Tag: gaslighting

World Battlefield Opinion

On By Donny Lee DukeIn applied nonduality, childhood education, ego activism, Poetry1 Comment

(written for the Facebook groups Friends of Auroville, and Auroville, INDIA but only approved and posted by the latter group, after sending a small poem that appears below this one. It must be noted Friends of Auroville removed me from their group and blocked me.)

I like rainbows
spoken in the most clear and circular terms.
Please, I’d rather have this is gonna turn out.
I sit here with my hat in my hands.
I’m a big roar on magic.
Wanna see my human unity?
It’s in your beautiful hands.

The uncompromising villager,
the most accounted for
where we find human unity,
if you’re not on its side,
if you wanna freeze it,
if it’s not something you can work out
because they won’t let it.
They just like their tribe.

You can’t get away from Nature’s homegrown,
and sometimes
you have to swallow them whole.
Definitely,
that’s our footpath here.
That’s our red beer here.

How do I get this off my property?
We are not romantic letters.
I’m not tryin’ to get yah to buy toothpaste.
I don’t have an engineer here
doing anything
except talking to you.
You’re my sweet opening
to ride my pages.
I don’t fight you.
I just stand and sing.
We need some heaters to loosen up human unity.
I’m not trying to get you to buy land in Florida.
I’m going with my function among you as a photographer and a poet
to be part of this great experiment.

I’m his poet,
the boy we had such a mind
to open and facilitate.
Did anybody publish?
You won’t let a boy and me together in plain sight.
You won’t even let him on this page.
Human unity
bills him to you,
that little boy I took care of for so many years.
Pay on your buddy
my friend.

Where is human unity?
I think we have to find our divinity first.
It’s like the psychic change
can’t be complete until the spiritual transformation.
I don’t know what I’m sayin’.
The yoga beefs here.
We put it in Auroville’s hands.
Now that’s a stalk monster.
I’m blind to this—
the tree hunters.
I can’t get it off my chest—
the need to see Auroville as human unity.
It’s a crash course in nothin’—
the battle weary Aurovillian says.

We can’t see it in our feet.
We can’t see it on the road.
It’s too big for us.
It’s a journey inside.
I’m sorry most people are not prepared for this.
I’m not even close.
I’ve been waylaid.
An ignorant mother took my child
out of spite.
You don’t know the dynamics of raising foreign children.

Now I hate that mother and her whole crew,
and I had achieved an amalgamated oneness in my mind,
realization’s status
in mental wears,
not in that point of no return.
The boy was my apprentice,
my give my gifts to,
already writing whole poems from the inner voice.
He rode samadhi a time or two,
approached the Silence,
neared the sun.
An overhead experience had opened his mind.
He talked about the world like it was his brother.

Then he lost it all in one fell swoop.
No contact allowed,
and the boy’s been sat on for months
and abused.
I was opening up human unity for him
by going inside.
I know how to do children,
without that stink.
My inner consciousness opens theirs.

I can put human unity on a beanpole
now that I’m mad at these people
and wish them dead.
I’m just sayin’.
What a drop in flesh.
I was showin’ him to you when it happened,
when human unity fell
from my hands.
The irony in being on the other side of child abuse
wanting to protect your child.

You have no idea the intricacies of karma on a mountain sink,
when you see the world as representation and not as it.
I flounder here.
I’m mean this world plays for keeps.
The vital is in an uproar
I’m calming down now.
My yoga works.
I sit in spiritual vision
and confess my soul.

When they’re hurting your child what do you do?
When he’s crying and talking of suicide,
and he’s only 12?
They’ve made him think he’s crazy
with all the gaslighting,
and do no forget he’s been beat.
I can’t find human unity here.
Now I understand someone else’s child
is dear to you too,
and along comes some man
who changes their dream,
hits them hard
with the facts of life.

You’re a bugger aren’t you?
No I am now a healed man,
feeling what you feel
when you look at me.
You want them punished.
You want the child safe and sound.
You want him healed,
but the formula for that is not in your hands.
I’m a call on that notion.
I’ve a vehicle of self-healing’s swirl,
and I know how to heal children.
I know how to open their consciousness,
and I am flabbergasted
divine process has ruined me
and flattened my child.

This is not fair.
It’s not right.
My ego blunders.
I sit in your stool and say that.
I point the finger at other people.
I arrange them with my hate,
because they’ve killed my child
where they hurt him,
and they hurt him in his love for God,
his trust in the Mother,
and they beat him for his love for me,
and all the while say they know I was good to him.
They’re his parents and they have the right to take
and beat
that mother told me that in a swaggered brag.

You lift your head up and see me
mourning over a child,
like I’ve never been healed.
That child is still my number one day.
Okay what did I do?
I made that child’s feelings God.
Attracted to him,
I gave him God’s eyes.
I gave the world a bath
when he was little.
I tempered him through Dog
as a medium for our affection.
We loved each other through a Rottweiler’s fur.
Healing’s ways visited me
like a mountain tribe
close to the sun.
I was guided.
The feelings of God
I opened up in me
to care for this child.

