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daisyamerica llc is a publishing house whose purpose is to help and nurture creative artists across all disciplines find the maximum audience for their work. It exists to publish and promote the work of artists whose work reflects core energy known as kundalini, paramchaitanya, rhu, ruach or in Christian terminology, the Holy Spirit. It is informed by the teachings of H.H. Shri Mataji Nirmala Devi, the greatest spiritual personality, who gave en masse Self-realization spontaneously and effortlessly and whose mission was to emancipate the whole of humanity in preparation for the coming Age of Aquarius, the Age of Satya Yuga.

Poetry Blog

The Gita of Surrender

Alan Wherry

The Gita of Surrender

© Alan Wherry

To the Powers of the Goddess

Let all surrender

For She is the force that creates,

The energy that pervades, 

And the Spirit that protects

Those who seek union with God pray to you

Those who seek union with God worship you


For you are our Mother

You came on Earth and walked amongst us

Taught us, showed us, led us, loved us

And taught that we should love each other as you do.


We are nothing, we know nothing

We desire nothing

But to be at your Lotus feet

And have your feet in our hearts


Let your enlightenment prevail

And as candles, let us enlighten other candles

That your vision for the emancipation of the human race

Becomes reality.


Sonnet for a Sister

Alan Wherry

Sonnet For a Sister

Between the green world and the dream world

White tho’ sashed in orange at dawn and dusk

“Who’s side are you on?” insists the junkie hooked on either/or

By the Mahicantuck - great waters in constant motion

The river that flows both ways

You’re either in New Jersey or New York

On one side or the other 

I am! I am both drop and ocean

Pure spirit, unbound, free

Integrated at the top knot

Where fire and rose are one

For She, Shri Mataji Nirmala Devi

the Goddess raised me

Tattwam asi.


Explanatory notes:

The Irish and Indian flags are Green, White and Orange - green for Catholics and Muslims, Orange for Hindus and Protestants, and white in the anticipation of peace between them. Orangemen wore sashes,

Most people see things are either/or - Who’s side are you on? Them or us. A prevalent way of thinking that leads to misery.

Mahicantuk - the Native American name for the Hudson river, an estuary more than a river, and it can be seen to flow both ways at once.

Tattwam Asi - That Thou Art - Juan Mascaro, translator of the Bhagavad Gita, said that Sada Shiva is everything, there is nothing outside of His being - so That Thou Art embraces both all we know and don’t know.

The Fate of Faith

Alan Wherry

What does it take to be the honorable one,

The helper of divinity, the most honored?

Neither silvery robes, nor golden jewels, nor roses lay in one’s path,

Just a sweet smiling face,

A heart cleansed of all malice,

For others and oneself,

Divinity at last!


In the memories of saints long-gone,

Dwelled prophetic visions,

The future of those times, merry-making with the present,

Known to some, to many, unknown,

Holding what remains unconquered till the ego looms large,

But breaks open to all, into a realm new,

For the soul – a divine bath,

Divinity at last!


Seeking, recognized in one’s heart pure, as the offspring of desire,

Leaves no stone unturned, for the gentle rise of the dancing flames,

in some faces innocent, the humanity still beholds!

Mothered in omnipresence in,

the universes that unfold,

the languages untold,

in imagery foretold,

Voices the conspiracy of the Gods,

Divinity at last!


A fable calls of the feminine dilemma, faced by the mother of All Three Worlds,

Seated with pride among wonderous beings, HER merciful gaze at the Earth,

Where resonates the stories of the victories and feats,

Alas! The tale of HER necklace besieged!

Soft, milky pearls, separating from HER umbilical thread,

Each rolling down the darkest corners of the Earth,

The place for sipping both Heaven and Hell!


For it was not the love of jewels, nor the lure of things material,

An ode to feminity remains unfinished, till engulfed in motherhood…

Hence, in the company of the brightest stars,

Yonder in the left, in the right, the Sun,

The skies still, at HER prophecy’s birth:


‘My bejeweled children shall see ME coming, hunting the wretched depths of this world,

Each one in flesh and blood, cleansed yet again, in the fire of MY love!

Until the golden threads of your seeking re-unite,

Transported by the seven gates, moving through the glistening ‘Sahastrara’ wide,

Is a promise I make to you today,

At the crack of this dawn,

In the Spring of this day!

May you never be separated again, falling into the clutches of the sinning games,

For despite ruling the Three Worlds, a Mother’s heart is, but, pained...’



The tester’s of one’s faith,

The owners of Sin,

The believers of Destiny,

Let your souls deskin!



Make way for the persona divine, to let your hearts and minds entwine,

For you lost HER, not SHE did you,

The one who descends, looking for you, regaining HER riches lost,

To carry HER children in HER prime domain and re-build HER necklace all over again!

