A Year and A Day...

You’ll see that one day you wake up,
And notice inside you,
There’s something missing that you can’t decide on;
You’re sure of a space that used to be filled
But the edges are a blur and the memories riddled
With time playing havoc on all that you own;
It resides at the back of your mind
And it shows up when you have the time
To spare, in your busy life;
Apart from the occasional letter and missive,
It’s not the top in your Priorities’ Line;
Now it’s too late, it’s a year and a day,
No place for you at the round table,
You’ve outgrown the chair set out in your name;
This is what happens when friends grow apart,
Or you grow apart from your friends;
Pictures seem perfect enough without you,
And the insider jokes no longer make sense;
Learn that the chapters in a book have to end
It may have been good, but it helps to pretend
That some things are best forgotten in grace
Turn around, turn away; Just turn the page.

Sreedevi.

Disappointment

In hope perhaps the heart is more fool

Than any opportunity given
For hope and desire start the fire
With which disappointment be driven
Fond are times in past and present
When hope rewardeth human
Countless occasions of deeper sorrow
In those very instants forgotten
Why this madness, why this need
To expect of things and compliance?
In the end, no score is kept
Of success or defiance.
Dark are days until the time
Fresh circumstance arises
And traitorous heart, it hopes again
Worse for wear, but triumphant.

-Sreedevi

Prejudice by Lavanya Desai

Lavanya is 12 and a 7th grader in Oxford Middle School. With regards to the current debate regarding prejudice and racial problems in America, her language arts teacher Mrs Sue Buckner, asked them to express their feelings/opinions about the topic.

Here is what she came up with. I am honoured to know her; she speaks on the topic with more maturity than most adults display. As her parents say, We are very proud of her and thought that a 12 year old's words might open a few eyes and change a few hearts .

My name is Prejudice
I live in the hearts of all humans
You've heard of me , haven't you?
I am black as the darkest alley,
Where a Jewish boy was lynched with glee.
As terrible as the thoughts
that slowly set my evil free.
As common as air,
And just as needed for survival.!.
Where would the world be without me?
I can drive the nicest person to his Doom,
And bring the foulest to the Top.
I can torture you to Madness,
And never ever stop.
No one can escape from me.
Rich,poor,ugly,handsome,
I am always there!
Don't fool yourself, human,
I am everywhere.
I am everything, yet nothing,
So long as I shall live.
Destructive as a hurricane,
Blasting through a town.
Heed my advice, child,
It may just let you live free.
Save yourself -- and others
And stay away from me.

Lavanya Desai

In Chains

A sense of unease
Bridles the heart
A mind in distress
Unable to part
With thoughts and dreams
Unbidden they spring
Unfulfilled by day
In twilight lingering
Twisting and turning
Brewing more fertile
Unwanted colour
And designs inverted
Words have more meaning
In idleness to float
Depressing, demeaning
Endless a moat
Within isolation
A new form arises
With hearts and freedom
For steeper prices
Such is the manner
Of sorrow in rage
We choose to bind
Our souls in a cage.

Sreedevi.

Dandelions in the sky...

Empty inside, light-headed feeling,
Cotton ball mouth and sand in my eyes;
This is how it feels the day after
Faith is lost in most things alive.
A pang in the chest where
A heart’s supposed to beat slow,
But there is no rhythm this time;
Now, somehow it feels like
Killing some large part of mine.
Chills in my spine, ache in my throat,
A burning behind my eyes;
I can’t break a promise again,
The one where I promised never to cry.
Never, seems to be too long a word,
Broken too soon to deny;
Emptiness and loneliness, two strong words;
Too powerful to defy.
What shall one use to fill,
Such a gaping hole with?
Pennies, and wishes aside;
Faith leaves too large a hole,
To fill with more meaningless lies.
Dreams are left dangling,
And hopes are left streaked,
With tears from invisible vines;
Choking and holding no more,
They wither and die.
Clockwork in movement,
Nothing has changed,
Except for no life in your smile;
No one seems to care anyway,
Lost in a giant fog outside.
No sound comes at that moment,
No howling of winds,
Nor lightening cutting the night;
You wake up one morning, and it’s gone,
Dandelions in the sky.