So many tools I used,
so many make it right.
Then the Devil comes in and damns it all,
and you dance to this tune.
Do you know how much power the Hostile Powers have
to turn off our lights?
It makes you question the divine.
It makes you try to blame God.
What do I do what do I do?

I come back to myself of course.
I peel off this hate
from blocking the psychic’s view.
I stand and sing.
How far you have to go inside yourself to find human unity.
I’m afraid most can’t do that.
We have to have developed souls,
and we have had to have found oneness inside ourselves.
How many go that far?

We’re in the stage of adopting belief.
Can we understand a multi-generational project?
We want the consciousness open,
so our children can grow up wise,
a human unity bundle,
but you have to get it right with children,
so they can make the journey
if you can’t,
the journey inside
our yoga talks about.

I’m a vehicle on that worth,
and I’m hamstrung right now
for loss of my boy.
I am just this landed fish
speaking into your microphone.
Now I’m supposed to tell yah
human unity is a spiritual aim,
soul’s quarters.

I believe, I believe, I believe [line heard sung, from It's Too Late To Turn Back Now]
don’t bring it through your front door.
It comes when you’ve seen the One
with its own eyes,
a vision in consciousness.
You can’t rule it into play.
It’s not a textbook model.
Can you find spiritual process?
Isolate that nigger.
This is perfect sin.

The suffering is so explosive.
I don’t know how to manage it.
I’ve managed art with it,
so radiation in purpose,
and I die by the public barrier.
No one wants to hear this.
It’s just spilled upon my paperwork.
People would slap me for it
instead of help.
I just sit here and cry
so often.
You know I’ve heard from that boy.

The insanity with which his mother has put him,
so she can keep him from the slightest contact
with a man who raised him,
would make you want to put her away
if you knew the extent of it.
He will tell no one but me,
and those around her support her.
It’s a living nightmare,
and this is what happens when you do right with a child
and turn on their lights.

I’m an Auroville side keeper.
I’m conducting the experiment in my home.
I think you’re too rigid for that
in your mainstream rooms.
Surely the consciousness will change one day,
but you don’t know how.
I bring in that formula,
and you won’t even look at it.
Now it’s been captured by the Hostile Powers,
and no community supports me
to engage these misguided parents.
What do I do?

Stay close to him in inner consciousness
and hold him there,
wait for him to give me some outer contact,
with no satisfaction that will come.
You sit there and enjoy this,
the child removed from my lair,
kept from my clutches.
I pity you.
You are not the experiment.

I throw you a human unity ball,
and I would get into the quick of things,
if you let me,
in your own rooms,
by doing art
and making it public so you can see.
What are the issues that divide us?
The handle of children,
I can take you
to where we are feet with them,
the places that society all sees
but gives it permission to be,
and I can take you to their God room,
and what beauty can come out of a child
when their inner doors are open
to the God-felt expression of their soul.

A social trigger we do not fathom but persecute,
when it’s as deep as this
into our children’s honey.
When it’s social honey,
can you come together on this
and extend us your hand?
I can give you his song
inner hearing wrote.
Listen to the boy.
You know he’s months away
from being taken from his home at the lake
and made to feel so alone.

The future folks he’s got in his hands,
and he’s blisterin’ himself now
with his vision of the future that has failed him
now that it’s come to pass.
So much spiritual technology he wrote
to save himself from a future situation transpiring now.
I give you this miracle
if you would but look at it.
He cannot.
He’s not allowed.

The damage is done,
and the light’s been put out,
and he won’t even save himself
but has laid down and died,
giving himself up to total dominion,
and he’ll lie about it if you ask him,
scared of his parents’ wrath.

That’s the hope today,
the boy tells you what’s real
if you ask him.
It’s a hope place to start.
It’s a country road.
It’s the place we land our feet
and give this boy his chance.

The menu,
it’s got Gods all over it,
and it tells what happened
when the boy told his father he wanted to go home,
live with the velacara
in a permanent song,
but that was Sri Aurobindo’s house.
The future is in his voice.
It’s the future in your hands,
if you’ve never seen it before.
He gives a prevision of the future
his soul wrote.

You’ve not seen nothin’ like it.
It’s captured on the journey home
to the lake.
In one fell swoop,
that boy tells you how the cow ate the cabbage,
and you’ll just have to sit up and take notice
the boy heard this line by line
spoken into his inner ear
complete and unabridged.
We used my voice recorder.
Other than that no help given.
Now tell me this boy should be shot.

