Amanda, a crazy collector of Vanda
had such an intense dislike for Aranda
she detested the ******,
when making out in tandem
her outdoor escapade once scared a Panda



(C) K.Balachandran
balaprimus@gmail.com

HelloPoetry Blessed us all , no matter where we live.
I am truly Blessed by each and everyone alike here.
There are so many here on this here site that I am thankful for.
Sally Bayan, Mike Hauser, Iamdaisie, Olivia Kent, Wendy Ronshausen,Brandon Nagley, Earl Jane, Rachel Sia Jane Lloyd, Lydia Monet,Neil Aranda, Mark Cleavenger, Ann Marie Johnson, Melanie Wilson-Herring, Mike Essig,  **** Paz Its Gonna Make Sense.
PrttyBrd, Vicki Bashor, Kripi Mehra, Willyam Pax, Poetess Bhumi, Kelly Rose.
Elizabeth Burnettge, Toni Pugh, Paul Champman, David Lewis Paget.
Ryn, Sean Scibbles, Aurelia, Kim Johanna Baker,Yasaman Johari.
Lady RF,Crazy Diamond Kristy, Weeping Willow, Alyssa Underwood.
MydstopiA,adhi das, South by southwest, Petal, soulsurvivor.
reformdancerecover,Ashly Kocher, Mack, Travler, Randolph Wilson.
Plus many more whom are very special indeed whom did not make this poem love you all in Christ.

Ahab was searching for a reason to live
Ahab was searching for his big win.

Ahab was searching and boy did he find
That finding is bad and now nothing is fine.

(A response poem to Neil Aranda's "Weeds")

I was once a plant, a kind of my own
Oh, a plant that was not eagerly sown
And from that infertile soil, I have grown
Like a **** in wilderness, just unknown.

My ancestors treat me like I'm nothing
Nobody cares if I have done something
But still I don't want to stop believing
Persist to live through hoping and dreaming.

And then they call me as a wild flower
Condemn me like I'm a serial killer
They provoke each other as believer
Each one must be an active decrier.

But one day, my kind will be recognized
As that one good plant, a kind which is nice
From this barren land, I promise, I'll rise
And I'll be that strong, one day I'll be wise...

in the moments before dawn you’ll hear whispers: haunted breaths 
that scrape your neck like glass fingernails, razorblades in the liminality of time; 
the music in your ears will ring like church bells and 
crack like porcelain spoons in ceramic hands. the clouds will call your name, 
dip it in the sea and stain it grey, and you’ll wish you could get it back
but you’ll find yourself muted, your vocal chords tangled, 
knotted, and slit by stiffened swords in the arms of the enslaved. Cape Horn beckons
and we pretend not to hear. Senegal polishes her silver knife & I pretend that I am not unfaithful to Alexandro’s memory. if there’s no way 
to unlock my wrists then don’t bother looking for land, just turn 
my vessel around and let my eyes search for the gaze of the mountain. if there’s no way 
to silence my mind then don’t bother whispering in my ears, 
don’t be naive, 
don’t play games with me unless you can dock the ship. when the clock turns three, 
go tell Bartholomew he can take my body, it’s not mine and 
I don’t want it anymore, the blood on my neck may be my blood but 
it belongs to the blade, so tell him,
turn my bones into skeleton keys and Aranda will show you the way. 
I’ll follow your leader if you follow me, I promise, 
I promise, I promise unbroken dreams in Delano’s unbroken hands. although
my wrists are bound by plastic chains, I’ll still tell you 
to watch your step because the planks beneath your feet 
are echoing with the phantoms of lost crowns whether or not you can 
feel the spirits in the air. you can’t see but your jeweled massacres 
have bled into the suds twined around your neck,
My Dear Amasa, 
I wonder what you’d say if you knew that
there will be no sunrise.