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I read a comment from a friend today
She said she liked my note
It was a poem about 4 certain words
A quick one that I wrote
She said she liked Old Fairy Stories
I didn't have a clue
Was she talking gay old pooftahs
Or just fairies dressed in blue
Liberace, Quentin Crisp
Have lots of tales to tell
But, was she speaking of these fairies
Or of ones that cast a spell ?
I wasn't sure of whom she spoke
Which fairy tales she liked
Was she a big fan of Tinkerbell
Or of big, princesses named Mike?
So, I figure I'll just wait and see
I'll write one for Eileen
It'll be the strangest Fairy Tale
That she has ever seen...
Once Upon a time.......
I don't understand Thanksgiving
I don't understand it at all
Instead of giving thanks for things
We sit and watch football
Americans give thanks each year
For the bounties in their life
Like freedom, food and housing
A loving family, little strife
But, in Canada, it's different
We give thanks, slightly the same
But, ours is a holiday from politicians
It's not held the day we came
We watch football, and eat turkey
Gorge ourselves and fall asleep
Leaving dishes till tomorrow
We know the mess will keep
but, if Thanksgiving has true meaning
And we give thanks, I want to know
Who are we truly thanking really
Is it God ? I need to know
Are we thanking God for loving us
Even though he can't be seen
Do we thank ourselves for what we've earned
It's not as easy as it seems
I mean, really when it comes down to it
What is Thanksgiving truly for?
Is it to gorge ourselves on turkey
So we can watch football some more
It's not something that I'm fond of
It's a day off work, that's all
I'm thankful for my bounty
But, I don't know who to call
To tell that I am thankful
I'm a transplant here you see
I don't understand Thanksgiving
It don't mean much to me
If a homeless man is thankful
Is it right that some are not
They just eat and watch their football
All the things that he has not
He's as thankful as the next man
In fact I'd say he's more
Because to him, a true thanksgiving
Doesn't need to have a score.
blank season--
cherry blossoms still
wound an aging heart
So, long ago
we had the Renaissance Period,
and then there was
the Baroque Period,
and then there was
the Classical Period,
and then there was
the Romantic Period,
and then we got to
the Twentieth Century,
and we called it modern
and we called it contemporary
but we can't use
those words anymore,
so I say
we call it
the Weird-*** Period,
where every artist,
musician, playwright,
composer, poet,
and so on,
were doing weird-****.
I love this period.
So, in the sixties or so
we had the killing
of music
by John Cage
in his silent piece,
and the death
of painting
in the blank canvas,
and there must have been
a blank piece of paper
that was a poem,
and then
we had the rebirth
of art
in the work
of the minimalists,
and of course,
don't forget
the conceptual artist
who had himself shot,
so now,
we are well into
the Twenty-First Century,
so it must be
the Post Weird-*** Period,
but maybe
we should call it
the Bizarro Period,
or something like that.
noon day shadows
filtering in through the treetops
devoid of courtesy
they flood my desk with their darkness
reflected on my page
amidst shards of light
patchwork prints on paper
playing peekaboo with each other
as the page flutters
in the warm barelybreeze that touches
so softly I’m not sure if its real
or it is my mind flapping

-Vijayalakshmi Harish
  04.10.2012
Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish
my office has a "balcony" (its just a large open walled area on the first floor with no roof) where i take an "ideation walk" whenever i need some new ideas. A lot of trees overhang into it, and i usually sit in a cozy spot under a  neem tree to write down any bright ideas i've had :)
swimming in the sea of your memories
i try to find my voice
echoing still in the conch shells
pieces of me tangled in the seaweed
remembering when you caught me in your net
setting  me free
the currents between us – the warm and the cold
all the rainbow hues that colour our story
ancient, real, mysterious
beneath somewhere dangers lurk
sharks that feed off our conflicts
rabid appetites tearing apart
but we grow back-indestructible till the end
we survive like a  coral reef – beautiful
we protect the shores of our life

- Vijayalakshmi Harish
   04.10.2012

Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish
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