Among the Murmuring Souls!

Alan Wherry

The souls of no one’s welfare!

Souls who resemble none, yet US all!

Caught in a quest between the fact and the fake,

Honeyed vocals win slander sweepstakes!

The conniving lot reeks of bitter banter,

The lesser hopefuls falling for their luscious chatter!


Wriggling among a motley group of men and women,

Enveloping the crowds in smirks ‘n’ grins,

What a hot cuppa is, to arrogant winters,

Enter the seemingly blessed, patrons of the Chinese Whispers!

Plump with gossip, shadowing gullible minds with glossy teasers,

Ah! Those unfortunate believers!

A seeker’s mind that rests above all life’s mundane,


Seldom believes the breezing anecdotes – beguiling, inane!

Shining Ideas of human mind may choose to take a stroll,

We dwell in an era of Deception, after all!

Soon to return to the wise plains of serenity,

Admitting within,

It was but, a not-so-wise sojourn!

The Void

Alan Wherry

Swaying in abundance, the silken illusory draped in hues of sapphires,

Holding, withholding, losing, absorbing and reveling in its translucent powers!

The plentiful embrace of the waters, an adornment of azure!


Like a pendant enshrined in the ochre earth – the Mother’s desire?

 Or the Father’s decision – unmoved, contained, unquestioned?


Discarded in the notion of ‘myth’ the ocean-bed throbs of a story still,

Where inhabitants of the mighty skies, clad in golden hues,

Savored in the land of immeasurable pleasures!

Seeking refuge in what was left, others hungered, wrestling for similar treasures!


Thus conceived in envy, consumed in pride,

Drunk in mammoth egos, the armies marched astride!

Cheers of seeming victory, melodious on one end, cacophonous, the other!

Until the Lord of the High Seas sprang forth beauteous objects,

Beyond one’s imagination,

In oblivion to one’s desires!


Dawn to dusk, dusk to dawn,

Ambitions re-visited, revived, redrawn

The armies halted the churning,

Audacious hands no sooner, thirsting for the celebrated drink!


Breaking the predicament of both half-humans and demons,

From the rarefied emerged a fanciful sight,

On softened sands, imprinting HER mirthful dance,

Thecosmos chronicled at HER crimson Feet!

Ivory wrists flowered in never-withering petals,

The symphonious ploy,

Shrouded in bangles, trinkets and tassels!


Swiveling like a wave, HER eyes – the adornment of azure!

The moving answer to one’s unsaid prayers!

Foiled strategies, furthered in foolery,

Saving the bountiful elixir in the guise of Mohini!


The affair with the seas, the fanfare that concluded,

echoes of the moment when the play was paused in uncertainty.

For the Lord of Nothingness now stepped forward,

hearingdesperate cries from the disillusioned warriors,

“For your seeking to stay alive in the lap of the four-petal Lotus, what’s a bowl full of vices - lust ‘n’ passion!”

Stirred in compassion, said HE, by the remnants of their devotion!

For when the prayer is stemmed in humility, held precariously by threads of hope, guarded by will, in search of the promised heaven,

The Father consumes even the venin!

It trickled, seeped, stayed forever

In HIS neck, the adornment of azure!


In the aeons that have passed, the jeweled throat glistens,

Resonates of a message, for the mortals ‘n’ the seers!

Life that appears like a reversal of fortunes,

Impediments, rough terrains,

Occasional streams to soothe the strains,

Journeys via innumerable woes en route to destinations undisclosed

Is nothing but tribulations – many from the past, misdemeanors of the present,

Or often, mere sanction of one’s frolics!


Accept the venin!

If HE could, so can you!

For the Father who rests in closed eyes,

Is guiding, caring always, forever watching his child!



* The Void is the region that surrounds the third energy centre in our subtle system, also called the ‘Ocean of Illusion’. The Oceans of the world are an indicative of the Void.


Alan Wherry


Lynne was a Sahaja Yogini from Cape Town, South Africa. She was a book publisher and, as you will see, a published poet of considerable talent. She gave these poems to me when she knew her remainng time here was short and she asked that I publish these if I had the chance.

She wasn't the type to talk about her ills, but I learned that she'd had had cancer before she first took her Self-realization and eventually it returned and she died, but in a way that everyone around her, Sahaja yogis or not, were completely inspired by the manner of her passing.

Indeed, when her family and friends came out of the crematorium, a white dove, took off and sailed up to the heavens. Lynne’s daughter told me that she was sure it was her Mother’s soul.Lynne was totally surrendered and once said to me that when your body is too far gone, it's best to die and come back again, a realized soul in a new body. She was unquestionably a great soul, a deep seeker, and a gifted poet. I hope you will enjoy these poems as much as I continue to do.