This is a cooperative journey.
We can’t leave Nithish there.
He’s a prototype
of a brand new kid,
and boy does he have baggage.
What was meant to be:
we are consciousness bundles,
and by our poetry you see that
we can bring you vehicles in consciousness
headed for our high change.
Eat that in the Menu of the Gods.
Can we find Auroville?
I’m drivin’ you home.
From Nithish’s YouTube channel

On August 19th, I sent the following small poem to both Facebook group’s admins with a link to the poem here on my blog, asking again that they post the poem, and in my stats I saw that two people in India came here from Facebook, and it’s reasonable to assume that was admin from one or both of those groups. Within a couple of days, Auroville, INDIA posted not only it but also two more posts I had pending, all at once. One can only say thank you when that happens.

Do somethin’
more than just an operator’s opinion.
It puts human unity in your lap,
and I’m the border they cross.
Don’t kill it again.
It’s costly.
You’re destroyin’ human unity.
Can you get a handle on it?
Censorship is for what’s wrong
and makes us bleed.
Is it really for what makes us right?
Answer the question,
and that’s the ordinary.
Let’s cup in our hands the extraordinary.
I give you a ride there in this poem.

There’s Nothing More I Can Do

On By Donny Lee DukeIn childhood education, PoetryLeave a comment
Nithish at the meeting of the Child Welfare Committee, photo by the author
He has the robot,
the eye of the robot.
Entryway
to the death of this child from his own soul.
Child Welfare
could not grasp the situation,
and they did not listen to his tears
as he gave his mother what she wanted,
the rule to hurt me.

He was distraught.
He openly sobbed.
He held my hand from across the table
and squeezed it
as he shook his head no
he didn’t even want to see me one day a week.
He couldn’t even speak.
His emotions had his tongue.
This was blamed on me,
not his unwillingness to betray his love for me.
That red flag was not seen.

I’m left with this picture.
Is that a rule boy?
It’s not a boy in love with life.
I can measure ‘im,
but you’d have to listen to the song “I Never Boy”.
I can’t reach him.
I can’t do anything about this.
I can only go home to America
and try to restart my life,
knowing God doesn’t care.
The divine doesn’t help,
and Sri Aurobindo and the Mother are either liars
or have not the power to save.
I have lost my faith,
and where does a man go who has lost his faith?

My life is over
as far as hope goes.
I just want to die,
but I will not do that
until my time has come.
Thank you for listening to me,
giving the space in your lives
for one such as me.

I tried.
I did my very best,
but lies and deceit carry the day,
the boy’s lies too.
There is nothing else I can do.
If I do not have this boy’s will to see me,
the will that he declares in public,
not his hidden will,
I can do nothing to help him,
and I must leave.
You understand.
It will take some time to leave.
We want to take our dogs,
but the wheels are in motion.
Goodbye.

I Never Boy

On By Donny Lee DukeIn Nitish's YouTube channel, PoetryLeave a comment

I Never Boy

Chorus

Now I can’t be a boy.
Now I can’t be a boy.
A bitter thing that I’ve gone through.
Now I can’t be a boy.
Now I can’t be a boy,
and the play plays strong in your strong eyes.
Bury your head.
Now I can’t be a boy.

Verse 1

What I’m goin’ through.
I never boy.
Years of file
I wore my grandfather.
Try to overcome the world in some fear.
Well I’ll be damned,
there’s gotta be another way.
Come and hurt me,
tearing at the edges of my mind.

Verse 2

Put hands together.
Maybe I’m wrong,
I’m goin’ where Christ the energy.
Call your boss and forgive her,
your mother.
Even if I restart my family,
now I can’t be a boy.
Hopefully it will happen this time,
gonna knock on doors again,
have a beautiful time.

Verse 3

Marco,
Polo.
She stand him file,
his mother.
Too over, it’s over.
He walks along disaster in English.
He was alone.
Where my mother put me so sad and alone.
It’s gonna take some time I’m not the right person.
You gotta figure it out. A 93
It doesn’t take anything.
There may be a fall.

Verse 4

I spoke to the cinema.
I’ve come up with another way,
respect and honor to the people that I love,
my grandfather.
Yes I’ve opened to you,
Yes you love me, yes you do.
You mouse, big changes ahead.
I will father the way,
overcome the world.

Verse 5

His life is basically over,
that’s what I’m goin’ through.
Real men
would not do this to Nithish.
Years put everything
onto the child.
It’s a child made to feel all alone.
It’s a child made to dump on.
You won’t hear the child.
Changed my life.
Now I can’t be a boy.
Now I can’t be a boy.

I wanna be a boy.
Everybody sound impatient.
Sunlight I’m gonna be.
I’m gonna be a hero.

Drainin’ the Steel

On By Donny Lee DukeIn PoetryLeave a comment
photo by Douglas
He just wants the people he love to be fair to. (vision of Nithish standing in the forest at a microphone stand and speaking into the mic)
Life is a very changed little boy.
He’s not gonna control.
Will see everything
eight thousand,
which means he doesn’t see it as himself.

You gotta take the phone out of his hands
and let him listen to you.
You got a therapy.
You can help it.
In the interest of therapy
you will go.
Okay then,
a PowerPoint presentation,
you spend the night with me in the phone.

