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 Jan 2013 Sa Sa Ra
K Balachandran
Here, in this garden path of transience,
a wanderer am I, burning with desires.
There, when I wing along the streaming light,
a yearning deep down, for an eternal spring.
when is a work of art not just a work of art?

at what point does it stop
being only a thing of beauty
and transform-
the self
the society
the Universe
                                                                when does it transcend the real
                                                                and become something magical
                                                               helping one fall through –
                                                               the rabbit hole
                                                                the wormhole
                                                                the black hole
                                                                                                                                      when does it become
                                                                                                                                     an unstoppable force
                                                                                                                                     and cause –
                                                                                                                                     a revolution
                                                                                                                                     an evolution
                                                                                                                                     an absolution


                              and at which moment does  it make you stop in your tracks
                                                          stop breathing and exclaim
                            “Gar Firdaus, ruhe zamin, hamin asto, hamin asto, hamin ast!”

- Vijayalakshmi Harish
   05.01.2013
  Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish,
"If there is heaven on earth, it is here, it is here, it is here!"
it just doesn’t seem fair
that i’m at work
while the world takes a holiday
and it certainly is annoying
that you are at home
and i can’t be with you
i while away the hours
on this and that
talking, laughing,
trying to get some work done
but Einstein was right-
it feels like the seconds are dragging on
this day just doesn’t seem eager to end
i think – “I hate working Saturdays”

but then finally its time to leave
and that’s when i realize
what is so special about today

today i don’t return to an empty dark house
i return to you!
You are at home to welcome me in
with a hug and a kiss
and some little surprise
that you always have for me
every working Saturday
suddenly even in this twilight
the day seems brighter
and lovelier
i think – “i love working Saturdays”

- Vijayalakshmi Harish
   05.01.2013
   Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish
I just spent the whole of today cribbing with my colleagues about how we have to work on Saturdays while everybody else is on a holiday. But when I was returning home, I had this sudden realization that maybe it isn't all that bad :)
 Jan 2013 Sa Sa Ra
Jerry
Your song is truthful & meaningful.
It sings as a watchful and caring bird.
Your flight I will follow.

It is pleasing to sing in the dawn chorus.
I wish not to sing out of key.
nor, squawk with ruffled feathers.

Most times, I am inspired to sing along
Some times, I chirp & squawk my own song.
Some times, I sing  instead of listen.

Unsure of my surrounding, I give pause.
Are those ruffled feathers?
Has this tree emptied to get away from me.
When my songs or squawks cause distress please say so.
I will immediately remove them with an appology.
 Jan 2013 Sa Sa Ra
K Balachandran
Still night, the stars are bright,
but all I see is the darkness,
thundering, like clouds
engulfing my tragic existence.
She  has left me wilting for ever.
I don't even know why,
she never cared to tell.
When I stand here lost,
cold wind with thousand pins,
****** all over my body,
as if to verify, if I am alive;
the night  sighs seeing me
pale and tottering.
Strange,  that pin ******
I don't  even feel,
but the thought, that she
has forgotten me for ever,
forces a dagger across my heart,
she mercilessly discarded.
Still night, it seems mourning
her absence, how could
one  think to  fill
the vacuum even for a moment?
Wasn't she my other half,
the Shakti, the power to
match the Shiva's dance.
Let thousand years pass,
her voice will reverberate
in my lonely soul.
 Jan 2013 Sa Sa Ra
Tilly
Punctuated sighs, where paused commas seek sweet breath, to rest.
riddle me this and you might repent your sphinx.
or rethink your possible.
you might sink ships to repeat poesidan's wavelength
when your frequency's finished. you may horde minutes
for hours.
your towers aspire
and the roof of the earth implodes.
the blue is real.
but the black behind; the black behind the blue is swollen with stars,
and a dream.
that means
you.

don't be coy.

be god's companion. ramble
through the wonderful and be glad at it.
get comfortable.
you have the advantage. slant your voodoo askew
of the mundane lamps
and ashes
of our daily
spite.

make love and bandit.

adore the floating hum
of your every peace. for
the engines of yes are absurd.
they are the last word
when the first has
said you.

it's the new forever; glaring from the underbrush of our dire hope.

be the wind.
be at least the wind.
and i will teach you
how to read lips
for a blind
ghost

with your
heart.

and no runes.

and no
snow.
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