Sometimes I cry.
Usually it's before bed.
My pillow becomes wet with tears
let loose by loneliness, anger, surrender.
My body shakes as each sob tears through my soul
and vibrates through my vocal chords to come out as helpless whimpers.
My arms constantly reach for comfort and reassurance, but grasp nothing but despair.
I blink through the tears, seeing nothing,
and wonder why I'm still alive.
If anyone would miss me if I were gone.
My lungs search for air in gasps
between each bout of fresh tears
and take in thick fog
that suffocates everything but my cries.
I can feel my heart physically breaking
and losing its once-steady beat.
This goes on for the longest time.
Until my throat is parched, my tongue is dry, and my eyes are empty
My body numbs over and everything goes limp.
I am already unconscious though I am awake, so there is no transition to sleep.
I do not dream.
I wake up the next morning with crusty eyes
and a sunken feeling.
There is no relief.

sweet sleep, I know you
the way that a blind man is
said to know the moon.

Chirp chirp
A sparrow hops and flitters
Jumps and flutters
From branch
To branch
To wire
Lining up with all her friends
Waiting for some skybus to take them away
Twitter and chortling about the world below
Silly humans in their lucid bubbles of
Space
Squirrels chattering and cussing from the trees
Thieving birdseeds and peaches
Meanwhile the sparrow bounces on the wire
Jittery and full of energy
Twitching and flicking her feathers and tail
Boune bounce hop
Fidget and jump on straw thin legs
And then whoosh
All leave at once
Their invisible skytrain pulling away as fast as it comes

every belief should begin as a seed of disbelief
buried in the soil of doubt
nourished by the incessant rain of queries
that strengthen
and cause the flower to bloom or the fruit to ripen

                                                          ­                                                                 ­                        ॐ असतो मा सद्गमय ।
                                                               ­                                                                 ­                  तमसो मा ज्योतिर्गमय ।
                                                               ­                                                                 ­                    मृत्योर्मा अमृतं गमय ।
                                                               ­                                                                 ­         ॐ शान्तिः शान्तिः शान्तिः ॥

every positive starts off as an embryo of negativity
only the knowledge of the gloom
enhances the wisdom of luminosity
conjoined twins
joined at the hip

cynicism is the parent of change for the better
provided of course
the labour pain is allowed to occur!

                                                         ­                                                      Om,  Lead us from Untruth to Truth,
                                                                ­                                                                 ­          from Darkness to Light,
                                                          ­                                                                 ­         from Death to Immortality
                                                     ­                                                                 ­                Om Peace, Peace, Peace.
- Vijayalakshmi Harish
   28.10.2012

Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish

I’m not good at being forward
I have this habit of becoming disordered
I let my emotions change the color of my sleeve
In my aspirations I hope to find belief
I walk through jungles and rainforests
Once in a while I see through the canopy
Into the skies of my memories
And request that stars dance to the rhythm of us
I keep them alive to avoid the gathering of dust
My memories, caught in the Pensieve of your eyes
Have ignored all the times I told myself lies
I may not be your ideal Superman
But I’d accept Peter Pan if you’ll go with me to Neverland
I’ve rarely been so captivated by a girl
Sure, Zooey Deschanel is quirky in New Girl
And Emma Watson bewitched me from the start
Anna Kendrick was perfect in Pitch Perfect
Alex Morgan is the luckiest 13 I’ve ever seen
But I choose you! To fill my canteen
You quench my thirst when the loneliness dries me
I was not made to walk in a desert
My heart is an amphibian
Living like a Floridian in the ice-cold tundra we call Rexburg
You still need the sun, no matter how much it snows
I’ll trudge on in the jungle; dormant in the night
I’ll carry on with you in mind, until the time is right
Once I’ve faced death, or even a spider
Then, I think I’ll top the greats; George of the Jungle, Aslan, Mogly, Tarzan, Batman, Peter Pan, Harry Potter, Genghis Kahn, Michael… Jackson or Jordan
They’re all kings and I’ll be in their league
As I shake off the fatigue and find courage in you
To make it through the awkward moment of simply saying
“You’re a real kind of gorgeous”
In that chorus, played on my rhythm of heartbeats
I found my way out of the back streets
From deep in the jungle I’ve come to know as Fear
A jungle that disappears when your presence is near
Sometimes I have to stop walking, stop thinking
I feel like I’m on the verge of something spectacular
Anything normal might ruin that

The bus rumbles on,
it is an over crowded one -
not an unusual sight -
she stands in the space
reserved for women,
there's hardly any room
to breathe.
The broadcaster on radio
shows off her gift of the gab,
a popular film song follows;
a gush of wind
through the window
brings along smoke, dust
and other such components
of 'city-air'.
She looks out to see
impressive malls,
entrances to which, witness
beggars pursuing well dressed gentry,
in the hope of a penny or two;
billboards advertise
latest discount offers
appealing to her consumerist instincts;
constant honking of vehicles,
music blaring from an auto nearby -
these are common sounds
she is accustomed to.
The bus halts with a jolt,
she steps down,
tries to make her way,
through the crowd
avoiding hawkers lunging at her
from every side,
eager to make sales;
the smell of
pakodas fills the air,
autos carrying seven or eight passengers
limp away, surreptitiously,
at the sight of khaki clad men.
Out of the blue,
an elbow knocks into her chest,
she turns to look at the lout -
lecherous eyes mock at her impotent fury -
she mouths standard abuses,
walks away as if unruffled.
For this was not the first instance,
"Won't be the last either.",
she thinks at the back of her mind,
her heart chooses not to agree though.
She moves on,
pushing, shoving, cursing
her way through
'Battleground India'.