There is a softness in the air
a drowsy languidness
that asks for warmth and comfort
and a bowl of hot soup
nostalgia melts like butter
deliciously tempting
the scent rises
and masks any tinge of regret
as the wind caresses
and plays with my hair
it is as if time has slowed
and twisted itself
into a sleeping
figure of eight

- Vijayalakshmi Harish
   01.10.2012

Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish

We often remark collectively

The curious quickness and languidness

Of supposed objectively measured time



Yet

Never truly resolving how could

Fixed increments differ

So significantly and equally

To different close observers



Perhaps it is thus:

That spacetime is a gravitationally

Wrinkled fabric

Measured with a rigid rule

A linear distance

With unseen folds and faults

Unaccounted for in the straight line

That like mountains and valleys

Unable to cross directly in flight

For the haplessly wingless of us

We must climb over and fall through

Therefore adding to the voyage

Time closer to the truth



And mountains and valleys endless

There must have been for us both

To climb over and fall through

In that indivisible fleeting moment

When my eyes first met yours



And mountains and valleys endless

There must still be for us both

In every indivisible fleeting moment-

Again and again, forevermore-

Whenever my eyes meet yours



For such is our love's 'DENSITY'

For such is our love's gravity

They must all be the ceaseless ripples

From our two ever embracing

Neutron star souls

Tram's bell
like a damaged
barking of an old dog.
Not mad or angry though-
-A Natural Flow of Chaos.
Languidness has come again
and is filling the days.


"-Have you ever been to a Moon?
        -No, only stared at it.
         It is sufficient in this exotic
         place, this exotic planet.
         Seas, sandy shores
         starry violet sky,
         Come join us, dig deep into
         the soil of neurons. That'll
         do the job.
         You'll wake up on the beach,
         beside us dancing."


                     Each place and moment
                      has unique smell
                      to it.

          I watched a bird
          climb a tree,
          jumping swiftly
                  Sat on the balcoon,
          and stared at the moon.
                          Old paths

The sea has gone to sleep:
Become a mirror of the sky.
Lapping onto the land
With subtle churnings.

It’s a brightly sunny day,
Uplifting the spirits.
Hardly a hint of breeze
As the tide creeps out.

I slumber in the languidness of *****’s beer.
All angst buried as I settle down to sleep.
That mighty, massive ocean is so still now.
Its monsters have been well and truly put to bed.

Blue sky
With lightly painted clouds upon the horizon.
My porch is warm today
In the golden sun.

Paul Butters

Every slightest gasp of breath
that clears my shoulders of their weight
belongs between the slightest space
that grip the letters of your name

and all the running, shouting sounds
of children playing in the street
the sanctuary where they bound
bears a shadow of your frame

You’re thick inside relief, my dear,
the air hangs flat- its languidness
in awe of piercing shafts of light
which knife them at their brightest core

your coursing spate of energy
tumults the dust, reshapes the room
encapsulates the shredded mass
and leaves the fragments pleading more

As I have pranced this newborn space
and shed my skins of weariness
I’ve ascertained a whimsy fact
that I have found forever true:
I cannot cut the air, my dear
without delightful consequence
of lacerating you

Half-forms, half-thoughts,
Rolling, rolling, turning,
Swirling and meshing and churning and fusing,
A whole chaotic jumbled mess

That makes perfect sense to one.

One brave soul amidst the storm,
One strong figure against the tempest,
One resolute leader, unwavering hero,
Can understand the brew.

The others think him mad
For watching the Halfs flash by.
Him, mad? Possibly.
Be he thinks himself sane.
And who can tell him
“Sane” or not?
They see Halfs, he sees Wholes.
They see tumult, he sees languidness.
They see chaos, he sees order.
They see a storm, he sees peace.
So he smiles to himself as they quake;
They do not understand the humour.
The Wholes shared something amusing
With their steadfast Captain,
But the others see Halfs, so the humour was lost.
This is all the more amusing,
And so this sane madman
Laughs and laughs and laughs.

It's different here,
Being in a new city.
Not many people know my name,
Less know my face.
It's raining tonight
And the window's open
And I like to listen.
The traffic has died down some
But the constant roar
Of plane engines ensue through the mild darkness.
No one's home
And that's alright
Sometimes I like to just sit by myself
And think.
I wonder what you're up to tonight
I wonder if you still take as long
To hop in the shower
As when you did
When I was sitting in your bed
Waiting for you
Or if you simply go right in
With no procrastination.
I wonder what song you'll sing
If no one is there to hear it
And that's kind of terribly sad to think about
Because I know how
Your smile creeps up on your lips
When you do say the words.
It's such a beautiful thing to experience.
Sometimes in the lulls of our conversations
I immerse myself in the thoughts of if you really like me
Or think I'm too intense
Because I know I am
And I don't want you to be thrown off by it
I know you think it comes off
As if you aren't reciprocating and
It's not that I think that
It's just that that's my worst fear
Because rejection is immensely painful
Especially from somebody
I'm so intense about.
So while you're washing off the long languidness of today
And I'm laying in bed
Waiting for your reply
I'll listen to the engines roar
Thousands of feet above me
And you as you sing a song
No one's ears will hear.

With a languidness the great bird lifted itself off the branch,
It was much older now but it still had a mate and young chicks to feed.
From the hide across the hill the hunter could hear the steady beat
of those great powerful wings, slowly pounding out their regular note.
He watched, fascinated by the beautiful golden colours that gave the bird its name
as the great creature soared off up into the air, to begin its slow steady scout for food.

Now that the eagle was aloft you could almost hear a pin drop, save for the odd sound
of running water slowly trickling down the hillside into the burn far below.
The hunter had quietly settled in this spot some four hours ago before dawn,
he was comfortable and had set his rangefinder on the eerie right from the start.
Now he just had to wait, but patience was one thing that he had in spades.
His skills as a ****** had been fully tested in foreign lands some years before.

Too many of the enemy had appeared in the cross-hairs of his rifle sights
and when they had they’d never reached the end of that day, he was that good.
That had been the problem, being that good you get called on more until…
He swore he would never again pick up a rifle containing live ammunition,
so here he was preparing for the perfect shot with his ****** rifle,
waiting to put a tranquiliser dart into this majestic golden eagle above, to protect him.

He never expected that this work would be so fulfilling, but here in the hills
He found job satisfaction and this work was certainly worthwhile, and no one died.
The eagle had spotted something for he was starting to rise and tilt his wings.
The hunter had watched him for days and had become very familiar with his method.
He would circle to come in from behind of course, but this canny chap had a trick,
he would come in so low he was never really in the prey’s field of vision long enough.

There was the prey, a rabbit who wasn’t too alarmed yet, but that would soon change…
and there he goes, darting about in a zigzag trying to throw the monster off his trail
with the hunter watching the eagle down, and as he lined up to swoop at the rabbit
at almost a hundred miles an hour, the hunter fired and the great bird fell to the ground.
He fired at the point where the eagle was closest to the ground, not wanting to hurt him.
The rabbit lived and the hunter packed away his rifle and walked back down the hill.

Others would do the tagging and the hunter would wait for his next call……

©Joe Wilson – The Hunter…2014