Thank you to Editor Mark Antony Rossi for publishing my poem today.

Drop-Dead Chaos

 

It’s hard to cry when you laugh

while in the thick of drop-dead chaos.

 

Listening to songs played and sung loudly

by a splendid band,

reminiscent of old sea dogs

stuck on a lunatic note.

 

Your senses born

on a restless wind,

only to land on what feels like swampy meadows.

 

No single factor can determine the cause of the fracas

in that downward/upward spiral.

 

For this reason,

try to ignore the rapid shifts,

and just enjoy the party. 

 

Thank you to Editor Mark Antony Rossi for publishing my poem today.

Cloaks of Crows

 

There’s intrigue in the dark

while ravens beam along a smooth road,

over bitter ground,

with a fleet of storms gathering

from right behind the rift.

 

Cloaks of crows,

worn by desperados,

telling lies of cunning.

 

The door of night opening,

closing the gate on day,

creating a deep design

of gloom at our feet.

 

Their caws make no mention of champions who spread love,

or win modest victories for good,

make no mention of

who collates albums of happy pictures.

Instead, all successes lie dormant under a bleak sky.

 

Crows ignore what brightness swings from cords in dark regions,

ignore those bells tolled by those 

who wish to live in harmony rather than combat,

until they realize it’s no fun being an outlaw.

 

Thank you to Editor Mark Antony Rossi for publishing my poem in the October issue of Ariel Chart.

Photo Courtesy of Ariel Chart

Art, Not Art

 

Art provides beauty and thought,

a success due to proper use of the senses.

Art seeks new answers to old questions,

seeks the strength of philosophies.

Art offers creativity,

carving patterns from our heads onto physical media,

without insolent form.

Art floods us with perception and charm 

given by beauteous people.

 

Art puts forward the allure of the real world,

offers honesty that can be imitated by we who breathe,

rotates all into loveliness and truth as lasting legends.

 

A lack of art hurts the globe.

A broad knowledge base lacking in artistic spirit

is superficial and self centered,

ignores the gradients of the soul,

oversimplifies good moral questions.

Picture the world

where discoveries are spurned,

devices are only used for conquest

and destruction.

 

Insanity, creativity,

both exercise the imagination,

and while many artists

have had their sanity questioned,

insanity without an artful heart lacks poetry,

presents an unbecoming swindle of the mind.

 

Express yourself through splendor.

Thank you very much to Guest Editor Sanjeev Sethi for publishing my poem in the 'Fictile Feelings' Issue of The Hooghly Review.

Thinking About Flashbacks

Everywhere I’ve been,

days of laughter,

days of tears,

all the promises made,

then kept or broken.

Remembering magical words

that brought me through my darkest moments.

Times when a spine-tingling tall stance was required.

Times where the only recourse

was a bend at the knees.

Times I ran my hardest decisions down to the wire,

times I chose nothing.

I feel I should bundle past regrets and lay them to rest.

While it’s hard to slow the train propelling me forward,

at times, it’s even more difficult

to control the thoughts that spin me backwards.

But I’ll put my best efforts into the goal. 

MAURITIAN KREOL TRANSLATIONS

BY VATSALA RADHAKEESOON-THANK YOU!

The Cards Spoke

On the day no one was looking,
everyone aged,
only by a day,
but that day went fast,
as the cards were shuffled so quickly.
It was as if
a parlor trick was being presented.
And people wept, knowing
the chance to slow down time
had eluded them.
The clock’s hands would spin.
When no one was listening,
life spoke secrets
for earning immortality,
long lost knowledge was confessed.
and all were deemed unlucky.
The flip of the cards
was so loud that they drowned out
any chance to catch the words.
And people wept, knowing
that to live forever
had eluded them.
That last day would come.

Bann kart finn revele


Enn zour personn pa ti pe gete,
zot tou ti vieyi,
zis dan enn zour,
Me sa zour-la li finn pas vit,
parski bann kart ti bate bien vit.
Li ti koumadir
enn vre trik ki ti prezante.
E bann dimounn finn plore, kan konn
lasans fer letan pas dousman
finn anbrouy zot.
Zegwi revey ti pe marse.
Kan personn pa ti pe ekoute,
lavi finn revel bann sekre
pou gagn imortalite,
konesans perdi ti konfese
e zot tou ti sorti malsanse.
Batman kart
ti telman for ki zot finn touy
lasans resezi bann mo.
E bann dimounn finn plore, kan finn kone
ki  lide viv pou touzour
finn deles zot.
Dernie zour pou vini.

MAURITIAN KREOL TRANSLATIONS

BY VATSALA RADHAKEESOON-THANK YOU!

Pulse

Through a net of dreams
engraved in memory,
I sensed the tempo of love
between us, redolent kisses
beyond midnight that kept me
yearning.  I dreamt your music
was all I could hear from where
your gentle spirit sung the psalm.

At the start, I had no music.
Only a plenitude of need to learn
the lilt of love,
performing.
Then, came awakening,
rhythm, rhythm,
within sinews, into our very cells.

Now, the pulse breathes
on and on
for as long as time itself.

We will be, for as long as time itself.

Pou

Par enn file rev
grave dan memwar,
Mo resanti kadans lamour
ant nou, bizou dou
apre minwi ki les mwa
anvi sa. Mo finn  rev to lamizik
ti tou seki mo ti kapav tande depi kot
to nam dous sant Psalm.

Avan, Mo pa ti ena lamizik.
Zis enn dezir konple  pou aprann
fason lamour,
performe.
Apre, finn ena levey,
ritm, ritm,
dan misk, dan nou selil.

Aster, pou respire,
kontinielman
ziska ki letan exziste pou nou.

Nou pou la, ziska letan pou nou exziste.