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 Jan 2013 Dayda Base
JK Cabresos
I may not be able to provoke beauty
in my words.
Nod.
For I'm just a writer with no experience
of any masterpiece.

But for those appreciations, all of you
have given to my works.
Smile.
For each has left butterfly that will always
be inside my chest.

And that is irrevocable.
Thank you for all the reads and feedback.
To write is inevitable.

All Rights Reserved © 2013
Shots were fired, skimming her ears...
down in the shallow alleys lay her two friends...****** and tortured...
it could have been  her... shattered with her guilt covered in leather
cracked and in beaded with black studs hanging off her belt, added with a past hidden with an abandoned daughter it was her........ " see where ive come dad! see what ive become!"  she crys
she looks down at a rain puddle viewing her reflection..
"who am i?"
hopeless she ponders her thoughts of her father and she remembers te night she saw her mom get shot...she remembers the day he showed her how to use a gun...
"im worthless now!" she crys again..
"is there ANY hope for me God? the one who could barly step foot out of a jail.... for me?
God said " yes even in you, there is still hope.."
what is this unholy distress
that even words
seem unable to soothe?
instead it inflames them;
poisons them -
turns my ideas into a malicious brood
that commands
every ounce of my attention today
i would
if i could
pluck out this bitter vine
that encircles me sinuously
growing within me
as if born from a mystery seed.
unhindered it occupies every crevice in my brain
finding its way
into every sense, every act
every thought.

but then I think
a complete life
cannot be all sweet.

- Vijayalakshmi Harish
   30.01.2013
   Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish
 Jan 2013 Dayda Base
JLB
Lately I can recall the scent of damp wheat grass,
and smears of red clay on my calves,
at the end of each day when I wandered home
accidentally *****, and purposefully human;
a child of the earth who found unity, easily.

Bury me back in the moss garden, and carve my name on the stones
where I once crushed berries
and painted my cheeks, as
an adolescent nomad celebrating dirt and singing for
sky, while the cows were my companions and the birds,
my messengers of joy.

Take me back there one day, to rest
in final slumber.
Then, perhaps I can feel the ceaseless wonder
that once I felt when
I brushed my hand against the bark of a tree,
if now this life can no longer give me as much.
Dear you, From me: In case we should ever meet.

        You have lived in my mind now for almost half my life. When we first met I hardly knew myself, but still through my thoughts you crept; filling up the empty crevices, at times pinching and tugging on nerves and synaptic connections till I fell to my knees and wept. You didn't know then, but you also helped me collect inspiration and hope. Never mind the loneliness you caused inside and the occasional neglect. You got to know me in ways that still don't make any sense. Like, how on earth could you ever know that the thought of ever losing you made my heart full of dread and tense.
        You moved me in ways that I will not soon forget. Like that time my thoughts grew dark and grim: when I thought all hope was lost, was lost in life without any sense of how to cope, and then there you were perched upon a patch of white warm sand, directions in hand: A beacon sword of diamond light parrying the vast darkness of the open seas. Still though, it was just a hand. Back then you seemed so far away and hidden above sight that even through my periscope I could not make out your face on land.
        I do admit, I was an ungrateful man. I never truly thanked you for what you had done, in fact, all I recall ever doing is scolding you for the tangle of webs I had spun: always questioning why things were so bad and what I had done to deserve it. You though, you never lost faith, you never once asked to see my face. You just were. You were there on sleepless nights to step out from the recesses of my mind to run your fingers through waves of my disconsolate curly hair. Thank you for that, thank you for teaching me about compassion and humility, about honor and commitment, for showing me how to give hope and find strength. Thank you for not taking it easy on me. I was mad at you then for the swells of tears that made my pillow colder at night, for that sense of falling, for that black-hole you put in the pit of my abdomen after telling me you'd be with someone else tonight. For taking control over my body and mind and willing it to do things I had never done before in my life.
        It's still strange for me to think of how someone I had never met could affect so much change in me. Truthfully, you may be responsible for every ounce of good in me, but I also credit you with being the cause for some of the bad as well. Now that I know you better than before, I am comfortable with being honest in telling you what and who you are to me, what you've meant all this time, what you've been. You are the double edged sword that protects and defends me: A will and testament of steel forged in fire and ice, hardened and tempered through the passage of time. With a razor's edge, hand in hand, both you and I conquer all enemies, but when either of us grow tired or weak it is our blood that is drawn out of fear or jealousy.
       I laugh now because even when you cut me deep you always find a way back inside, always know a remedy. You have a resolve no one can resist. I guess that is why it's always you that I miss, always your face I lose but then find in mirrors, in strangers, in grocery lines.  It must also be the reason for your commitment to infidelity, and why everyone who knows you must have you. It gives light to the nights you slip out from beneath my covers to lay with as many others as you can. Somehow though, you always find a way to make your seductive conquest be okay; it is okay and I don't mind it. All I ask is that you come to visit more often and stay a little longer. I'd be lying if I said that I'm okay without you, but you have taught me patience if anything and gratitude, and I cherish every moment we spend together and am becoming more understanding when I see you with someone else. All I ask is that you don't rub it in my face, and now since I've seen yours you seem to want to change it every time you come back. Can you stop that? Can you live by me with just one set of eyes? It would mean so much to me if from now on the pale rosy cheeks I kiss belong to the same visage. Whether you do or not though, you continue to be the first and last greatest thing that has ever happened to me. So, just in case we should never meet , or till that day we both patiently seek, for you I write this to read and to hold while I lie asleep.

Sincerely From Me To You,
My Sweet Mystique
 Jan 2013 Dayda Base
Marian
I
Love creeks
They're pretty
I love dear creeks
That bubble and flow
With ice-cold clear water
Creeks are where the Fairies live
With peace and harmony soothing
I would love to live by a dear creek.

*~Marian~
This is my first reverse nonet!
I could write something noble
something great
majestic words that soar and break the stoniest heart to shards upon some distant shore

I could write something magical
something weird
perplexing text threatening like a bust-perched raven only "nevermore. nevermore."

I could write something sweet
something of love
honeysugared letters piling confetti-like upon the lap of my only *****

I could.......but I am ****** so I will not not do much but snore.
 Jan 2013 Dayda Base
Marian
My Wish
 Jan 2013 Dayda Base
Marian
I wish you wouldn't think ill of your poems or books
and say they're no good
because they are I know they are
especially your book called: The Fugitive
I really loved it you brought out a lot of emotions
and lots of picturesque nature
it made me laugh
it made me cry and feel like weeping
I don't understand why you don't like your books and poems
and say "I could a lot better now" when you have always wrote perfectly
and that's the way you will ALWAYS write because even when you pen down stories
your stories are so good I crave to know more and if I keep asking you perhaps all of your stories will become novels, fiction, and books

"Everytime you write I crave for more!! And I just keep wishing you wouldn't say your novels, fiction, music, poems, and books are no good because they're the VERY best!!!"

                                                
*~Mar­ian~
For my dear Mamma, Hilda who is my favourite author and poetess!! I love you, Mamma!!
 Jan 2013 Dayda Base
Marian
Cicadas and katydids are calling
Breezes blow in from my open window
Roses are blooming and leaves are falling
The moon's rays hitting my lawn look like snow
Owls are singing from majestic trees
While sweet Bluebirds are sleeping in bushes
Night dances through the softly blowing breeze
And Midnight silently the world hushes
Dewdrops like jewels shine on roses sweet
And the stars twinkle all through the calm night
While the Fairies dance on enchanted feet
And the moon happily shines very bright
And I under my warm covers doth sleep
Until pretty morning brightly doth peep.

*~Marian~
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