Sreedevi

Celebration of the Dead

In the land of the dead
There is a celebration
Where skeletons dance in streets
In gowns of silk and satin

With no shoes to cover up
The stark white shattered toes
Gentlemen have tread upon
Remorseless and morose

The dresses were once white
And adorned with pretty lace
Now they are stained crimson
Matching a bruised bloody face

In the land of they dead
They dance in celebration
Lifting up what’s left of broken
Hearts and decayed emotions

There’s a peace in their chests
Where hearts haven’t beaten
In so very long a while
Longer than time they haven’t eaten

Dried flowers in hairless skulls
Are the only bright thoughts
These women have in their head
It’s all they have ever got.

In the land of the dead
There’s always celebration
More and more come in for peace
Children, and women, in exultation.


Suspended in time, they no longer care
For the dead have no clocks to weep
Late, late, it is too late;
Now there is no wait for sleep.


Sreedevi

Into the Night

In the gathering gloom, the mind learns of clarity
For when there is no light, the darkness survives
And only the darkest of thoughts shall thrive
For the world is nought but shades of grey
And with the rising dawn the sun chases down
All that lies hidden in the shadow of the sun
It is there that we shall find, peace from momentum
Of restless wanderings of the un-chastened mind
It is then that there will be peace in benediction
Of an everlasting light, till the orange-red of dusk
Like a warning beacon from all that is cheerful
It is time.
Darkness arises and the moon refrains from a shine
All too clear, for it is weak to decline
The power of the night, and of its children
For when we are not blinded by the gold that is foolish
We shall see by silver true natures sublime.

Sreedevi Jagannath

Ignoramus, ignoramus...

Secrets and ceremonies
Riot and Ritual
Overpower incoherency
Turning habitual
Psyche and mentality
Work in mysterious way
Manifesting as Spiritual
Causing intimate decay
The Mind is weak
The heart weaker still
Caught in superstition
Eroding the will
An anchor is needed
The soul finding none
Death eats a little more
It is deemed bygone
Too late are veils
Lifted from sights
A glimpse and forever
Devoid of light.

Sreedevi

One too many times...

The sheets are so cold now that
There is only half the warmth
And your side of the bed
Is just a little too far
Over the chasm that’s opened
Since your latest faux pas
I want to admit that it isn’t your first
And although I hope it will,
It can never be the last
No matter how alone I’ll feel
Right now; it’s got to stop.
If I want to forgive you
I don’t know whatever for
It seems it’s your illusion
That it’s entirely my fault.
So while you lie there fuming
Over nothing at all,
I have to stop my mind turning
To forgetting it all; it will stop.
You’re a nice person
But you’ve never enough
And if I look over everything
Nothing’s left to give up
Sacrifice has to have a meaning
But with you it’s too much
My patience has run thin
Stretched over with scotch
I’d forgive you if I could
But you’ve broken my heart
There’s aren’t many pieces
To make one up; it has to stop.
One day you’ll miss me
Or maybe one day you won’t
I know I won’t be here
To care if you don’t.
Now it’s gone a little over the top
And it’s stopped.

Sreedevi.

Without the Light

Slivers of moon, dancing on your skin
White as pearls and silk akin
Dark eyes watch as eyelids droop
Transported to a land unknown

In realms beyond understanding or hope
As breath is evened and consciousness lost
A sigh, content and slow
Escapes from within, a touch of frost.

Dark eyes watch as slumber takes
Yet another victim, underneath her wing
A smile of pleasure, a frown of pain
And words too soft spent uttering

A name called and a touch rendered
While tales of bards be dreamed
A crimson pool flows, encumbered
By tongues and teeth, bloodied, gleamed.

A need so raw and primal by nature
Unravels as warm poison be drained
Healing and filling, to thirsty creature
Beast or man, with such poison sustained.

A moment too long, or many too brittle
A hunger instatiable, held within reach
True havoc be unleashed upon mere mortal
If ever such wants garner release.

Mercy is found with the dawn that breaks
Streaking with colours uncertain
Gaining in strength and curious ardor
Till night comes knocking, waiting again.

