Saturday, September 5, 2020

Lakshman Bulusu ----------------------------- poem

SPECIALLY CHALLENGED
By Lakshman Bulusu

I am specially challenged—
The experts call it OCD, BPD, depression—
The words ‘mental illness’ resonate in my mind,
my life shattered like a well-crafted antique,
splintered to pieces.
Moment by moment, this thought eclipses me.
Until one day, I realize I have to come out of this darkness.
Even the night has the moon and the stars
and the day has its light.

I thrill in gardening:
plant seeds of marigold and sunflowers,
till the soil in furrows with a cultivator or a garden hoe,
water daily using a green watering can
with patience as far as my passion can hold.
Behold each blossom, a newborn seasonal beauty.

I take to painting, try to imitate Jean-Michel,
create faces with expressions of 
joy, gloom, anger, despair—
in ages of a child, aged, blonde, and old-aged—
in ranges of white, black, brown, and 
the versatility of light.

I resort to basketball. In a court set up in my backyard
practice shooting the ball into the hoop.
Sometimes I play alone yet overcome the solitude 
by living in the next throw, this time to make it a better one.

The music of the Beatles’ Come Together and Michael Jackson’s Thriller
the song and beat rocking through the speakers
overwhelm me as I drive through the countryside flanked by green fields. 

I recite hymns of Lord Ram at an ancient temple,
sometimes so immersed it becomes a soliloquy.
Every chant of it chases the blues away that kept chasing me.

I engage in literature, sonnet to free verse,
a monologue or a dialogue, as an inspiration 
to those sharing my space.
I write poems to characterize myself in a comic vein.


I venture out in the open, take a sojourn at the beach.
I find solace in that I can challenge my challenge.
A signal of mental wellness:
At the end of the evening, relaxing in a chair, 
sipping tea, and acknowledging passers by.

Friday, September 4, 2020

Two poems ----------- by Wendy Beamish


LOST

When I was young
And wild and joyful,
I met a mystic sage
She had a dark and golden heart
And promised me endless light

Being greedy and wanting
more happiness
I barely listened to her
song
And blithely followed her
As she spiraled down

To uplift you,
She told me,
I will take you
through the
Deepest darkness
Blackest blight
Searing sadness
And when you rise
you will break the
Surface
Like a swimmer
Bursting into the light

Following her down,
I became lost
in infinite night
in piercing pain
in tireless tragedy

Without the sage,
Doubt and Panic
overtook me
knowing I would
never be the same

But I fought,
lost
Going up
Going down
And up and down
Again and again

And years passed
this way
As I fought to break
the surface

And sometimes I thought
I saw the light
Other times
I was soaked in darkness

And each time
I was near
The light
I healed a little

And then I
realized
The light was not
Joy
But
Wisdom





Inspiration Lost


Perfectionism is
spotless white gloves,
freshly fallen snow,
unblemished porcelain skin.

But perfectionism
is parallelizing
when you're in
its grip

And inspiration
becomes mere
Respiration

Perfectionism is
the hammer that comes down
on the nail,
the noose that hangs,
the seal on the coffin,

Perfectionism is
drowning in your
own idealism

Unable to
reach my ideals
Inspiration
becomes mere
Respiration

Perfectionism
has stopped me,
death by asphyxiation 
by a Tyrant
of my own making

And when can I breathe
just a ... little
I wonder

Who decides what perfect is?

For if beauty is in the eye of the beholder,
perfect can take on many forms,
leaving it amorphous

The answer cannot
be
stopping
or
Holding tight to harrowing idealism
but
finding away
to
Exist between the lines

To allow mere respiration
To become inspiration













Sorry we are not reading entries and submissions at this time, as we are plotting how to make the USA a better country.