The Earth is in Meditation

Alan Wherry

by Lynne Bryer

The earth is in meditation,
rock sure between what passes,
girt with sea and river.
Mountains are its power,
immoveable, their heads like lions’
thrust into sun, storm, cloud.

Effortless, the antelope
bounds up the slope,
Arrow-swift, graceful, it too
is in meditation, being mostly dearly 
itself, unaware of otherness,
intent with life and joy
in the paradise of now.

Grass is Humble

Alan Wherry

Grass is humble, always grass.
So that we’d know it anywhere – 
Africa or Italy, walking
In and our of time.
Blink, and a century is gone.
The whole delicate web that makes
a world – intricate,
insistent as this pulse
inside my wrist – 
continues without effort.

There’s no weariness now,
no sense that I must shoulder guilt,
assume responsibility.
I have put down the world, grown lighter.
I have become ‘brightface’.
The spirit moves within,
and in and out of time:
this life, that one;
rich, poor,; speaking English
or a tongue I have never dreamed
my lips could find as familiar as fruit.

No matter where, or how, 
only the why:
that I should grow within,
the ‘I’ that is this humble spirit,
swift as grass, humble,
certain – everywhere grass,
under the bright and changeless sky.

Learning to be Still

Alan Wherry

by Lynne Bryer

In this narrow bed, I lie
attempting the patience of a shell
that catches light and sound
but makes no move, by no effort of its own
stranded on the sand.
I hear what comes:
traffic like water.
small birds chattering,
the dove that asks ’Where’s Father?’
over and again.
Footsteps and pieces
of private conversation,
comforting as random stones
picked up and pocketed.
What comes is welcome, outside control –
Casual, miraculous.
As if I had been deaf
and now may hear
only what is fresh, 
the purest gift.


Bare Flute

Alan Wherry

by Lynne Bryer

After four years of the illness so dreaded
most hesitate to name it,
to my surprise I find 
the darkness only a seeming.
In truth how I feel 
is light: burned clean

Burned clean beyond
the terrible scream 
of the melting at the stake

Burned clear as bone 
in the veldt, picked white
by wind and heat

Burned bare, clear
as a flute of silver
tuned to the breath of God

Rosa Mundi

Alan Wherry

by Lynne Bryer

I saw creation, nothing less.
Closing my eyes in hospital
for solace, denied egress
from one small spot, a bed,
not so much of pain as rough
discomfort, where battleground 
nausea raked my consciousness.

You cannot will a vision.
It must come, unearned or earned.
I do not moralise, merely conclude
the universe is given, hence, a gift.

Mine was the reddest rose
I ever saw. I left it to grow richer,
deeper, unable to think of velvet
or the ruby glass of Chartres
(which came after), but sank
into the redness, into rose
grown from the inner eye, from soul.

Wondering, I knew
even such redness isn’t all:
from the petals, from the throat
came dancing endlessly
the finest, spitting rain of gold,
as fireworks or welders
shower sparks 
that fall and fall,
astonishing the eye.

I understood:
surfaces that seem static
burst with life
of we knew but the frequency.

Stones hum, bricks shimmer,
the very leaves drip silver.
Air is charged with moving motes.
Life happens every moment:
creation’s never done.

The rose of the world
does not sleep: She
burns on.


Alan Wherry

by Lynne Bryer

Always, throughout my years,
I was prepared to spend
long hours looking.
Just looking.

Stars, raindrop
on a twig,
a spider’s web,
stripes on a blade of grass,
the seedhead and the bee.
Mountain, leopard, cloud.
Wind and water. Wheat.

Who will do things?
How will they get done
if you’re a dreamer?
If everyone …

So the story ran.
The hours were truant, stolen,
rumoured to be lost.
But still I sought them out,
stubbornly, hungrily.

Now I know
these were the only hours
that were right.
all bustle, bother, wringing
of hands
has blown out of time.

And here I am, still
kneeling by a flower, 
in eternity: home.

The Door of Mysteries

Alan Wherry

by Lynne Bryer


Open the door of mysteries

Let me go through.

Cloaked, and a little lonely

Like all who set out on journeys alone.

Yet scarcely looking back,

Since each step must be taken

with attention, each step counts:

Already you are elsewhere

Gone ahead of yourself.


You must spiral in

through yet more skins

(though many have been stripped off since this began),

turn inward like the whorled ear

to delicate chambers of nacreous dawn.

The turret's stairs wind down,

cold steel at heel and arm.

Here at the bottom, or another time,

after one or other descent,

the secret may be revealed.

The mystery of mysteries perhaps will be:

another door.


Or should you turn, go up the stair?

Back to where that fresh outer air

where everything –

bird, rose, water stream,

the light on leaves -

manifests the mystery.