Sreedevi

An Idle Mind...

Often the mind is simply – well , Bored - and it finds the need to do something, lest it be overrun by ungainly thoughts and the sharp methodical slicing of fear, concerning events that, in most probability, may never occur.

Such is the case now, and here I sit, trying almost whole heartedly, to make some meaningful use of this blessed time of peace.

Surrounded by a chattering set of non-gifted people, who raise voices in a crass mockery of power, one often wonders why, just why?

Why do people tend to have an over-glorified sense of their selves?

Why do people take what doesn’t belong to them?

And why are they inclined to appear stupid, with each passing attempt to assuage others of their own intelligence?

I can produce no answers to such questions, and I vaguely hear my own mind mocking me in the Voice of God.

“Do not ask such questions of me, for even Miracles cannot bring you what you seek here.”

I can do little more than sigh and grace myself with a sardonic smile.

Truer words have never been spoken.

It is in such an environment, I suddenly find that for a very brief moment, my mind is thinking of nothing. Absolutely nothing; not even deigning to decipher the cacophony outside the window.

Simply hearing, not processing. Seeing and not looking.

And it is peace, and chaos in one.

Peace because for that moment, I am one with the immobile furniture, the walls, and the very ground; of course making the arrogant assumption that they process nothing more than nothing.

Chaos because it is a state that the mind, neither the body is accustomed to being, and panic briefly ensues once the moment has passed.

I believe the panic another brief moment when the mind asks itself first, “Am I still alive?”

Pointless as this essay seems, I have to agree that something born of pointlessness is probably, just that.

Albeit, it has given good exercise in rehashing vocabulary and the opportunity to sound even vaguely philosophical; not entirely pointless, in essence.

Perhaps it is time to close this digression and attempt finding more interesting things to do, but sadly, I find that in my eyes, writing this is rather more interesting than most other things expected of me.

It often feels like employment is but a way to smother unrequited desires in choice of the same, as long as possible, to avoid the torturous resurfacing of all that “could have been.”

Indeed, it feels that way.

A storm brewing within, that can be suppressed in as much as the daytime. Nothing is guaranteed to remain repressed while the mind is otherwise unoccupied, leading to such dreams as to leave the soul thirsting, or nightmares that leave the mind unwilling to let itself drift.

In our dreams, we are never free, and I once again arrogantly assume that in that brief moment, we are as close to death as the alive can hope, without truly getting there. In our death, I think we will be free; if not of anything, of our mortal obligations, insufficiencies and things equally vile.

Therefore, in that brief moment, before the mind has to ascertain that it is still alive, we are free. It is that taste of freedom, barely at the tip of our tongues, so to speak, that leave us longing for the day we die, consciously, or unconsciously, repeatedly or sparsely, longingly or reluctantly.

We all long for death. It is only a matter of time that it will be handed to us. But in the meanwhile, we can hope to attain such peace, in elongated moments till the occasion, where can join the gratefully, living dead.

Red Wine Heart : The Fate of the Romantic

It does a romantic no good to read a wonderfully written French romance in the company of Italian Opera.

What does it take, to feel that spark to write a true romance? Of the many things, love is the one topic that no author can ever produce with merely ink and no experience.

It does a romantic no good to read a wonderfully written French romance that she has never felt, in the company of Italian Opera that she doesn’t quite understand.

For it is in the nature of Romance to cause yearning, and Opera to cause anguish, especially when one doesn’t understand either.

A longing for something unfamiliar has a strange form, a hazy shape, one that dances only inches from your fingers, so close and yet too far. It makes your chest constrict, and a burn rise in your eyes that you do not want to acknowledge.

It does a romantic no good to read a wonderfully written French Romance that she has found but lost too early, in the company of Italian opera she doesn’t understand the words as much as she does the depth of feeling accompanying the mellifluous lyric.

It makes the air colder, and the room too small and the world outside too large, with something within her that wants to perish; if only it didn’t cause her to perish with it.

It is in the nature of those who have loved and lost, to hate with a passion the age old saying, and any person who dares say it to them.

