In a grove, alittle ways away,
There once stood a tall glass tower that reflected the day,
It was built by a man named Soul,
And to build this was his altamet goal.
He started it in late March,
Thats when he had finished designing the last arch.
He started to make his glass tower,
And on the first stories he planted a flower.
As the days went on, the tower began to grow taller and taller,
He worked all day and it didnt even cost him a dollar.
But as the days went on and the taller the tower got,
Slowly the beams began to rot.
He didnt take notice as the sky turned grey,
Then that storm came in late May.
The beams gave out and the tower began to fall,
He fell down in a shower of glass, he hit the ground and began to crawl.
But he was stabbed with bits of glass, and eveything he knew had been stripped away,
He didnt wake up, and the sky remained grey.
The accident was soon cleaned up,
By people who had won the cup.
The grove has been cleared, and all the debris has been taken away,
And the grey clouds are at bay.
Nothing remains there except dead leaves and little bits of glass,
A tiny flower is growing where it all once stood. Growing besides new sprouts of grass.
Alot of years will pass,
And not all things are meant to last.
my dreams are
the texture of the earth
softened by the monsoon
a clairvoyant fragrance rises
from the green sprouts
pushing their way through-out
my rain-coloured mental canvas
a cool drop snakes down
my ready spine
in the frissons that ensue
even as your warmth
every numbing night
the winds detach the flowers
from every mourning tree
and i give you myself
as you rain on me
- Vijayalakshmi Harish
Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish
"That there Is'belle's house stinks wunderful turr'ble,"croaked Emma Beiler at their quilting bee.
"Jah...vell," sighed Rosanna Yoder. "All them there katzes , ain't so?"
Accordingly the two ladies set out to pay Travis and Isabella Salter a visit, only to be politely told that they had were in the process of taking some cats to a local shelter.
Two weeks passed and to the Amish folks' disgust the odour had merely intensified.
"Them there Englisch are chust liars!" Potato Sam spat the words out along with a wad of chewing tobacco.
" Ach, vell," sighed his wife Rosanna, unaware of her heavily sweating underarms. The Ordnung strictly forbade deodorant as well as perfume. "Reckon I best mosey over and see fur myself."
Travis opened the door with a tired sigh.
'Chust thought I'de ask vhat fur stinks yer house up so vonderful tur'ble...Izzy tells us youse gettin' rid of them but-"
A puzzled look crossed Travis weary face as he glanced toward the kitchen. Irritation gripped him, not lessened as Rosanna glowered at Tabby washing her face on the couch. Then a waft of a familiar scent, overpowering, drifted toward him from the kitchen. Brussel sprouts enhanced by -.
With all the stress, Isabelle was increasing her calming herbs, mixing the powders.... Valerian?
"Good evening, Mrs. Yoder." He motioned her toward the door, locking it firmly behind her. For a long time after she was gone he stood staring out the window.
Stumbling down the road
Before the mornings first glow,
I walked under the boughs after it poured
And in the mystical dawn it smelled of petrichor.
Blowing out from the caves of the sea-
Aeolus whistles in the trees.
His daughter floats in the mist-
Brushing 'gainst my lips.
Finally, spring's warm bliss
Sprouts lush gardens with a soft kiss.
As happy as ever-
I wander down the road in a haze
through these Halcyon Days.
Mother, the Word timeless Hymnals devote
Bore her Best Ribbon in Prayer and Gift
With the Earth her Nature's Theatre denote
Four Years Beyond; She would make her own Lift
I speak of the Fruit all may come to Love,
Branched with Four Maidens and a Knight do Sponsor
And the King, whose Black Gold sprouts well-above,
Branded Pride onto her; And gave her Honour
Well that their Woolen Rope I can't compete
Plus the Ring advised by the Prince of the North
Still, a Grounded Vow I plan to complete
For an Aunt called TRUST; And all that she's Worth.
Grateful much, M'am, for your Good Decision
Despite me Un-Known; The Owl you Rendition.
Fascinating in technicality
Are the nuances of the human mind.
A field of strange flowers inviting
The observer to delve into its' fragile psyche.
The hungry audience retires for
The night, riveted by the days find.
Their sleep restful and undisturbed,
The field will wait for the morrows next pry.