He had just been through a hard time
for any conversation at all with him.
I let him
throw the other people in jail.
A file said that.
Boy’s not gonna go crazy
and do anything rough to his daddy.

Just bury your head and see
now’s not a good time.
I vintage.
We’re tired.
It’s been my dream
to have a mountain visit with daddy.
I can’t get up.

They don’t go.
They don’t leave him out.
They guard him all the time.
It’s impossible to see him
wherever they visit.
I can’t hear a car.

Did you make yourself useful?
Not yet.
See you soon
Nithish.
Goin’ to Kuru you’re not fondu, over?
I don’t think so.
I stay away from that plan.

Why is the son
not supporting seeing me?
What is that? (two visions of ugly, insane pictures of some horrible place)
Hell
my mother makes me imagine,
my mother messages me.
There is a want to see you
gotten in.

Could not believe it,
we are right where we see each other weird,
but I belong
to him.
In a child’s mind three and a half months is a long time
not bein’ with his daddy.
He forgets the report.
He forgets the love and attention.

Christ look ahead.
Don’t overlook your eves.
Does it take all day?
I’m with you so much
right now,
watch your glow.
(vision of Ramya, a young woman I’m a daddy to. She’s looking at me and smiling)
You give everybody kindness.
Give me your love and support.

On Monday the child never woke back.
Come here.
I told him
tomorrow’s thinking about that
does not measure our true love.
Have a good day.
I love you.

Go into the Earth tower,
I have to maintain.
I cannot see Nithish and that kills me.
I watch his moods change from day to day.
I’m inside his consciousness you see.
He toys with me like a rabbit
and then just puts me down and forgets about me for a while.

We achieved union together,
and this is the price I pay for it.
A child does not know your worth.
They only see themselves.
I can’t take this child anymore.
I carry his pain all day.
He just wants to be happy and forget about me.
I’m too much trouble for him right now.

What evil is this
a mother does to her child?
No one questions the mother’s insanity
to forbid any contact whatsoever,
when she herself will admit
I was good to the boy and did not abuse him.

This is killing his character,
but this is India,
and we don’t protect our children,
and we do not know the damage the heart can do
to a child that’s been made to kill his love
for one of his parents.
This boy will not be kind.

I can only sit here and watch it all
and cry.
I so want to help my boy.
I am with him every minute of every day,
and the sleepless nights
just tear me apart,
and it’s all I can do to maintain,
and I must maintain.

Do you consider me?
I’m a value in consciousness,
and the same you hear from me
I opened up in this boy,
but that has been killed too,
and no one seems to mind.

I love you Nithish,
and I will not give up on you,
and I understand your pain
and your need to be a boy.
I am a parent and I can take sacrifice.
I just wish you could see me
as I am
and not in the stench of gaslight
you mother has put you through.

It’s inevitable
that one day you will.
A demon can only hold the field for so long
before the divine forces prevail.
Do you see me Nithish?
I am here,
and I’m not going anywhere.

Forward

On By Donny Lee DukeIn childhood education, ego activism, PoetryLeave a comment
photo by his daddy
Let’s move forward Nithish.
It’s time to move forward Nithish.
The camera pushes in,
immediately replaces your silence with sound.
It seemed to have the heart glow of eternity.
Some price is right.
Making sense out of a horrible situation, okay?
I can be the whole thing now, forever.

Now I can’t be a boy. [line heard sung as though Nithish is singing it]

I can’t cover good for you
when he knows
you won’t say my name in proper.
You won’t say how you feel.

What do I need to save you?
I need you to call my name in public,
say how you really feel,
to whomever asks.
Be honest about it:
you want to live with your daddy;
you are not happy with your parents.

If you don’t do this you will die
to all of your dreams and aspirations,
to a happy childhood,
to being a teenager in America,
to being an adult who’s a poet,
who loves the world and protects children.
You will die to yourself Nithish.

Listen to me good.
I have more to say but that’s the main thing:
you must call my name now,
in front of your parents,
in front of Kuruchikuppam,
in front of the city of Pondicherry.

When a random stranger asks,
when your parents ask,
when anybody asks:
you love your daddy;
you want to live with him;
your parents have been very mean to you.

Go to type.
Type good news,
fast car,
your heart’s desire.
I need you to listen to me Nithish.
To mask truth
so people can rob you of your identity,
take from you who you are,
you’re destroying your own dreams;
you’re kissing the feet of those who abuse you;
you are not getting your heart’s desire;
you are getting nightmares.

Don’t worry.
I am here.
Let me help you,
but you need to also help yourself.
You are not helpless.
You are not a baby.
You are scared to death.

Do you know how many social workers
are watching what’s happening to you right now?
You have an audience of concerned people,
and your mother knows that.
If they try to put you into a boy’s hostel,
if you even get beat again,
they will stop all that,
but you need to speak up so they can.