No, it is not better to have loved and lost.

Because when it is gone, you realise that it has left you incomplete, and no other piece in the world fits in just as perfectly.

It is better to have not loved at all.

It does the romantic no good to hope that they may never love; it is folly, and the knowledge of the inevitable it is far worse a torture than a broken heart itself.

With the hopelessness than drifts through the misshapen pieces than make the romantic, like sunlight through the dormers of abandoned churches, comes the unfailing need to forever wander in search of completeness; made worse by the unflinching truth that it can never be.

The strands of heart warming and cruelly beautiful music will drive one to sin while the passionate and timelessly engraved words may drive one to desperation before.

No, it does no good for a romantic to watch a freshly patched heart be torn apart by memories or longing or loss; and it causes more pain to wrap them up in the gossamer layers of fantastical and yet wanton thoughts.

For it is a role of the romantic to be lost in an eternal loop of destruction and reconstruction, till perhaps there is nothing left to destroy, and lesser still to rebuild.

Till death do us part.

What are you thinking?

Here in the darkness
For oft the mind
Seeks inspiration
From need to unwind
It needs not flowers
Meadow or perfect dawn
Only peace and quiet
To hear itself; be drawn.
With ink or brush
Or paint or quill
Its thoughts at a rush
To be inscribed by will
And want for space
To be observed
And perhaps rephrased
To fit different canvas
And parchment anew
Adjusting by wider Point of View.

Sreedevi

Step by Step

One more and then I’m a little closer;
On the path that is keeping me in the air,
While the ground is crumbling to dust
Around my feet. But I can see
Nothing but the tiny curl of your lips,
Into the closest thing to my heart;
And a smile that will light up my way
Through darkness and despair,
Like it’s keeping my feet in the air.

Sreedevi.

Review : Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince

Before I go into anything, I must mention that I read all books in a stretch, being a late bloomer and all that. I like the series, and have nothing but good thoughts for all the books except the third and seventh in the series.

Finally, after a year long (desperate) wait for the most awaited summer blockbuster, I made it early to the advance booking section, only to find the line nearly empty. “Oh well, Joy!” I said to myself, and bought the best seats in the house, Gold class, mind you, to truly enjoy the experience of the magic of the movies, so to speak.

After driving most of my friends and family batty with my occasional “WooHoo!” countdown to the movie, I finally had the tickets to the first day of screening.

Mind you, despite the rude wankers in the theatre who refused to turn off the cell phones and talkative mothers who left their husbands at home to catch up on gossip in the middle of the movie, I was charged.

It was my favourite book after all.

The movie started off well, with Yates keeping to the code, and not totally changing Narcissa to someone else more glamorous, that is to say, keeping it by the book, pun intended.

Throughout the movie, I came to the conclusion that David Yates’ heroic efforts at trying to keep the movie by the book and at the same time maintaining a decent runtime, was very much; I’d like to think, in a parallel with Harry Potter’s heroic efforts: Clumsy, Inept and someone dies in the process. No, literally.

Although I have nothing to say about the senior actors’ and actresses’ performances – they were, truly inspiring – but I have much to say about the younger cast.

I would perhaps, give them leeway for having to work with a somewhat confused and scattered script, but mostly I’d sneer at their feeble attempts to make it all look real.

They have much to learn, the younger cast, and one would wonder, that while working many years alongside great people like Gambon, Smith, Coltrane, Rickman, Broadbent, Fiennes, Bonham-Carter, and the others, they ought to have picked up at-least a morsel or two.

Well, there are many things about the movie that ought to have been, but sadly, are quite far from the goalpost.

I would of course, say that Rupert Grint gave an excellent performance, and remains safe from this critic’s sharp quill, magical or otherwise.

The Half Blood Prince was rife with discontinuities, and having a rather non-fanatic companion to the same, I found that it was confusing if you didn’t know the real story. It left gaps, and questions that would put off a first timer. Although it is directed at the non-clueless audience, it leaves the rest dangling.

It quite reminds me of the blind groping of Potter without his glasses.

A noble effort to keep many scenes verbatim, but unfortunately, a failed one to keep the flow.

