Poetry Breathes in Night’s Womb…


moonlight is white wine
scattering expletives of intoxication
in bipolar moods of night,
teetotaler stars frown indignation
as earth loses itself
in soporific slumber lulled
by mesmerizing lunar radiance.

poetry breathes stardust
into dejections of dying comet,
whispered metaphors sneak
through gaps underneath doors
which moonlight creeps in through
diluting maps of fluorescence
etched in darkness by
meandering fireflies of insomnia,
as I scribe brewing cognitions
on drowsy, unimaginative sheets
while the clock trudges along
crawling as a toddler
on reluctant hands of lethargy.

crisp browned toast autumn morns,
with a poached egg sun reclining
on white albumin of cloudy duvets,
aromatic with promises
of oven fresh cinnamon rolls,
lurk within eyes like reminiscences
of spring’s bluebonnet skies,
tapestried in citrus blossom sighs
as they patiently await
the elusive oblivion of sleep
while poems beg to be
voiced in scripted calligraphy.

elastic hours creep
through milestones punctuating sojourn
to the ughten lit by polaris,
while eerie shadows befriend sleeplessness
and novels are rifled by preoccupations,
scanning horizons for virgin wink
of a rising blonde sun,
seeking to rinse away drowsiness
with dew from leafy palms.

poetry exhales redolence
within the privacies of yellowed diaries,
nurtured by moodswings of indifferent sleep,
to be sprinkled as laughter
on morning faces of dewy roses,
to reverberate as rain-songs
of musical ripples on pavements
and waft in scented sighs of butterfly flutters…


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