My poor, stupid poodle,
peed on the pedestal
of Cleopatra's needle
on Victoria embankment,
near the Golden Jubilee bridge.
( Oh! I am miserable!
I couldn't stop the debacle)
The poodle's puny misdeed
embarrassed not just me,
but the whole city of Westminster,
as fire alarm rang out loud,
when an overzealous constable
gave a distress signal.
It brought the fire chief himself,
who came rushing to meet
the emergency situation,
thinking the poodle was trying
to put out a fire erupted
on the ancient monument,
once shipped to England,
overcoming great adversities,
from Africa, long back.

Every time she rocked the boat,
              he was firm like a rock,
                       then, what left to do was
                                        gently rocking  her to sleep.

my mind meanders
as the night grows restless
reaching out with passionate fingers
that draw me out of my stupor
                                                  i’m twisted in their embrace
                                                  conflic­ted, astray in this maze
                                                  with unquenched desire they pry me open
an endless procession of memories -
set free from their anchors, they rise up
contorting themselves to the tunes of                       “Should I enter or not?” asks the labyrinth
“what if?” and  “ why not?”                                                           the maze gifts me dead-ends
demanding answers that cannot be given

                                                     an­ argument of the heart with itself
                                                     is not one that finds resolution
                                                    th­e decision is the destination

in the end they all await the Sun

- Vijayalakshmi Harish
  17.12.2012

Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish

Sometimes when ev'ning lamps are ebbing low
And all the earth lies hushed in solemn sleep
Within my lonely heart there burns a glow,
As lengthening shadows about me creep.

My weary glance falls o'er the dismal room
Where with rapturous eyes I seem to see
Beyond thick cobwebs, dust and direst gloom
A merry host of friends-my own library!

Worn musty books on shelves from olden days,
Brittle pages yellowed by hands of time,
Illuminating night with gladsome rays,
Lifting my bleak spirit to realms sublime.

Trooping merrily before my rapt gaze
Into flick'ring lamplight I watch them come,
Quaint men and ladies of forgotten days;
Golden laughter echoing in my home.

Into my eyes they smile, murm'ring with grace
Aerial speech they blithely chat with me,
They seem to belong to another race
Wakening in my heart sweet melody.

Dying lamplight sputters and they are gone.
Vanished! I stare about but find I none
Save a drowsy thrush flutes with hush of dawn
Only myself in the parlour alone.

~Hilda~

Scraps of poetry are all it takes -
whoever says words are “sweet nothings”
is so sorely mistaken
and has never known that intellectual ******
that comes from reading emotions
in perfect juxtaposition

- Vijayalakshmi Harish
   09.12.2012

Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish