Verses of Winter

Standard

Coriander breath
sighed by a huddled kitchen
warming itself
in gasps of frostbitten stove,
blends in citrus honeydew realms
of a gossamer winter morn.

somewhere
pea-pods pop out syllables
of a sumptuous delight,
to flavor insipid
moments of bleached twilights.

empty vases
yearn for daffodil daydreams
prematurely spawned
afore March,

eggs Benedicts congeal
on frozen porcelain moments,
while a lukewarm coffee
patiently cools
tired heels on tiles of boredom.

like a morsel
unswallowed and clogging
throat of contemplation,
a poem begs to burp
out its words in varied decibels

~ a pent up thought
scribbling itself on chameleon clouds
to emblazon the innermost emotions
of winter in hues of autumn…

Winter Moon

Standard

She sits forlorn,
wrinkled and wizened
on frostbitten grayish clouds
under the veil of mist,
determined to keep vigil
in December chill
warmed by distant embers
of shining galaxies.

She drinks from
that half- filled cup of coffee
left lukewarm on
the window sill,
breathing in the lingering scent
of roasted peanuts
and the luscious chocolate cake
you’d gobbled away
in gluttonous delight.

She is like honeydew,
or a tangy round slice of lemon
her breath scented in
scent of myrtle and pine needles,
she resembles to
to a shivering hungry beggar
a round golden bun,
to a crying child she appears
to be his favorite crunchy cookie.

She hums x-mas hymns
in the silence of falling snowflakes,
whispering fables from
dogeared volumes of Aesop
befriending insomniac asters
chilled by the winter frost,
her smile is reminiscent
of daffodils from bowers of March,
she scribbles her dreams
writing epistles in the fragrance
of blooming night jasmine.

Poetry is Born…

Standard

as a sighed bubble
of prismatic syllables,
floating in
firefly strewn sunshine,
bursting within
the grasp of moments
to splatter dewdrops
of transience
on the face of noon~

poetry is born
to momentarily adorn
straits of the commonplace.

when a jaundiced thought,
wizened by reverie
speckled in variegated shades
of sentiments,
withers from
boughs of contemplation,
to scribe in dialect
scented and dulcet,
on the extensive papyrus
of nature~

poetry evolves,
a cinnamon epistle
audible in the whispers
of nutmeg fall,
the silent vigil
of topaz moon of harvest.

Bland Are The Moods of Winter

Standard

Benign and blameless~
the mist clad, bland morn of December,
like a lingering gasp of cerise,
yearns for polychromatic epistles
scribbled on canvas of March,

Robbed of lush verdure
after transient lure of burnished golds,
denuded boughs shiver beneath
quilting heaps of winking snowflakes in
the faint honeydew sunshine.

Within frostbitten soil’s depths
the daffodil bulbs slumber
dreaming golden dreams,
while the meads hanker after
colors and fragrances of flowers.

Nights are silent
and draped in mystical fog,
unspeckled in stardust sighs
and the moon finds solace from
nocturnal vigil under
blankets of cotton wool clouds.

Its hues faded, lost, stolen,
a colorless winter
broods in its armchair of nostalgia,
reminiscing of bygone
versicolor springs
golden summers and cinnamon falls…