give evreything we need, down to the last atom of detail. Then we cannot fail, ready for all and the worst-- the fevers, falls, disasters and the hearse.


All other calamities are cheapened

by the loss of this offered, purest, secret jewel

that blooms in the eager heart and mind,

where every word sows wonders

and every phrase fills lack with light

and soul learns the taste for eternal strength.

It is pure distilled awareness,

the full, final and freeing one.

There's no distortion here

from false or pompous pedagogues.

The Teacher is utterly pure.

We're granted sight of everything within

and thereby spared all illusions abroad.

And greatest of all its gifts,

and crown of His infinite mercy

is that, once attained by a humble heart

and the fertile fields of a sweetened mind,

this peak of understanding,

deathless as our newly sighted souls,

is ours beyond time,

now joyous, full and free to serve

the highest of endless Mercies

from which it kindly came.


-Yamunacarya dasa

12 November, 1998, the blessed Appearance Day

of our beloved spiritual master


by Dravida dasa - Inspired by a Sanskrit poem by Sriman Kusakratha dasa

The transcendental lamp of Navadvip, Gaurangadev, He took with great endeavor 'round the world the souls to save Who long had dwelt in darkness, never chanting Krsna's name--
The vast renown of Srila Prabhupada I proclaim.

The sacred treasure left by Vyas and other learned saints
He rendered into English free of speculation's taints,
And thus he mercif'lly fulfilled Sri Sarasvati's aim--
The vast renown of Srila Prabhupada I proclaim.

The brilliant sun of Lord Govinda's form is shining bright
Throughout the world because of his sharp logic's awesome might.
That sun makes all the Mayavadi glowworms hide in shame--
The vast renown of Srila Prabhupada I proclaim.

The pristine Ganges of the Bhagavat flows everywhere
Because of his great effort. In that stream, devotees' prayers
Are gems and Krsna's pastimes are swans sporting unrestrained--
The vast renown of Srila Prabhupada I proclaim.

Ensuring that his mission's victory would be complete,
He planted Sri Sri Radha-Krsna's charming lotus feet
In temples by the hundreds and in countless hearts unchained--
The vast renown of Srila Prabhupada I proclaim.

The fierce and formidable army led by wicked Kali
Is being slain by arrow showers, volley upon volley.
Those arrows are his all-auspicious books of spotless fame--
The vast renown of Srila Prabhupada I proclaim.

The Hare Krsna movement's a desire tree, whose fruits
Are all the splendid ways Lord Gaura's army wins recruits.
To plant that tree upon the earth, from Krsna's realm he came--
The vast renown of Srila Prabhupada I proclaim.

An ocean of compassion, he has taken shelter of
Sri Nanda's Son with all his being in everlasting love.
He lives on by his words, with him his followers remain--
The vast renown of Srila Prabhupada I proclaim.

I pray that those who read this poem, which shines the brilliant light
Of Srila Prabhupada's fame in Kali-yuga's night,
Will soon attain firm faith in his instructions, so that they
May one day join him in Golok, and there with Krsna stay.

This is one dead town
I told you
eyes meeting eyes
over nine hours static
and lonesome interstates
I've up and moved before
to columbus

I was happy
but sometimes happy
can't keep you alive
in the city anyway.
Here, just to keep me sane
it's jazz
and poetry
and those "lofty incantations"
those om namo's
and bhagavate's
it all started with om
so with the wold
so with me

But here?
in this world of
small town pennsylvannia rurality
of white trash trailer parks
hot rods and beer
of farms functioning as funeral homes
farming corn and beans
to fatten cow families
to feed human families
living generations of murderous insanity
to hell with them
and they will find their well
kicking and screaming with
the hounds of yamaraja

This town is lifeless
I told you
a bunch of zombies
scrounging for flesh traditions
of apathy extended
to scented potpurri candles
to cover the
Austueitz stench of burning
unnatural hunter police officers of orange
enforcing strict trans-species population
control on god himself

I read too much of new england
and of comradery in the bowery
to not long for something more
than this

This town

This town is dead
but for the lone book store island
pounding blake, emerson
and books speculating reincarnation
no, they don't have everything
but can order anything
and the conversation there is
never a let down
Upon moving away i will miss it

This town is dead
but for the sunset
disappearing behind mountains
and rolling union county hills
in the sub-brilliant haze of twilight

This town is dead
because the factory where i live
is alive
and is consumming me whole
to belch up shrapnel
as from an exploding hand grenade
just as friendly
making me feel like a visiter to my own home

This town is dead
i told you
over and over
and there is nothing you or me
or anyone else can
do to bring it back to life
It is empty
And can never be fulfilled



Holy is Your Name

Holy is Your Name Lord
Blessed are your works
Sacred is your memory
Beauty is your word.

You give the freedom from within
You who give us grace to be
free from sin
we pray to you we get purified
we pray one day Your love we’ll find.

Holy is Your name Lord
Blessed are your works
Sacred is your memory
Beauty is Your word.

You show many faces
in many colors
and come and go
like many rainbows.

Holy is Your name Lord
Blessed are your works
Sacred is Your memory
Beauty is your word

Your heart is true
Your thought is action
You who are Time
and all Perfection

Holy is Your name Lord
Blessed are your works
Sacred is your memory
Beauty is Your word

You enter our lives
increase our perception
guide our every step
ensure our protection

Holy is Your name Lord
Blessed are your works
Sacred is Your memory
beauty is your word.

If Jesus Christ Was Alive Today

If Jesus Christ was alive today
tell me what on Earth
do you think He’d say
exactly the same as He did before
or lets get the heathens
it’s time for war
or all you faiths around the world
accept me or I’ll have you killed
and you say He’s God
well God never forces Himself
upon anyone
only on the chosen few
only those who beg Him to do so

Is it not written
many people will call on me
Lord Lord
but I know them not
only those who have refused
the mark of the beast
and accepted the seal of the Lord
on their forehead
will truly be saved

by Govardhan das


Poem for Kierkegaard-

by Tirthaprada dasa
"I tell you, I would rather be a swineherd,
understood by the swine, than a poet
misunderstood by men."
God, why should I write another poem?
It certainly will never get paid for on acceptance…
Is it for the fame of a poet,
Or for the adoration and distinction of being a pundit?
Is it for the beauty of a giant Sequoia shrunk to a computer screen,
Or the ego and majesty to climb to the top of Grants’s tree?
Is it for the blood that turns in my veins like Mists Falls,
Or for my two-year old crying, "Swing me high, Pits, Swing me high?"
Is it for the degree of depth that steals away God’s mind,
Or the superficiality of a flea diving off our cat’s pennyroyal?
What dualities forced me to the surface at this moment-
For cat burglars to be tortured and shot in the night?
Ah, perhaps, I am getting closer,
For it could be that I love questions more than answers,
Or a word more than the new release of an epic comic book?
Is is it just to show mastery over the word,
Or I’m not going to be caught in the death throes of ignorance,
Or drowned in the love for service on a higher plane?
Maybe, just maybe, we should not overturn every silent stone,
Leave the one way paths alone, or to only those who lust for power?
But whatever competes with the cat’s purr
Or ruffles her pentuphouse Frisco longhairs to quake and scream-
Whatever shakes the fig somewhere from a lone banyan tree
Has not forsaken me here and left me for dead in eternity.

By Tirthaprada dasa


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