Not to mention some important jibes and confrontations between members of the order (not to give away things for the reader with no book-knowledge).

On Nth thoughts, the humor, I admit, was spot on. Had the audience cracking up on quite a few occasions, to the credit of Master Grint and the senior actors. Grint has proved himself more than capable of comedy.

All in all, it was rather disappointing for me, having such high expectations for this particular movie. I still think that after the initial fuss over it, it will be one of the quite-forgettable experiences at the theatre. I for one am looking to make up for this damper, with the help of Public Enemies; let’s hope it sticks to the wall with that.

This movie-lover has been turned off. Good luck to the unsuspecting lovers of the books.

Sorci

You lay there in the gloom, in the doom

Watching and quietly waiting
You offer your tears as crystals pure
To the hapless weak who take the lure
And in you drag them, smiling and fine
To your cove where there is naught day
Drive them mad, and into slavery
To do what calls for your bidding
You weave such intricacies in your web
That it leaves them quite astounded
Poor souls, they think the threads go tight
To keep the warmth, and thaw the chill
For they are too blind to find a flaw
In such perfection that you wove
Men are weak and helpless fools
When blinded by their passion
Few emerge, once prepared to go
Where fruits are most forbidden
And so you weave and wait and see
For still other opportune moments
Fortuitous is he who comes to believe
That you are, but the Garden of Eden.

Sreedevi.

A Funny Disclaimer

The content on the blog is the opinion of the blogger, not intended to malign any religion, ethnic group, club, organization, company, or individual, or anyone or thing, especially those with the ability, means and desire to fight back.
These are personal views, which imply that the writer is responsible for them, not my employer, the writer’s employer or another agency.
I am not responsible, nor will be held liable, for anything anyone says on this blog in the blog comments, nor the laws which they may break in your country or theirs through their comments’ content, implication, and intent.
I am not responsible for translation or interpretation of content.
No money is being made by me from this blog or its contents.

If I made derogatory comments and you felt bad, sorry about that.

Don't Sue Me; I have no money, lost it all on the stock market.
If you want to give me money, leave a name and number.
Don't get me into trouble; I have enough of that already.
Don’t come after me with pickaxes, stakes and torches; I’m terribly out of shape and you’ll probably catch me quickly.

Snowflakes

The water is loud. It froths and seethes as it rushes by.

But among the harsh slaps against the rocky shore and bed, I can hear a gurgling.

It sounds like the water is meaningfully drowning its softer side.

I wonder why.

The grass is wet under my feet, and my soles are raw from the hidden bits of rock in them.

Another spray of mist, a rumble.

The sky is overcast. I smile a little.So damn apt for this.

I can feel the cuts in my palm, I’ve been crushing it too hard. My brain long since gave up warning me of the abuse. It’s strangely numb, and yet I feel the sharp edges.

I can see the picture in my head, and I try not to think of anything else.

Just the picture, till this is over.

My legs are freezing, and I look down at slightly blue toes peeking out from under too-long jeans.

I never did have them fixed. I doubt I’m going to start now.

The water is still rushing by, and I wonder if it is as loud as the thoughts rushing through my head.

A bolt of lightening strikes across the sky beyond, and I can see little spots in front of my eyes.

I can feel the cold metal in my hand, and I absently brush the metal with my thumb. Involuntarily I flinch at the sudden burn and pain.

It doesn’t matter to me.It will go away.

Here, by the water, cold, wet and soaked, and bleeding.

It’s light, but I feel it burn into my skin. It’s cold but it reminds me of warmth.

Warm skin it used to rest on.

I look down at my half open palm. It is, as I thought it would be.

But at the centre, mingled in blood, is a snowflake.It looks beautiful.

Bloody and beautiful.

I remember it on your skin, how it used to tinkle when you turned in your sleep.

How it was so alive on you.

How your eyes shone when you saw it.

How it seemed to shine brighter when you smiled.

Here it lies, glimmering in the dim light. And it reminds me of you.

Only you.

A few drops of rain fall in warning. It is time.

I panic. I’m not ready yet. Not yet. But I must. I cannot hold on anymore.

