Jan 19, 2019 Original Poetry
From Here to There In Two Stanzas
©January 19th, 2019
By Vijaya Sundaram
A sifting of white like sugar, or salt,
Upon brick and wood, and pines and roofs,
And the hollow light of early evening
Makes the stillness loud with imminent storm.
The humming of wires, the singing of lightbulbs,
The subdued drone of the water-heater,
The hiss of the kettle, steam rising fast,
The shake of dog-collar-tags
From a shifting canine in the other room,
The sense of time being folded neatly
Like a blanket by a tidy housekeeper,
The plumping of feathers by birds
In high branches, where the cold resides,
For whom worry is a state of being,
Inseparable from feeding, or mating,
The snaking lines of hungry cars
Seeking home, seeking shelter, all these –
– And the singleness of attention,
– The pointedness of thought,
– The tip of the arrow that is my life –
I am in all these today, now.
I am in all these, now,
And I know that you are out there,
And you, and you, and you,
All out there, in intersecting lives,
With overwhelming chores,
With imminent sorrows, and soaring joys,
And broken todays, and mended tomorrows,
And hope that rises like steam from your mouths
On a bitter-cold day, hope that rises, always.
The cold steals around your bones, and mine.
For it is always cold where we go.
There is no warmth there, or here,
Except that we make it so, for we
Are flesh and blood, and fire and air,
And water, and earth, and planet,
And sun, and nebulae, and that single point
Before all the cold and the warmth began,
And if we snap our fingers thus, and so,
We make our own fire,
And if we curve in on ourselves,
We make our own cave,
And if we weave our hair thus,
We make our own cloak,
And when we see through the dark,
We make our own stars.
And always, alongside us, feet padding softly,
Walk our familiars, their dog-tags clinking,
And we are glad, for they come from other Gods,
And they are here to teach us love,
When we walk together, eyes hooded
In the cold, dark, falling snow.
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Jan 19, 2019 Original Poetry
Rant
©January 19th, 2019
By Vijaya Sundaram
I am T(he)Rump,
Destroyer of worlds,
Laughingstock amongst men,
Killer of butterflies and trees,
And animals and lands.
I am T(he)Rump.
I stride through the world
Like a Colossus, but with tiny hands,
And tiny brain, and squirrel hair,
And what I touch shrivels,
And dies a sad, whimpering death.
I am T(he)Rump
I snatch children from parents,
And allow them to die
Alone, broken-hearted, cold
In a new land as hateful as
The one they fled in fear.
I reduce all to barren waste,
Make the oceans acid-bitter,
Then fly to Mars on an Elon Musk-mobile.
I betray all who come to me,
For I am a black hole,
With a pasty face that covers it,
And a smirk that can fool the simple.
And while I fatten up my coffers,
And sit in lonely splendor
On my golden toilet seat,
Wondering why no one loves me,
(Even as I boast that they do),
I laugh, because *I* know
I am the BEST at being T(he)Rump.
No one else can be me.
And I laugh at the skies,
For, conman though I am,
I’ve taken everyone for a ride,
Even me, even me.
And what a ride it’s been, my people,
I give the best rides!
But these are not my words,
For I never faced the truth
Of me, of my place in this world.
My narrative is the narrative
Of one who cannot understand
Cannot feel, cannot think,
Cannot love, cannot taste,
Cannot read, cannot give,
Cannot judge, cannot care,
Cannot love. I cannot love.
And I am terrified.
Never mind.
I am T(he)Rump,
And I am the best one there is.
No one better!
I knew I’d make it as a (r)Resident)
Of this country, of this mansion
Built by slaves for me, ME!
I am the best (t)Rump there ever was.
Even if I (don’t) say so, myself.
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