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These layers are inconspicuously
woven together with regret and some great loss
that has arched a cave in the sinew of your heart
beating anxiously, to not let the stalagmites stab
as they drip with every memory.

What was it about the electrical storm that mattered the most....
Was it the arrow through the heart?
Was it the bubbling of innate care?
Was it the act of sharing?
Was it the brewing of love?
Was it the sudden slip of all of those things through the cracks of your fingers,
like sand grains returning to where they belonged?

Do you think it's achievable again
This great cardiac wave that runs through your soul
enveloping the other person with nothing but unconditional love
or do they long to belong to the earth
where they never break and love flows like a wild current, stopping for no one?

Shalini Nayar
© 2014
The moment he knew,
A flower dropped on his head.
Love began to bloom.

Shalini Nayar
© 2005
The star breaks into
A million false hopes, dashed dreams.
Awake my blind child.

Shalini Nayar
© 2005
 Sep 2014 Vijaya Balan
NuurSeraph
《》《》《》《》《》《》《》

A Nearsighted mind will seek immediate gain, centered on self for short-term return
Such future self will look back forlorningly what was lost in fortunes vicissitude.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Farsighted sight seeks Value of Greater Plentitude.
Puts aside oneself in favor of the Whole investing in Now for Futures gain.
Communities celebrate as
the child plays
~ basking in Glory for the Coming Days ~
Realizing the importance of putting aside immediate gratification for a better, sustainable future
 Sep 2014 Vijaya Balan
Lía
Ghetto
 Sep 2014 Vijaya Balan
Lía
They call me Ghetto.
They call me
gunfights and drive-bys,
pregnant teens.
They call me Poverty,
and concrete winter walls
splashed with blood-red
graffiti.
They call me
junior-high druggies
and gang-banging muchachos.
They call me Mexico
like it’s a ***** word.
They call me Ghetto.

But haven’t they seen through
the white-washed walls
of the
“American Dream”?
Don’t they know hurt
and suffering,
imperfections
and neglect,
as well?

So call me Mexico;
call me Poverty;
call me Ghetto.

I am
run-down yards
filled with laughing brown children,
small apartments
bursting with the scent
of tamales,
mingled with joy and the chatter of relatives.
I am home-made tortillas
at Thanksgiving
and wrinkled hands pounding masa
at Christmas.
I am friendly smiles
and shouted jokes
followed by roaring
laughter.
I am the lilting syllables
of a beautiful
culture.
I am comfort.

They call me Ghetto
and so I am.
 Sep 2014 Vijaya Balan
Tupelo
I never considered myself one for the books,
A pen felt clumsy in my hands,
Something too delicate to touch,

You introduced me to my first romance,
Tales of rivers and sweet words of Hughes,
Pages were my optics, my eyes danced in the light,

Nights turned into highways of jazz and beat poet longings,
Kerouac and Ginsberg whispering into my ear
of corrupted ivy manifestos,

Maya told me to sing, I did.
My love for her still echoes in her passing,
Set sail to the open waters where Neruda lies,
sonnet 17 afloat upon the tides,

You knew my addiction before I ever got high on the ink,
Drifting across the sentences in the midnight hours,
A prayer in thanks of what you gave to me
Where you can be is ‘here’
All you have is ‘now’
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