It’s been so long, and the house has grown cold. Too cold.

Like the diamond in my hand. Cold droplets burn the skin.

I clutch the diamond and remember. One last time.

You made me promise that I wouldn’t do anything stupid. That I would let you go.

I lied.

The chill of the water is like knives on my skin. The water filling my lungs is like knives inside me.

I can see the snowflake, and think of nothing else.

Somewhere, over the fence...

It‘s getting dark out.

I know that on weekends it’s my turn to take the dog out. I don’t mind; he’s a very sweet thing, and doesn’t bother me much.

He let’s me walk aimlessly behind him.

The dog walk is just up the street and across the main road. It’s a route I’d know to follow even if I were asleep. It’s nice to take a walk in the evenings. The winds blow well, and carry a promise of rain on them.

Soon. It will rain soon.

I don’t even have to look to know the furry thing is following my long steps at a trot. I smile to see him lolling his tongue and wagging his little tail.

We wait patiently at the crossing; waiting for the motorists to realise there are pedestrians by the side of the road.

They don’t. We wait.

A small break in the endless river of vehicles, and we quickly cross the street to the dog walk; a narrow raised area by the rail road, interspersed with old trees.

You can see the walk for a long way, and I realise we are the only walking pair at this time. It’s a good thing; I don’t have to worry about a fight or momentary fling between dogs. I can walk my aimless walk.

He knows the drill, so he happily trots off down the walk, me following at an almost snail pace. I hum to myself and watch a train go by noisily.

The wind is making his promises again. I pay little attention to them.

It’s fully dark now, and the lamps are on, throwing pools of light like little suns on the ground. Shadows play in the pools of light.

The grid fence goes on as far as the eye can see, and I reach out to touch a creeper that’s boldly crept up higher than my head. The fence is tall and wide and it makes me think of a really large cage.

I know the fence ends somewhere in the distance and is then replaced by concrete fences we know as walls and buildings. So it is a cage; we only don’t see it.

We have drawn such big cages and walls that we forget we are in them, and go on as if we were free.

None of us are free.

It’s only that grand illusion we have for ourselves. With our comfortable houses and uncomfortable jobs; the long hours; the unending spending.

We are all in cages, some just bigger than others and some just more comfortable. The luxury we buy for the lives we have turned into cages is just a rationalisation; just something we do to make it seem all better.

The fences we build around our houses and in turn around our families and then around our hearts and lives is a self inflicted imprisonment.

Are the fences to keep people in, or keep people out? Both, I think.

I look beyond the fence in front of my eyes, beyond the railroad trench, and to the other side. More houses, more walls, more people looking beyond the fence and the railroad trench; looking at me looking at them.

Are they farther from the inside or am I closer to the outside? Hard to answer when I don’t know whether I’m inside or outside. Confusing, I know.

Sometimes ignorance is bliss.

Here I am, standing in a pool of shadows, looking to a place I’ve been to , and yet unsure what I am looking at.

Confusing, I know.

I stand, and my dog sits by my feet, and both of us stare a little while longer. We have nothing to lose but time.

When we walk back, we walk back to another cage I think, or maybe the only place we can be known, and missed.

We walk back.

I saw the Joker,
Lying by the side of the road
I felt pity take me
To the point of overflow
I asked if I could help.
The joker laughed and laughed
The joker was so amused
Through the marks of wear and abuse
The joker turned around
It was then I wished I was dead
For it was my face that I saw
In the Joker's broken head.

Sreedevi.

Wait for me...

The grass in wet beneath my feet, and my shoes make squelching noises as I walk to where I need to be.

I'm only now aware that I am soaking wet, or maybe I was aware, and just didn't care. It doesn't matter; not much I can do about it now.

I'm cold though, and it's as if the rain has soaked me through my skin, right to the bones. A hand comes up to my face and brushes off the wet hair sticking to my forehead, and dripping water into my eyes.

I know that the rain water is cold, and yet there are warm drops flowing down my cold skin. It makes me shiver.

No one is here, and that's good. I don't want anyone to be here. I cannot stand to look in their eyes and see what's there. I cannot.

