Imagine a world without terror outer
and inner, sans famine of food and water,
where every soul is well-sated; a world
sans sickness and disease, not by the cord
of morbidity and death held; a place
where huts are mansions, every shack is
a castle, and each flat a grand manor;
where the roads are built with pure gold
and the bridges with resplendent diamond;
where the day does not change in colour,
except when full moon in its full array
once in a month has its  own display.

I mean a planet steeping in love
unfeigned, bristling with true hospitality
of the soul; a world bereft of danger,
and of every mind-and-heart breaker;
a world with the similitude of the garden of
Eden, hung on the shoulders of harmony--
where man at another cove's lovely dove
will not leer, where there are
no split and divorce. The genre, stuff
of life where one's pigmentation is
not the cardinal, but the inner essence.

A sort of society where ******, Hussein
and Laden-like fellows and all their
coterie of killers do not have a lair
of habitation, i refer; where besetting sin
has no confederacy with the rotary heart
and mind of man; where the leagues
of villians are non-existence. An earth
where conglomeration of wicked cliques
is non-operational: where everyone be
holy--no child soilder, nor forced labour;
where women are not ravaged in cruelty
of acts, and is void of conflict and war.

Such a place "the world" is not called
but "heaven: governed by the Almighty Lord.

the clouds bloom
like mysterious flowers
seeming  to survive by soaking up
the tears of the waiting multitude.
they churn the wind
causing it to blow through
my every cell
filtering through my every pore
as i abandon any hope
of maintaining some adult-like dignity
the puddles call
the rain falls
and i let myself go

- Vijayalakshmi Harish
   10.07.2013
   Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish

For the Disney print princess
who knows what she's about,
who finds fascinating worlds within dust cover jackets,
who sends smiles in parenthesis; lost love brackets
over classroom mid-drifts,
a bare silence interrupted by pure kindness;
for who walks in noise behind inaudible
commuters from this station to that station
all the way home and back out again on her family vacation,
who can match and pair t-shirts and jeans with
bowler hat crowns from the palace of queens,
who, for all we know, could eat with elbows on tables
and read not prose, but short fiction fables,
who wouldn’t hold doors open or say thank you
to bus men and their drivers,
who might smoke away her pay
with great plumes almost every day,

who might not be the girl I thought she was.

99 cent wars, rooftops, Gibraltar Screaming "god bless the fabulous" Christs;

In the eyes of years
Man is king only over that which breathes,
So let's throw hugs in the air,
sit on flowers and vanish to Cook stones on the hips of Cleopatra
with all of December's left footed children

For through the cried ***** tears of furry German banana caskets,
Eternity awaits
In the failures of our greatest triumphs,

So let's dance

After all, Psychological Wednesday societies
Are only good for curing Xbox manifestos and Tuesday sanities

And if we died one day,
it sure won't be yesterday.