They are going by what your mother tells them
and everyone else:
you are happy with her;
you do not want to see me;
you are perfectly normal now.

This is Nithish,
not who my mother says I am.
Call my name.
Call your own name,
else you will not come out of this water,
and you cannot be a boy.

They are going by what your mother tells them
and everyone else:
you are happy with her;
you do not want to see me;
you are perfectly normal now.

This is Nithish,
not who my mother says I am.
Call my name.
Call your own name,
else you will not come out of this water,
and you cannot be a boy.

How many thousands of books have failed,
books to help humanity,
and they never made to public eyes?
Do you want yours to fail Nithish?
You have to be the hero your dreams show you are.
You have to vanquish the demons
like you say you do in your poetry.
You have to stand up for yourself.
You have to stand up for every kid in the world.

That’s what’s going on:
you have to be the poet of a sunrise,
that sunrise a better humanity with our children.

The Book of Change The Eye of Change

On By Donny Lee DukeIn childhood education, ego activism, PoetryLeave a comment
photos by the author
I made a religious issue.
He’s not allowed to love the Mother and Sri Aurobindo.
He’s not allowed to write his poetry
from the divine,
that give you face to miracle.
He’s not even allowed to read his poetry
or see his YouTube videos

the poet takes shape.

He’s being beaten and bruised
to renounce me and these things,
and no one’s here to help him but me,
and they’re threatening me with jail if I go anywhere near him,
but will admit I did not abuse him,
was good to that boy.
They just don’t want him with me
because they have abused him,
and they don’t him to tell me that
so that I tell you.

We cannot have one second together
his mother brags.
Where do we put this on the shelf?
A child’s suicide?
A child runs away?
A child has a heart attack
nervous breakdown?
Or a child who’s dead to the world,
lost his humanity
because his parents killed it?
What kind of man will that make?

Pondicherry,
those are you options.
I can do nothing else but warn you
somethin’s terrible comin’
from that boy
if you deny his right to see me
and be the daddy I am to him,
aka his poetry guide and spiritual teacher.

We need your help.
This boy’s extraordinary
in his reaches of soul.
You could do well to have a poet of this stature.
Poetry the boy?
Imagine poetry the man.
He’s here for you,
and you do not see that.

You think a foreigner raised him,
and now a foreigner wants him back.
Do you every listen to your scripture?
It’s not about being Indian it’s about being human.
It addresses the world.
It takes the hand of oneness
and confronts the world with it.
I have that vision constant in my worldview.
You hate me for it.
I can love unconditionally,
and I can love this boy to safety,
despite your hatred of the foreigner.

In oneness there is no foreigners.
We are each human being,
and I ride your town with that identity,
and I was giving it to this little boy,
a worldview based on oneness,
based on who we are.
We are That you see.
What made India’s past great?
Godmen and Godwomen,
seers that brought down civilization from the Gods,
Rishis that reveal to us
the godly life.

I am not an American I am not a foreigner.
I am a human being through and through,
but I have chosen India as my home
because here the Gods can still communicate with us,
and God had more room to act,
because He is alive in so many hearts,
however narrow they put Him,
however blindly they may see Him.
It’s a devotion in every shop,
in every home,
and even the atheists have their banner,
but this great spirituality
that India carries in her inner waters,
cannot come to the surface a wellspring for all to drink.
You do not allow that.
You are orthodox Hindu,
orthodox Muslim,
orthodox Christian,
orthodox Buddhist,
orthodox Sikh,
orthodox Jain,
and by orthodox you wear a religion
and do not have concrete inner contact
with the God you adore,
where you view him or her real in consciousness,
or your spiritual ideal,
and through signs and wonders
let it guide you through your day.

This was India of old.
“The ancient minds were better,” Nithish says
in one of his poems.
But you just see that as political turmoil.
I’ve given you a boy,
who still needs further development by me,
but who already is a poet,
through his pain,
giving us high glimpses
of India’s rise
to her humanity.

You let his parents throw that away.
You just want the foreigner gone.
How do I speak to you emergency?
My child needs me you see
to bring him back to good and God.
You are hurting him with your silence,
validating his mother’s abuse of him,
his father’s,
validating the worldview to hurt children,
and I just don’t understand your reasoning.
You are not the boss here,
and this is not a hell world,
although in this situation,
it sure seems like it.

Can it get any worse?
This boy could die,
if not his body,
then his heart and mind to humanity.
This boy’s gonna die,
and you’re being warned before that happens.
Pondicherry,
save your child.

Yesterday night
he gave us a poem,
last time his poetry,
and inner dawn.
People were around to see it.
Where is the sensation?
His poetry record
gives us something to think about,
the paradox of time travel.
You can’t put it down
as a hoax.
You can’t even say it’s terrible poetry,
but it’s useless today
because it hits society
where she can’t figure out stuff,
and no one will get alarmed
that this poet’s being killed,
brainwashed, sat on, abused.