There is an ache in my chest and I rub at it, and it's a few times before I realise it is from within, and that nothing can soothe it.

It's still raining and I'm still walking, closer and closer to there.

Thoughts run through my head, things of little meaning and consequence. Bills to pay, people to meet, things to buy.

I'm not ready to think more, just yet.

I'm here, I say to myself. Here at last.

It seems as if every bone in my body is weighed down in lead, and yet I'm hollow to my core. I cannot rid myself of the hollow feeling, and it irritates me, makes me restless.

Makes me do things like walk in pouring rain to be all alone, with little care for anything else.

Perhaps it's the right aftermath I'm looking for from this insane experience.

I'm looking now, forcing myself to read the letters on the stone, forcing myself to understand what they mean.

Forcing myself to accept it, and still failing.

Something bubbles in my chest, and it's not a pleasant feeling, but anything is more pleasant than having to do this. Time and again, and still, failing miserably.

Maybe I don't want to let go of this yet.

It's been a while, and the rain has slowed, but it is darker than when I got here.

I cannot face this, I want to say so much, but I don't know if you'll listen to me anymore.

My legs fail under me, and I fall painfully to my knees, feeling the scratch of earth through my clothes, but this feels better.

At least this pain, I know, will go away.

I stare at the words and reach out to trace them on the stone. It's smooth under my frozen fingers. It calms me to watch the repeated movements as my fingertips caress the black words.

A name.

A name that meant the world, but only to me. Only in my world.

And a name that will rest here, in this stone, forever.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Peace.

It's the living who find no peace in the death of others. You left, to be in peace, and you took mine away.

Why?

Without you, peace is but a lost dream, something you cannot remember when you wake, but long for it, not knowing what it is.

I cannot see you this way, I will not see you this way.

And yet here I am.

In the damned rain you loved so much.

I see her.



She pays me no heed, moving like the mist in her robes of blue and white.



My voice doesn't touch her, though it cracks from wear.

Pure and perfect, she walks on, feet bare.



I see the thorns around me, and the wind shrieks;

But she laughs like they're roses, without care.



Her robes are tearing, a little, and at times more;

And I see her bleed.

She walks, I follow.



Torn and tattered, shorn and shattered;

She's frail as the glass under her feet;

Her hair is white.

I cry for her pain.



The salty drops burn my skin, and I need no mirror

To see proof;

I know I am yet walking behind her.



Faster we move, strangely she gives me strength;

Perhaps it is only my curiosity.



The forest is gone now, not a thorn in sight.

The night has faded, song welcomes the cheery light.



I take my eyes off her broken form;

As broken as mine.



To glance in wonder, the change sublime.

I feel the sun, the grass under my feet;

The frost has been lifted, quite like a sheet.



I know that face, when she turns to me;

It is a face that I have seen, staring defiantly

Back from panes of silver that gleam.



Her laughter is clear, her hair like silk

The glow in her form, moonbeams in milk.



Pure and Perfect, she is once again.

She walks by me, rest from this game.

"Who are you?" I think, "Healing as a Spring day."

"I will be here," She speaks,

"The longer you allow me stay."

"For gratitude," I beg, "Tell me your name."



Ethereal and binding, warmth radiates;

Engulfing, lifting me, as a feather on air.

Burdens of kind, weighing me down, disappear.



A rush of cool air, a burst of song;

A smile on my lips.

She kept, she left me strong.



Hope.

Smoke Screens and Lost Dreams

Image by Dave Barstow

The wind cools the sweat on my skin. There are goosebumps.

My bare feet complain at the scratchy gravel under them, but it’s not an immediate concern.

My hand rests on the nearly smooth surface of the low brick wall. My thumb absently brushes at the top.

A waft of white smoke warms my face. The tingle of nicotine on my lips feels good. I take another drag off the cigarette, and enjoy the burn of smoke coursing through my throat and lungs.

Blowing smoke rings is not my specialty, but I try, tilting my head backwards and aiming one at the stars.

It’s a cool clear night. Perfect to be out star gazing.

Or thinking.

Mentally I shrug, what’s the difference?

