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 May 2015 fifi S
Louise
~

Walking into the night
she hoped to find her way
with the moon as her guide
her past, mere footsteps away

She held her head high
the unknown future in sight
moving towards the new day
while disappearing into the night

So small, in this big world,
a girl,  with room to grow
turning footsteps into strides
within her eyes, a new glow

pieces of her she'll leave behind
never again to look back
Looking to a future she was meant for
she vanishes into the night so black

~
 May 2015 fifi S
K Balachandran
This  library is huge, I am amazed, by its oeuvre
at the far sight of the people of ancient, who put
it together,you are the book,timeless, I always longed
to read, all these days,but couldn't, even see you once,
but I couldn't give up my ceaseless search.

Now the quest is fulfilled,  isn't it simply magic?
I open you, light a scented candle and start to read,
pages turn, time flies like seabirds, big hawks, with large wings
that seek lonely islands to roost and come back,
I lose count how many, many times!

this book is a master  piece,I can't stop reading you,
but, don't want to finish it and feel lost in the wild, too
a dilemma yet to resolve, I don't know how!
One single star at the western sky sadly watch
sheds her light towards me and smile,

I was bleeding through my eyes, yet
I could recognize, it's you who keep awake
seeing me read your chronicles with contentment
all histories my dear,  gallops towards just that,
one place; at that moment I become aware
I am alone in the huge library fallen apart
from the frame of time and revolves on it's own,
we are in a dream woven by a witch in a planet
far far away from earth, but you the star is timeless
though I am part of a dream that will end at will.
 May 2015 fifi S
K Balachandran
A baby girl gently smiles in sleep
a young woman clad in military fatigue,
in a war zone, somewhere, for now quiet,
startled, not knowing why, wakes up,
the baby dreams a yellow butterfly
alighting on a bright red flower,
when mama was carrying her around
in a bid to put her to sleep, slapping
gently on her bottom; sleepy eyes close.
The 'woman soldier' (an oxymoron
for all those who could think)  a mother to boot,
is thinking about the plummentting population
of monarch butterflies, in the woods she once roamed,
the town she grew up, she now misses, in her thoughts flap wings.
She is worried about the change of climate,
though all she thinks is about the plight of the butterflies.

Now, she hears a gun shot at distance,
shudders thinking about the children
sleeping under the blankets, expecting no harm.
She imagines a baby smiling, gently in it's sleep
and on the shades of that memory, she feels calm,
gripping at the handle of the machine gun,
kept ready at hand to fire first at an enemy, any time.

One talks about peace, as fear gnaws deep at the heart,
the flame of love is  protected by cupped female hands
children securely sleep,in the  protective heat of mother's breast,
rise and fall of the *******, the smell of milk,enveloping my body,
til the day in my mother I  was enshrined in,
                                                                      I still can trace in my brain.

The woman soldier, may fall dead,hit  by a bullet
intentional or not.A war is a war, even a butterfly killed,
is considered enemy, at that time and place.It's grammar is hate.
The baby may have to live, for ever not seeing her mother,
who in the scene above was absent, may not return, ever.
The monarch butterflies would die in thousands and fall from skies.

We still try to cry, but there isn't any tear,climatic change burns eyes.
It's night, a pale moon mourns for the orange sun of the evening.
when the climatic change strikes, it's not in one place or time.
it erupts all over the globe, hearts bleed, love dies little by little.
 May 2015 fifi S
K Balachandran
You are the erroneous mirror
also the distorted, reflected figure,
and the observer, the  root cause of all,
just, comically absurd,if you see straight.
But this plight, to you remains alien always.
as the logic works outside the bubble.
Cosmos is within an illusory bubble
Pure consciousness flows, beyond it.
 May 2015 fifi S
K Balachandran
The river, her vigor sublimated, is a thoughtful flow
after the daring dive head on from the pinnacle of the cliff,
madly arrogant roaring rush through the dense woods
in spate during torrential monsoons muddy red,
satiated now, at ease, meditative, inner currents subdued.

These planes are different, the river an uncanny imitation of a pond,
the white swan, she  keeps still, unfazed by the pulls to four sides
falling in love with the enigmatic pink lotus, my witness
that blooms alone, in the marshy shallows, only for her to fall in love.

Amazing is the swan's prowess,she  makes the mighty river
accept her ease, wise tranquil pace and brings to a slow down
little by little, listening to the inner music,which is oh! haunting
the river now comes to trance yogi like, in sync with the
foaming green waves of trees along both the banks,
the whisper of wind to coconut leaves,if you listen
is the mystic mantra, "Ï am that..I am that..I am that"

wisdom isn't alien, don't look for it atop only the mountains
it's in the wind's hands,on the lap of  land and in water's prompt,
what space evokes when one merges seamlessly in nature's divine ,
the song one hears silent within, echoes aloud in nature's chant.

My heart is ruled only by her, the white swan.I realize.
 May 2015 fifi S
K Balachandran
Morning mist frames her face, the contrast, he couldn't miss
a wild flower  fresh, bathed in dew drops, she becomes fulfillment.
A bee, as usual seeking honey,without being aware what awaits,
sleeps in her  chamber,couched in her love the whole night,
he stole her heart, she whispers, he keeps it as the fragrance
and the pollen smeared all over his being vowing never to remove,
a love it is, in essence different from all that he has hitherto known,
as if in a dream, stealing her heart,  he flies up to the ultramarine sky
all abuzz with love tunes , orchestration of nature, intoxicating,
his heart is full of light love fills, now this bee is even ready to die.
 May 2015 fifi S
Joe Cole
She was the music of the night
Sang the sirens bewitching songs
Luring men high up the mountain slopes
Her beauty to gaze upon
But was she real or just a myth
This lady of the night
None will know for none returned
Of the young men who left in the dark
But still her haunting melodies
Fill the mountain glens
Beautiful clear crystal tones
That invade the minds of men
Who is she? What is she?
Whose songs have such haunting power
Songs that echo 'cross the mountain slopes
The minds of men to snare
Perhaps its just the mountain winds
Echoing round trees and slopes
None will ever know
For none has ever seen the one
Who sings the music of the night
I just fancied trying something completely different to my usual stuff. Let me know what you think
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