No one will believe me,
and no one will question the boy.
We have his mother on record saying,
“You will not tell on me you will tell what I tell you to say.”
Having just been beaten
for talking to me through a window,
he said mother I will do that,
and then he went to someone he trusted
and cried his eyes out,
wanting me,
wanting the abuse to stop,
and I can even tell you who it is to prove my story,
because he’ll lose the only shoulder he has to cry on.

He will have to be questioned with me,
or he will tell no one nothing,
and I’m the foreigner everybody keeps outside.
You do not know what fairness is,
nor do you care
Pondicherry.
You just want to beat your children,
play with their little dinghies,
make them do what you didn’t want to do as a child,
force them to revolve their life around school
and homework,
as though there is no soul purpose,
as though we are just animals
aggrandizing our gain.

I call on you Pondicherry
to give this boy his chance
at poetic greatness,
but we can at least
liberate him from his parents’
abuse of him and constant control,
and give him his heart’s desire,
his soul’s choice,
at least some days in the week with me,
so I can cure him help him heal him,
and prevent his parents from abusing him more.

Why is that an impossibility?
We go right to the roots of what’s wrong with Indian society:
how you raise children,
and make them subservient to parental abuse,
dominance and control.
You slap your children Pondicherry,
and you tell me it’s normal.

Here’s a fish out of the water
of the entire gamut of abuse,
Nithish’s story,
big so you can see it.
I’m askin’ you to take a look,
that look that brings change,
not because you are angry for what you have seen,
but because you have been hit in your very heart center
for the love of a child,
and you see yourself that child
when you went around the house in underpants,
and you see yourself those parents
diddling with his dolittle,
and slapping him because he doesn’t measure up.

I am not accusing you.
I have learned these lessons as one abused
and as an abuser,
larger than life
like this kid shows.
He got the benefit of all that wisdom,
all that handle with care.
I know how to treat children,
like they are the God in the room,
and they just simply love it there,
and this boy misses his daddy
and wants me to protect him,
but I can nothing
except tell you the story
and get down on my knees and ask you for help.
Please help my boy Pondicherry.

The Function of Nithish

On By Donny Lee DukeIn childhood education, ego activism, PoetryLeave a comment
photos by the author

A poem by S. Nithish

I have started my journey.
I feel like I wanna be dead.
But why?
Someone have to stop this school before kids die.

I need help please stop these dictators.
Kids need power too if kids to live in this world in peace.
I ask myself God please help me.
Forsake have you?

It takes a power in India.
I let me talk of light/God I to the world.
I will be in heaven
if I am able to be in peace.

I have started my journey.
I am gonna see my old mind,
and I am gonna write till I see no more.
I seen God.
I need way to escape from reality.
Have they heard God or have they saw a kid talk to God?
Well I have a spark of power now.

I am in sea with sea monsters.
His eye was bigger than my head.
I feel ashamed of myself.

Chapter 2

I have started my journey.
Am I really pissed off?
I ask you that or do I ask me that maybe?
I should ask the world.

I shall be born again in my mind.
Please look me in the eye and talk to me.
They shot my head off,
threw me in fire,
stabbed me.

I can only hear the light,
but can you go?
I am stuck as one.
I am three,
but people only see one
and judge me looking at my face.

I tell them judge me after looking in my inner soul.
Are we kids gonna die without living life a little?
I am very strong my muse.
I have to protect the light from another somebody
from stealing it.

I always say goodnight,
sweet dreams,
but who’s there to that for me?
God help I am homeless.
I have opened my pen to write me.

This poem is a prevision of the future. Nithish wrote it from spiritual vision some months before the horrible situation he’s describing happened to him, when he was taken from my home by his mother, where he lived during the week, visiting his parents on the weekends. That is the journey he started. They did bad things to him, but the worst has been what they have done to his heart by doing Nazi-like things to him to kill his love for me and keep him from having contact of any kind with me, although for the first two months he called me in secret telling me of the abuse, and of course we have inner contact in spiritual vision, or I do; this also has been killed in him by his parents in their attempts to kill his love for me. He doesn’t write poetry anymore, no longer hears his muse, or very little.

I need to mention that school for Nithish is the worst thing in the world. He’s been badly abused for his dyslexia in school, both physically and emotionally, and his parents would never allow me to get him tested for the learning disability. But in this poem, school represents where he gets his life lessons, and that takes place at home too. The muse, the inner voice of poetry, uses the symbols that you know, and, if you have some preconceived idea, it won’t override it but use that in the place of what would more represent the truth. That’s going on here with his use of the word school to describe what is going on in his home with his parents.

He was not just split in two, having to have one face to his parents and another to me, but there was the Nithish alone to himself he had to try and honor also, and so when he’s speaking of being three people, not just one, that’s what he’s talking about. Since the source of his abuse came from his parents punishing him for continuing to love me and wanting to see me, not to mention betraying their bedroom sins to me, he became completely silent about me with anyone he didn’t trust, did not even mention my name, let alone say want to see me.

