Daydreaming of Dibrugarh…


Serene lake sleeps with
rippling lullabies hidden within
its lotus scented bosom,

Trees stand tall clad in silver
or varied moods of pink humming rain-songs
to oxymoron whims of chameleon clouds.

Potpourri breeze is scented in caffeine sighs
of dewy tea leaves,
or scent of hursinghars withered at ughten,
or in aroma of rain soaked earth.

Early morning softly reverberates with
grumbled syllables of cooing doves
or dainty chirps of mynahs and sparrows,

Bamboo grooves huddle together
like rustic women gossiping about
shades of dahlias abloom,
dancing peacocks in the woods
and roses shriveled in tempest.

Afternoons are crisp as starched shirts
and tangy like berries
ripening on highest of boughs,
and evenings preen
veiled in versicolor organza of dusk,
sequinned in fireflies
their silence laced in symphonies of crickets.

I dream oft of that land cleansing
its feet in the whirling waves of Brahmaputra,
land of orchids and rainbows
where memories linger of a childhood lost.

The Incorrigible Me…


I refuse
to be modified
to suit stringent
and obsolete roles
of stagnant minds,
as a dress
scissored and tailored
beyond cognition.

myself to me
is being beautiful,
a leaf chartreuse, verdant
then tangerine and
later bronzed,
changing with seasons
doesn’t define me…

Poetry is Like Cafe au lait


A sip~
the virgin sip
tastes flippant as froth,
as aroma of metaphors fill
nostrils of intrigue,

then stronger flavors
from steaming lines, apparently
porcelained in meter,
concocted by syllables
beckon with sugared promises
of imagery and rich verbiage,

every taste
is a nuance of discovery
as caffeine essence
of poetry flows in your veins
inspiring insomnia
of contemplation…

Braided Clouds…


Braided mixed-emotion clouds
bridge distance from
surreal heavens to pragmatic earth
on a bemused twilight~
myopic, forlorn, sepia
all before know-it-all gaze
of a bay entangled
in her own riddling reflections.

The unbridled waters flow
unhindered by the broken bridge
of propriety, bending rules
beyond recognition,
and like Jack’s beanstalk
the cloud tower tethers sky and soil.

For dreams to climb
on tippy toes under night’s oblivion
to enact themselves
in psychedelic splendor
on straits of Morpheus
those strewn
in opium-kissed poppies
sighing hallucinations…

On Sunday Morning…


Dawn blossoms
in your embrace as a rosebud
unfurling its calyx
to a voyeuristic sun,

spooned in
complacent togetherness
draped in
mirage of invincibility
she plucks
a wizened moon
from myopic horizons,

a marigold sun
licks away last dredges
of espresso night,
while feasting
on choco-chip moments
of savored passion,

anonymous love story
written in sultry sighs of ambiguity
dissolves like mist
erased by sun-kissed fingers.