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Reality has spun its web,
Beneath the indifferent moon,
And as the ocean tides sigh and ebb,
It catches life- too soon.

Time has cast her heavy net
Upon the vacant skies
Begging dawn to ne'er forget
The sunsets slow demise.

Oh, fallen stars, don't fail me now
Your glow outlives your light.
Bear no sweat upon your brow,
For your death  is lost at night.

The sweetest eulogy does sound
Against the hollow space
That pushes the moon round and round,
Casting shadows 'cross my face.
Oh
Time spurts and sputters
Out of my mind
Like an oozing laceration.
Warm blood dripping
From a skinned knee.
9:00 fades into
10:00 and before
You know it,
Everything's gone.
his verses were spun sugar
i was stuck on them
as he poured them by the vatfuls
upon my eager eye
for him i displayed my heart
unabashed and openly
he wrote upon its beatings
his stories and his poetry
till all my heart could speak one day
were tales of him and his.
his words were big words
spun with the fabric of  my dreams
and when those dreams were rent and torn
upon my sighs his promise was borne
as if it never were before.
a new vow now was set in stone
--never would I love a poet
again.

- Vijayalakshmi Harish
  25.03.2013
  Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish
for months on end
silence bridged us
even though I missed you then
it was never like this.
yesterday we spoke
and it was like the first
rain of the monsoon.
i never realized how much the
dust of days masked
how much I missed you.
a chain has snapped inside me
and now the link refuses to be fixed.

- Vijayalakshmi Harish
  28.03.2013
Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish
I am the shadow on the moon at night. I am the lonely wolf howling, that makes your skin crawl and your mouth go dry. I am the hooting owl, I am the black cat. I am the fog, rolling in from the river, that covers your path. I am the wind that whistles around your window pane. I am the tap, tap, tapping that drives your mind insane. I am the monster in your closet, I am the darkness in the corner. I am the witches cackle, I am the soulful mourner, weeping in the night. I am the hair on your neck when a ghost walks by. I am the scarecrow  in the field, among the corn rolls neatly tilled. I am the spider that crawls over your hand. I am the silence that rolls over the land. I am the breath you hold, when you look under your bed. I am the blanket you pull over your head. I am the fears, never said, when you crawl in your bed. I am the dead, laying in their graves, with something left to say. I am your imagination, and I've come to carry you away.
If we leave the litter behind,
and run until our legs become a burden and our heads start to swell and come loose like a white-cloth-Arabian-silk turban,
we can make it home before 5.

Past the market that only makes sense in the sun,
along the terraces slipping from their foundations,
skip on-top of walls before falling back into our run
behind the street of seared spice smells, conjured up by different nations.

We’ve left the litter behind.

We’d run further than these cities and their boundaries,
take transport to the tops of heavenly high hills,
cause havoc amongst the machinery of the foundries
and make it home for five if we run through those mills.

We’ve left the litter behind.

Holding hands we’ll remember the brush of the grass on our thighs,
farmer’s fields and the dark brown cut-throughs we took,
our pockets full of receipts and chewing gum supplies
and the look of your pale blue eyes amongst your fresh air haircut.

I hope the litter don’t mind.
facebook.com/timknightpoetry
When we think about the choices in our lives
When we fight and we bicker and become bitter
When we think there is only power or powerlessness

If we can realize that there is power and powerlessness
Then haven't we began to acquire consciousness
In that instance haven't we began the process of choice

That there is those who have not have given birth to this consciousness
To those who have only lived powerlessness
And know nothing else
Haven't you owed them part of your consciousness
That you have ceased to be one of them
Or your mere power has denied one of them

That there is no choice for them
Because they haven't birthed that consciousness
And if you choose power they'll remain powerless
Because within you there is no loyalty, right?
It is a choice predicated by an erroneous concept of self-preservation

It is a treacherous dichotomy; doesn't make sense
This is not an indictment of your desire not to suffer
Because surely to hold power would cease your suffering
But it is this type of power that thrives on the proliferation of powerlessness
This conceptual understanding of what it means to have power
That is not what we've come learn, but readily ascribe to

That a mind and body can cultivate power
That can be harvested, shared, communal
For the sole purpose of the survival of the other, not the self

That that can survive in this world is impossible
Its antithetical to the modes of production
In which our societies operate and thrive

How can workers begin to derive power from their collective efforts
How can workers' purchasing power equal the power of the production of their labor

How can any community in any corner of the world escape
The misanthropic missions of first world free trade capitalism

When will we reclaim our escaping humanity
When will we cease to keep feeding the system with our minds, our bodies, our labor

How much longer can we become fodder, scraps, waste feeding the machine
And don't think that you are safe when you have made it
When you have entered the circle of dominance
Because it is then when you will loose your humanity or die

It is at that apex of power that your presence becomes
Just as dispensable as that of the powerless
Because to maintain that circle of dominance
Requires a total conversion to misanthropy

The rigor with which your power will be required
To keep proliferating powerlessness will give no break
And when you become useless, it will replace you

So that we must realize that the modes of production
That we allow to exploit us
In powerlessness, or the semblance of power
Can never safeguard our humanity

How much further will we allow power to be concentrated
So that soon we ourselves, or our children won't have a choice
Won't have the consciousness of power just powerlessness
March 31, 2013
That was
refreshing
cool waves tickling the soles of my feet
comforting
a favourite spot to sit, nestled with a book and steaming cup of joe
encouraging
the glowing smile of a parent teaching an infant to take it's first wobbly steps on this mysterious planet
Seeing an old friend
That you don't see often
It's nice
You can catch up
Rekindle old jokes
Remember that you're not alone
That's the good one
Even when everything is erupting
a volcano begging to explode
Even when you think you're so very alone
lost in a crowd of 7 billion faces
Begging to fit in
Dying to stand out
You're not
There's someone
You might not expect it
Think they're gone
It's nice
Just plain nice
You may say love, yet not mean it, you may mean love, yet not say it. There is a time to speak, a time to sigh, a time to laugh, and a time to cry.a time to feel, and a time to say. Know the difference, come what may.
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