Apr 7, 2014 Awake in Real Time: Coffee-induced Meditations and Journal Entries
Pinecone and Stick
©April 6th, 2014
By Vijaya Sundaram
Walking, I gaze at the passing of things.
Inexplicably sad.
The sun shines.
A hollow gong sounds.
Heart beats
Dully, solidly.
Birds carol loudly.
Children play.
Dogs cavort.
Springtime blooms.
Silence reigns.
My mind listens with
Half an ear.
Beside me, a tail wags.
A smile curves the air.
A brief “woof” startles.
A stick becomes
A thing of desire.
A pine cone the apex
Of beauty, pride in possession.
A run home, two hearts pounding.
Two sets of legs, one biped
The other, quadruped
Fly over cement sidewalks
Race up the flight
Of stairs, all the way
Home.
Water lapped.
Water sipped.
Things settle.
Sadness meanders away,
Replaced by a pinecone and a stick
In the mouth of my pup.
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Tags: #NaPoWriMo, Holly, pinecones and sticks, Puppy, sadness, springtime, Walk in the park
Apr 23, 2013 Original Poetry
Mute
©By Vijaya Sundaram
April 23rd. 2013
It’s hard to write when you’re sad.
It’s hard to write when you’re mad.
It’s hard to write when you’re sleepy.
It’s hard to write when you’re weepy.
It is hard to write when you’re working.
It’s hard to write when you’re shirking.
It’s hard to write when you’re alone.
It’s hard to write when you’re a stone.
I have nothing to say.
Nothing to say. Not today.
Nothing to say. Can’t stay.
Nothing to say. Can’t play.
Nothing to say. Going gray.
Nothing to say. Start to sway.
Nothing to say. Take me away!
~~~~~~~~~~~~ The End ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tags: #NaPoWriMo, creative aridity, gray day, poem about not being able to write a poem, sadness, uninspired day
Apr 19, 2013 Current Affairs / General Interest, Original Poetry
Whirlwind
©By Vijaya Sundaram
April 19th 2013
Brother down. My brother down.
Could it be, could it possibly be
That guilt gnaws at his spine?
He sits there, crouched
In an anonymous room
Or backyard,
The incubus of death
Possibly trapped to his chest,
Making breath
Difficult, and making sobs
Harden into shrapnel.
He awaits the end,
Undecided about dying.
It’s clear he wishes
To leave on his own terms.
The fog comes and goes.
Mist along the alleyways
Of a labyrinthine mind.
Angelic face, dark eyes
Innocent and disarming,
Armed with what could
Only be a death-wish.
How can hatred catch such
A beautiful-seeming young man?
What does he think,
Crouched there, seeing
The faces of the innocents
Slain by the bombs that
His brother and he placed
In their bid for … what?
Who caught him when he
Grew up, far from parents,
Vulnerable to hateful words,
Prey to delusions of matyrdom
(For what else could it be,
But his need for such a terrible end?)
Did his life lack purpose?
Did his honor embrace darkness?
Did his heart get clutched
By loneliness and despair?
He had friends, they say.
So, why didn’t that save him?
A fog envelops the mind
Of the young man, as he
Awaits the raging
Firestorm he has begun.
For he knows, somewhere in
In his twisted soul, haunted
By an eight-year old’s smile,
(No more hurting people.
Peace.) that he is doomed.
Haunted by a beautiful Chinese student’s
Steadfast gaze, by a young Medford woman,
Twenty-nine years old, who
Served food and life to people,
He awaits his turn
At the grim table laid for him.
He has sown the wind,
Now, he will reap the whirlwind.
Before that, we want to know:
Why? Why? Why? Why?
And even when he, shouting, answers,
Bitter and vengeful, or
Weeping and ashamed, or
Laughing and scornful, or
Guilt-racked and tormented,
We shall never find out.
And the whirlwind will carry
Away the shouted words,
And we know we can never get back Kansas again.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The End ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tags: #NaPoWriMo, #Waiting, Boston, Boston Marathon bombers, Dzhokhar Tsarnaev, Reap the whirlwind, sadness, terror, We can never get back Kansas again