On the phone he told me that he had to do that because they were treating him very badly, like he was poison, because he had caused all this trouble for his family and brought shame on it, and so, he told me, he had put on a fake smile, but he was really sad inside. So he was one person to his family and another to me, and still another to himself. I cannot tell you what this does to a child, especially one that is right this very second beginning the body changes into adolescence. Mental illness of some sort will ensue at some point. If I am unable to bring him home, I believe the boy will become a psychopath like his father, who has murdered four men in cold blood for his gang.

Today’s the Right Moment Nithish Discover Himself

On By Donny Lee DukeIn childhood education, ego activism, PoetryLeave a comment
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A poem by S. Nithish

Ha ha ha! I have ran to the divine false—
call me a poet after 18+.
I have time to die.

I call myself the poet for my life through the end.
I am what do you call me,
what the godfather?
Oh no, that’s not me.
My character is at the lake, aka the divine.

I have asked the god to stay.
My life is always sour-like.

My mind turn the lights for my room,
draw the lights for my room.
I am going to wait for you through the light.

_______________________________________________________

Nithish
was taken from my home
and subsequently brainwashed.
I record that here,
the eye-opening of Nithish.
All you the pictures are aligned.

I will show his mother this,
a mother mentally unbalanced in the possession of her boy,
and all the abuse that has ensued
from her possession.
Find myself
giving him the blanket he deserves.
He will not look at me I know.

You’ve got,
the people that are helping me,
cosmic kitchen.
Show him
what he needs to see.
Show him himself in the mirror.

The first poem Nithish wrote months before he was taken from my home by his mother because I mentioned to her a video she had made of her youngest son doing a sex act. It is not just a prediction of the future, what will happen to him as a result of showing me that video and telling me its context, but it is himself talking to his future self so to overcome the brainwashing, gaslighting and abuse his parents have put him through because of betraying them to me in regard to that video and the sexual abuse of his little brothers by his father. He told me very private things about what was going on in the bedroom of his family when his father came home from Chennai on the weekends, and they have made him pay for that betrayal and for his love for me.

“The divine false” is his parents’ rule over him, him turning away from God and spirituality and putting his parents in that place. His mother has said he cannot see me again until he’s 18 or over, what “18 plus” means. When he speaks about “time to die,” he’s talking about not only the death of his former self, the real Nithish, but his thoughts of suicide, which he has had in all the trauma his parents have given him for loving me. He disputes that he has to wait until 18 to be a poet, what it means when he says he calls himself “the poet for life through the end,” and to understand the poem, you need to know that being a poet and me being his daddy, or really, his spiritual master, his inner poetry teacher, are intertwined. He’s also talking about not having to wait until 18 to see me again.

In spiritual vision I have seen that his father plans to have me killed and wants Nithish to approve of this, but Nithish has not told me this, but has called twice to tell me to go into hiding without explaining why, not recently though. His father has officially murdered four men in cold blood for his gang, a gang of Lawspet whose leader is a notorious man named Sironen. The gang now feigns to be disbanded, but it is not, and Sundar, his father, feigns to have left it, but he has not. That’s what he means by people calling him “the godfather.” and those people, the you referred to, are his parents. He is very familiar with American movies, and I don’t know if he has seen The Godfather, a movie about an Italian mafia family, but we have talked about that film together. He will not approve of this murder of me, because his “character is at the lake,” where we live, at Usteri Lake, how he refers to the location of our home, which for him is synonymous with the divine because it’s here he is coached in sadhana to realize the divine in his life.

The god he’s asking to stay is me, his spiritual master, and we are in a union of consciousness, on the level of soul, and if you don’t believe just read his poetry and mine, and I have the power to see inside of him, be there in his consciousness, and he can feel me there, and he’s asking me to stay, despite his outer self seeming to have forgotten about me, which the phone call I’ve described shows is not the case. He’s told me he can feel me inside when he was calling me in secret. It is a divine power, a power of consciousness, and you will only believe me when you question the child about it, but no one will question him, and no one’s allowed to.

Despite the special treatment he’s now getting from his parents, he still feels his life “sour-like.” He knows his mind is the key, as I’ve taught him that what he thinks he becomes, and here he’s trying to turn his mind to the light, and he ends by telling me, “I am going to wait for you through the light,” the light being all his poetry, and mine, that is trying to free him from the abuse and Nazi-like control his parents have over him.

The Spiritual Vision of Nithish

On By Donny Lee DukeIn childhood education, ego activism, PoetryLeave a comment
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Saying

by S. Nithish

Today morning I saw a car.
Its name was sunny.
In my I saw sunny.
In my pen I saw sunny again.

And my friend,
he wrote something in a paper,
and he gave it to me.
In the paper it said sing, sing, think.

I saw a sun shine in my life.
One, it will happen again,
right happy I am.
I told you can I have my rights back?
My back I got my back I say,
and you say haha haha.

