Vijaya Sundaram

Poet, Musician, Teacher, and Amateur Visual Artist

Grey Day Amidst Purple, Red and Blue~A Haibun~

Grey Day Amidst Purple, Red and Blue
~A Haibun~
©May 5th, 2016
By Vijaya Sundaram

Grey sky, goose-feathers,
And silver rain sliding down
What songs can be born?

Alone, I sit in my blue room with midnight blue curtains, and blue-saturated paintings, with a poster of Bleu, a film by Krzysztof Kieslowski on my left, and a huge bookshelf on my right.  And I write, though I know not what I feel.  Two birds arrested in mid-flight, one at each window, one made of straw, the other of metal, speak to me of long ago.  Two long strands of blue decorative dangling things, with fish interspersed with small round, embroidered mirrors at my window, and a blue glass seahorse move lightly in an unseen draught of air. And beyond the glass windows stretches all that pearly grey.  Oh yes, there are trees slowly learning to be green amidst the brown ones, and, if I stand and look out of the window, I can see the red splashes of tulips amidst the grey, like large drops of blood suspended in air, held up by delicate green stems below.  And I feel nothing right now.  I am a seeing creature, all eyes.

Tulips sing of blood
Lilacs bloom like light desire
I sink into sight.

Seaslide

In response to The Daily Post’s Daily Prompt: Beach

Seaslide
©May 5th, 2016
By Vijaya Sundaram

The sea casts up her dying fish
The sea casts up her nets
The sea won’t grant our dying wish
The sea does not forget.

The beach collects our broken days
The beach collects our souls
The beach allows us time to play,
While he erases goals.

The beach slides everybody down,
Down to the restless sea,
And we, poor fools, shall all be drowned
Before we come to be.

Before we come to live and be
Before we can begin.
We’ll pay, for life is never free –
The sea will always win.

And sliding soft, the beach does flow
Roiling come the waves.
And they will wait – for each one knows
We’ll clamor to be saved.

We’ll clamor to go down, my dear
We’ll try to be so brave
But in the end, we’ll drown, my dear
And give back what they gave.

The sea will hum along, my dear
The beach will slide so slow
And they will sing a song, my dear
While soft, our lives will go.

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P.S.  Before you start wondering about my mental state, nothing in particular inspired this poem.  I simply felt like writing it.  Sometimes, a poem’s just a poem.  🙂

Song of the Air

PHOTO PROMPT © Roger Bultot

PHOTO PROMPT © Roger Bultot
Word Count:  100 words of text, exactly
Genre:  Realistic Fiction

Song of the Air
©May 5th, 2016

By Vijaya Sundaram

When things got unbearable, Lali would go up to the attic, escaping the constant carping of her mother.  Her cowed father’s silence, the result of his being sniped at daily, didn’t help.

Once alone, Lali would throw open the window and stare out at the birds, who ranged themselves on a wire, and sang to her, inviting her to join them.  And she would dream.

Today was different.  An ‘F’ in her science exam had gotten her a beating from her mother.  She wasn’t allowed to play outside for a month.

The birds seemed to be calling extra-insistently to her.

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Thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields, Fairy Blog-Mother Extraordinaire, for hosting Friday Fictioneers with her usual grace and élan , and to Roger Bultot, for that lovely, if gloomy, photograph.

 

Hope Springs

In response to The Daily Post’s Daily Prompt:  Hope

Hope Springs
©May 4th, 2016
By Vijaya Sundaram

Eternal, they say.
Now, in May, I cannot see
How a real Spring will
Return – with sun and rain,
And birdsong and flowers
And plants to go into the ground
And people singing in the rain,
Of a planet balancing itself
Keeping track of its heat and cold
And its axis tilted evermore
Away from normal –
When all I see is mist and cloud,
Drawn faces, and hurrying
And scurrying and worrying
Everything blurring before me,
All hope of people seeing what’s real,
Of people seeing reason,
Of having reason
To hope,
Gone.

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