I chuckle at a joke I remember from TV, little puffs giving the effect of slight coughing. I had coughed through my first cigarette.

Never coughed through another one. It was surprising, I should have been in a bed, wired to tubes, but here I am, thinking about nothing at all.

Sounds of late night traffic float up to me. At this height, it looks like tiny toy cars zipping below.

I am not entirely sure what I want to do, but I find myself swinging one leg over the wall, then the other. I get as comfortable as I can on the ledge. I was never afraid of heights.

The city is alive and buzzing. I gaze out at the lights and traffic. I think I may have started up on my next smoke, but who cares? I lost count years ago.

If I twist my head around just so, I can see the pale sliver of the moon, waxing? Waning? I stare at the moon a little longer, then turn back when my already stiff neck protests.

I absently rub at my neck, leaving the cigarette to dangle precariously from my lips. It’s stuck there by drying saliva on paper. I decide to test exactly how long it will stay that way. I think I may be squinting to get a look beyond my nose.

I smile at the image that brings up, and lose the battle to leave the ciggie hanging. I grab at it, then realize, that the position I am in is not exactly a good one to be making sudden moves.

I use both hands to grab onto the ledge, and stabilize myself once again. Sweat has broken out on my forehead, and I know it is from the adrenalin and then the endorphins produced by fear and thrill.

It feels great when I realize that I managed to stay on, although only just. The ciggie didn’t make it though. Poor little thing, died before it’s time.

I think it may be just too disrespectful to cross myself over a cigarette.

“Death to smoking!” a little righteous part of me yells and raises a triumphant fist, the fist changing to something decidedly rude, when a replacement has found it’s way back to my lips, which I wisely lick beforehand.

These damn death sticks cost a lot.

The tang of nicotine is on my tongue, and it’s turning bitter. I think neem leaves taste something like this. I’m not even sure how I know what neem leaves taste like.

I’m back to thinking about nothing at all, my fingers tapping a staccato rhythm on the wall. I love to pretend that I know how to play the piano. I took classes when I was a kid. I’m not really sure why I stopped.

I hum a perfect Allegro Vivace. I’ve always been good at remembering music, though my brain refuses to remember my birthday. I have never told anyone how deeply I am moved by music. Somehow I consider that a useless talent; Knowing the exact pitch, knowing what is good music, knowing which tune can make a person overwhelmed enough to cry.

Sure as hell doesn’t pay the bills.

So I’ll always wake up in the morning and do something no one appreciates and I sure as hell won’t remember once it’s done.

I think about the day I won’t do that crap. The day I just up and walk away, to follow whatever it was I gave up, one more time.

I’m somehow afraid that the day I don’t wake up may come sooner.

The more I think of this, the desire to go after the lost cigarette is getting stronger.

The lights down below are hypnotizing, I need to look at them a little longer to actually define the effect they are having on my nicotine-rushed brain.

A shrill ringing almost makes me fall off again, and I instinctively grab on to the ledge, scooting backwards and out of danger.

I’m not sure if that move made me relieved or agitated.

The damn phone is ringing like the world is about to end, and I decide to valiantly ignore it for another minute. They’ll call back anyway.

I’m not sure if the bell saved me, or put me in danger. I shrug. The whole thing is moot point anyway.

I swing my feet back onto the balcony, before third time becomes the charm. I’m just making my way back inside when the phone rings again.

Told you, they’d call back.

Broken.

You wanted to see, that part of me

Defeated and devoid of emotion entirely.

Here it is, see the liquid crystal pour

And fall to a shimmering pool on the floor.

Are you pleased, are you satisfied?

That last remaining hope in me destroyed

So utterly broken, here I kneel

No little, nor speck of joy to feel.

Have you laughed enough, have you cried?

With mirth overwhelming you like a tide

For I weep with a heart broken beyond

What repair possible, with no peace found.

Unable to live, not coward enough to die

Damned to suffer more, for my foolish pride

Is your cruelty tamed enough to see,

How utterly your pride has shattered me?

Do with my wretched soul, as you will

I have no faith to fight you still

But when you’re sated with crushing me

Have mercy, allow my death a little dignity.

Sreedevi.