In the fresh, clear light of this Kartik morning
I go for darsana of the lifter of Govardhana hill
asking who made the outfit and what is it’s name?
with palms folded coming to attention before
Giridhari in yellow flanked by Mahaprabhu in blue
and Gandharvika in purple grape
singing Kartik bhajanas and watching blog t.v.
leis of roses, mums and spaced with green leaves
Murka and I get to the highway and connect with a pippin on the way to the campa hatti. Looping around the navapatra to get some whole food. All along the beach the sufferers are in cue for the biggest wave. The thakura has his jacket on and a new lei on top of that. On to the natural bridge to swing by Della wearing a new jersey on to the laguna. Looking over the beach hill to see the mountain men going on like there is no wind. At the shop I take my leave while Murka negotiates the treacherous triangle to the redone road keeping the tennis park on the right. Spinning all the way to the main street and crossing the first highway to the lot and beyond the birth center to the call of the ratha-bhojana-vkrsa where the kalarupa takes murka to the sandhya the kernel of divine love is there as the welcome wagon
The touch that kills all desires for the fruit of labor Red Chinese silk along with creamy white dancing late night, the second of the month.
Years ago, days gone by
the seamstress tried to name the outfits by colors
ah but an evil one choose ones that made her cry
then by holidays if she had her ‘drathers
but switch to pictures as he did soon left her eyes dry
‘twas evil Sukuni who cheated the five brothers