Are you the Joker?
No I am the divine power of the God.
Wanna see me fly?

Nithish is writing this poem to his future self, as he is in the video-poem “Edge of the Game”. The poem was written some months before he was taken from me, when his life was taken from him, his daddy, his dogs, his computer, his room, his home, and the lake, all in one swoop, and he was taken to live with his parents and given no rights, supervised constantly so as not to try and call or see me, controlled to the nth degree for the same reasons.

The sun that he is talking about is Supermind, and before he was taken, he was a serious student of Supermind. His parents have forbidden him spirituality and to follow Sri Aurobindo and the Mother. The friend that he is talking about is me, and I’ve been writing on Facebook just what he says I’ve been writing so to get him to sing and think, as he’s been almost completely brainwashed by his parents by this time, two and a half months since he was taken. He does not want his rights taken from him, being made to feel like the Joker because they say he’s brought shame to the family, and here he is trying to wake up his future self so he doesn’t lose himself.

You might ask why won’t his parents even look at these things? Do you know they won’t let him read his own poetry? Just ask them to let him, and they will tell you they don’t want him to remember me and change his mind, someone that has been there since the day he was born, parenting him for half of his childhood, giving him years of memory he can’t completely erase, and their answer shows their intent, and it’s not for the needs of Nithish nor is in his best interests. It’s to take his memory of me and to get him to only love them, despite everything, simply to possess him. His mother told me over the phone she did not care about his needs; she wanted him, and he was hers.

Just this poem alone show strong evidence of prevision in the boy’s poetry, and there is much more, where he’s also talking to me from the past, giving me instructions for how to deal with the situation of him being taken by his parents and abused by them in the video-poem “Menu of the Gods”. Then there’s his song, “Big Time Song”, a general prevision about how it feels when they take him from his home, take his life from him, and the process of him coming to understand that, and how “date is in his life, working for his life,” the time that he returns home to the lake.

Yesterday I found a stack of poetry in his drawer in his room that he’d written while in school, and he’d shown the poetry to me when he’d written it, and I’d just filed it away, telling him the poetic quality wasn’t up to pare with the muse he was getting for his YouTube channel. Now I’m reading them, and I’m humbled and blown away by the fact that he wrote all this to his future self of some months hence, to himself now, to guide him to wake up from the brainwashing that’s being done to him by his parents to kill the poet in him and the spiritual seeker, the boy that wants to stand up for children everywhere and have some kind of neighborhood court, he told me, where children can challenge decisions their parents make concerning important things in their life. I must tell you now I’m not really his daddy; I’m his spiritual master, and that’s the secret relationship we’ve been having, what I tell him not to tell anybody, although I am not a master; I’m an adept, but you understand the relationship.

We need strong evidence of the soul and the divine active in humanity today, like more that at any other time in our history, because we are on the brink of destruction. Here we have that, and this is a miracle. We need miracles, ones that can be clearly seen, and what is a miracle but Nature when she has been stripped of her plain clothing of ordinary and shown to possess powers we have suspected all along is in her store, but ones she does not show often enough to believe in nor to very many people at a time, powers that show us her secret divinity and close bond with the soul and God? A miracle, people, I give you a miracle, where the whole wide world can watch it, on the world wide web, the inner poetry of Nithish. We are watching the boy fly.

The Inner Poetry of Nithish

On By Donny Lee DukeIn childhood education, ego activism, PoetryLeave a comment
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by S. Nithish

Can you really stretch two mountains?
I don’t need to jump off.
I can just fly through space.
I met Neil Armstrong.
It was his pride to do that can’t you see?
I do something from the bottom of your heart.
Mine is poetry.
Why can’t you speak your mind?
Because of those evil touts control your mind.
I learn to fly.
I see another world in the pond.
I can’t be right,
but I can be truthful to the world.
I can feel the change.
The world is changing once again to a bad turn.
Do you really want to let them in with yourself?
No way I am gonna let that happen.

This was sung to Nithish on the inside as a rap while he was in school about two months before he was taken from me. It was one of two raps he wrote, or, I should say, his muse wrote. The other is at the end of the video-poem “Edge of the Game”. This rap comes from spiritual vision, and he is seeing what is about to happen to him, that “bad turn” coming. In the second to last line, he is speaking about his parents when he uses the pronoun “them”, who are psychologically manipulating him so that they kill the poet him because they think poetry is a waste of time and because they are suspicious of the lines of poetry that he hears from the inside because they turn him towards God and spirituality and not to them, his parents, and I’m paraphrasing things they’ve said.

They do not see any talent here, but, dear reader, do you see no talent here? He has a talent that maybe only two or three kids on the whole planet have, an ability to not only write poetry and song completely from inner listening but also an ability to tell the future. Do you really want that destroyed? Maybe he has this talent to help us not to destroy the world. I might ask who the two mountains are. Would you laugh if I said he and I? I write poetry from spiritual vision also, and it was me opened this up in him.