Ellen R. Sinderman




Ellen R. Sinderman

Ellen R. Sinderman was born in Colorado and grew up in the SE, she has lived in Atlanta for the past 17 years and now resides in South Carolina. As a child her family and she used to spend summers in Ocean Drive, now named North Myrtle Beach, and once determined they had been there the same time as Baba. Her brother, Dave Graber, is also a Baba Lover, and her mother recently told her, she loves Him as well.
She is married to a professional writer (Martin) and they have two children, Matthew (21) and Hope (14).


Below are a few small treasures, Enjoy.

Lyric Funny Valentine

Lyric: The words of a song.

I sing in the morning, in my car, on the porch to no one in particular
Hoping someone will hear and be pleased

The dvd summons and I happily fall into a tune
which flows into my heart, a balm and free.

I could sing a thousand years Baba
your southern songbird
happy in the your palm
a palm of blackest green with shadow and mystery

I could sing for lifetimes Baba!
A torch singer or bored housewife to her radio
Each life sung, not endured.

You are singing too- plaintively, patiently in our hearts
sometimes when we are quite still we hear the melody
the first soul music
your funny Valentine to the universe.


Echo of a Whisper


I am a student of tranquility.
As I wake a distant flute plays somewhere
I walk from room to room searching, pregnant with Hope
divine bliss infinitesimal

McCartney’s shadow is four storeys high,.
The music an aural vise, joy disguised
A bit of painful pleasure,
And nostalgia frenzy
I drink a surfeit of whiskies, sour

but all I really want
is His real embrace

An April morning
honeysuckle breeze
a dust mite of spiritual ecstasy
the echo of a whisper

Beauty past perfect:
rose petals on the ground-
serendipity pink here, crimson snow there
confetti thrown by sprite or newly departed
happy to be free

Jasmine, peach, mango candles
warm bath, my silken rainy day coat
pink carnations expire, giving their last molecule of scent.
This is His furtive kiss in the dark,
the seventh shadow of pristine

This is all Baba’s maya prasad
mere drops upon a parched tongue
benediction or curse?

Life is lovely
but I am Tantalus
hungry to be free



Life was:
A candle barely lit
Weak wick

George Cukor Technicolor turned
Ingmar Bergman tale shot in black and white.

No comfort anywhere, no respite (save in pharmaceuticals and wine)

Recession loosed the dog people, mean and selfish to begin with.

No mercy despite the Dalai Lama’s smile -soft benediction -
on bibliophiles in store aisles

Their hearts will sleep til
The kali yuga spring
When Meher’s smile will burn
This fog of ignorance.

2001: I was a bird half dead upon the road
in dying light resembling the Path
Periodically pecked at by larger birds
The soft underbelly of heart, and the deepest part,
Torn asunder

Still I am useful
Winter scene: dark-eyed junko, blue too,
Eating scarlet nibs, perched on rose
A rose I planted five Junes ago



The embarrassment of it all
The dreadful outpourings
The cruelty of life, of
A life without conclusion
It would be tolerable but
For the sheer length of it

We can no longer ignore it;
The looming inanity, the too palpable
Happily, I am in love with sleep
And too much is pleasant and voluptuous

I regret it bitterly,
The final indisputability of facts
Like the gray pedestrian
Needlessly invading
The lover’s privacy of thickets

I seem not to feel
I care not who sees
I only know
The happy confusion of dreams




February 1953: astral plane
Why fall to sea
When I can step onto Eldorado Mountain?

Later, at six a dreaded confession
To a priest magnificent in his mitre

1983: I love Baba, and the miracles begin:
the charged rooms, third eye vibrating
to his love
the green, then greenest
palm at the end of the Mind.

1991: oneness of divine love:
redhaired mother, redhaired child
milky-blue skins blending, disappearing into One.

No mind I don’t mind


& I will spend the rest of my life


trying to shed this snake coat of illusion


The Kaliyuga staggers here, there
with stillborn maya child
Om namah shivaaya.

I found peace on a bluff overlooking the Atlantic
Here an eternal breeze blows
And only from Baba’s house
Can you see the Ocean.






I am too raw
A skinned fish thrown back
in waters which are too dark, too cold

I love people, I hate people
and their switchblade sensibilities.
This dogged me for years
like the black/green lake corpse
that must inexorably rise
during full moons

Perhaps it’s an excuse
to hide within
(Do I dare think it is pain of separation (divine)?)

I entered God’s guesthouse at 2
& luxuriated in silence til 4
still so long
it seemed a blasphemy to speak.

Baba then whispered
“Come out and lake meditate”
Sun and Long Lake embraced
Lulling waves glittered.

Ducks swam & dived
Unbothered by the rotting carcass of


As a girl you were Lynn and Dale,
Blondes of minimal pulchritude, but swollen hearts

You were my first love, awkward and pimply, perfect kisses

Later you were David: brown eyes, hair, study;
loud noisome intellect

hollow touch

On clear spring mornings I've searched for you in the faces of strangers
and loved those I cannot love

You are a surprise
Like the crushed hyacinthe that bleeds blue in your hand

I thought you were the quiet room and carefully sliced peach after the
9-5 madness

Trapped in an Atlanta apartment
One October I woke up and suddenly you were there

Now I know you are the thought, the thinker
the seeker, that which is eternally sought
Hyakutake, and he who found it

Sun on water, a sea of pale calyx sea marsh

You are the sweet song water sings, and the autumn field
Mute and knowing

You are the tree clothed only in snow
worlds unknown, the good and the bad

You have laid countless gifts at my door
rang the bell
and vanished before I could thank you.