The flowers roots run deep,
In search of another of its kind.
Not noticing the deadened leaves
Left in its path, as it hides from the airless sky.
The field sprouts its foliage,
Another being of comfort for which to bind.
The field so lonely,
Sheds a tear as its' flowers die.
Unable or unwilling to let
The spectators irrigate the dying mind.
The field resolves itself
To forever remain lonely and dry.
What his eyes see,
Clouds blowing quickly by... captured
In artist's hands expressions.
Perched on a wooden stool
The grass to his waist,
Alfresca, outdoor freedom,
And open air, embraced.
Wildflowers all around,
Nestled in purple loosestrife,
Capturing moments on canvas,
As each moment arises...
Bush hat protects the artist's face,
As dandylion snow surrounds.
Each stroke, of his brush,
Are poet's words, profound.
He takes me back to 1880,
With impressionistic clouds,
Cerulean skies, and daisies afoot.
A summer day quickly sprouts...
He makes me see
Through artists perfect eyes,
Zapping, every bit of perfection,
Out of storm-laiden skies.
He paints, and I stare,
And think of Winslow Homer.
I leave him to paint, and give life...
And I ride away... off yonder.
I went on a bike ride this morning, and was fortunate to pass by an artist, in a field of flowers, painting lovely clouds... Thankyou, artist, for the wonderful picture.
I tried to capture the essence, that the artist, himself, was the perfect picture.
The song I sing today brings new praise,
the source is none other than she whose speak
brightens the hours of all my days,
these feelings here are the ones I seek.
I've spoken words as joyous as these,
yet a key difference must be known:
Before, end in sight brought out my pleas,
now, I'm sure old age will see it grow.
She truly makes me happy in all,
words and kiss conjure a wall of white
that lasts through my wake as they enthrall
and carries on in sweet dreams at night.
But struggle is an old friend of mine
who nears his show despite these good times.
Granted, as said before, my days shine,
and this, her third entry of my rhymes.
As time aligns against both our hearts,
we know the need to smile, not tear.
To help are my words and other arts
that I employ everyday she's here.
Since much care towards each other is true,
I ask the heavens and all above,
as I adore all we have been through,
if this feeling that we share sprouts love.
And now I know that heaven's answer
can be no different from my own.
How just one way describes me and her
shows without a doubt the love we've sown..
My body relaxes; Mind releases;
While giving birth to a baby;
My breast bleeds; blood,
Then water, later milk of life;
To feed another child !
My glorious moments in
and around the new born;
in delight; in sorrows; in love;
But, the final breathe escapes;
Inside the intensive care;
Just like the seeds of dandelion;
Floating, moving, freely in the air;
Catching and riding the wind;
A seed fell; entered the moist;
A fertile dirt; it sprouts another
Handsome baby is grown up;
a feeling of peace; a healing;
a relief begins to surge;
The soul took its last flight;
Even through the staggering;
A pain of becoming a mother;
A gain of forming a baby;
A birth in; A death out;
Human life rotates in a cycle...
(All poems in this series are, translations from Malayalam, originally written in author’s mother-tongue, “Malayalam’”, the language of Kerala, in South India.)
BY WILLIAMSJI MAVELI
Some moments you’ll find can never be recreated a second time.
Such as when we first met; a moment I assumed I’d easily forget.
But it still lingers in my mind yet, even though nine months have passed down the line,
I still remember that night.
When I entered the room to opened armed embraces.
Where the bottles of beer clanked together as we matched up our names with our faces.
Our conversations hatched open common interests as we spoke of the things we liked best.
Spilling the alcohol scented thoughts off our tongues that run as wild as our mind traces.
Our futures memories of the coming months would become locked behind the
handles of our rooms,
Held imprisoned inside the walls of what became our nighttime tombs.
The voices of my old friends echo when they rebound of the walls filling their own voids in the now deserted halls.
That lie barren as they wait to be filled by the next year’s crew so that the endless circle of old and new resumes.
We’ve watched as our friendships have transcended onto another plateau.
Through break ups, fallouts, spilled wine, growth sprouts, chinstraps and dropouts.
But the end is here and it’s time to go home;
Time to close the curtains on that perfect view,
And open them up again to something new.