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 Jan 2013 wandabitch
Paige Miller
I am late.

And as I am running down metal halls, past metal doors
hoping that the internal gravity works in my favor,
imagining the force of nearby planets
turning shards into shooting stars,
I remember.

I imagine her sitting alone at the table last night,
wondering why I never came home as I promised.
She’ll have dinner cooked, the finest meat and my favorite beer.
Eventually, she stops waiting.

I seal off the east wing,
watch the right engine hide stars with its last breath,
push men into emergency pods,
watch the shadows of space creep cold into my heart.
The stars have never looked so menacing.

I am late.

She’s dressed in white, form fitting fabric
whose end blossoms like a flower
that cost me two months salary, but it was worth it.
The music plays, apprehensive in her heart
as she imagines me surprising her with late entry.
She practices her reaction in the mirror.

The last pod shoots away,
as I attempt to force the corpse of a vessel
away from puncturing a scar across the land.
The heat of our descent will boil the blood from my hands
before I am sure.
No sound, no affirmation
we are treading splinters
thumbing a pile of yellowing books.
Ash shaken
so we emerge
resolution at the knell.
Moorhens then flew from the eaves
a blessing in disguise.
 Jan 2013 wandabitch
Brian Oarr
In those days all thinking took place in his heart.
It had no favorite suburb, no shelter that was home,
immersed, as he was, in the Mojave of humanity,
memories of only former places through which he'd drifted.

Yes, there were women, storms of passion, brevity in bed.
Today, they only took him back in time,
reconstructing scenarios more of actions never taken.
Bedposts served as bivouacs for the nomad.

Here in this desert water assumes a circumstance,
the nomad becoming as fond of it as ambition.
Here silence need not be kept at bay, rather welcomed in,
though it looks down upon him in uncertainty.

Out there on the horizon he hears a sigh,
a mother tongue corresponding to his own.
a wasp flew a straight line
from its nest to me
cloaked in puny sunshine
it thought itself to be free
unheard was its buzzing
unseen its rainbow wings
untold was what it carried
i only felt it sting
the suspension like a drawn sword
cut through the silence within
the absence of feeling retrieved
was healed by the relief of loss
an epitaph if to be given
would affirm the infinity of the end
a promise given in portions
partitioned to satisfaction
make one see through the gloss
to the plainness within
that grieves in honour and truth
shedding tears of blood
it tastes the purest fruit
in the acceptance of its pain
lies the moral of our story

- Sneha Iyer & Vijayalakshmi Harish
   04.01.2012
   Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish & Sneha Iyer

Co-written with my akku Vijayalakshmi Harish :)
The sea calls my name and I obey.
As I walk the deck feeling the wooden planks beneath my feet,
I am at peace.

The rigging hangs from above,
The sails billow in the wind.
Far above my head, I see the look out,
Perched in the crows nest,
Ready to give the alarm
of another ship, or storm, or land
on the horizon,
I am home.

Though shipmates scurry around me
I am alone
Alone with my love;
The waves beating against the hull,
The smell of the salt air,
The gentle sway of the ship,
The songs of gulls flying nearby.
This is our dance
Our Song
I am home.
Who will love a little Sparrow?
Who's traveled far and cries for rest?
"Not I," said the Oak Tree,
"I won't share my branches with
no sparrow's nest,
And my blanket of leaves won't warm
her cold breast."

Who will love a little Sparrow
And who will speak a kindly word?
"Not I," said the Swan,
"The entire idea is utterly absurd,
I'd be laughed at and scorned if the
other Swans heard."

Who will take pity in his heart,
And who will feed a starving sparrow?
"Not I," said the Golden Wheat,
"I would if I could but I cannot I know,
I need all my grain to prosper and grow."

Who will love a little Sparrow?
Will no one write her eulogy?
"I will," said the Earth,
"For all I've created returns unto me,
From dust were ye made and dust ye shall be."
These are lyrics to the song "Sparrow" by Simon & Garfunkel. I had the urge to share this beautiful wonderful piece. Defiantly recommend checking out this song.
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