Awakened by
scratching scribble
of pen dancing calligraphy in ink,
its nascent futilities
are left enceinte
with the muse’s ramblings…


Ignorance~ An Array of Vignettes


The innocent cherry blossoms,
tinted in candyfloss sighs
wither in ignorance,
unaware of the reason
they pepper the brow
of nascent dawn, emerging
from their chrysalis.

Oblivious is the moth
dancing in frenzied ecstasy
around the mistakenly revered
threshold of jaundiced streetlight,
of the cause of its demise
enthralled by the radiance
of a callous, indifferent moon
flirting with exotic oysters
amid cavorting tides.

The caterpillar
leads a chameleon existence
of metamorphosis,
unaware of its quaint sojourn
from the worm-like simplicity
within secretive translucence
to a variegated butterfly
blessed with nectarine sips
of sustenance in redolent meads.

The self-proclaimed
human omniscience fails to learn
the destiny hidden
within the depths of tomorrows
unraveled by the clock’s hands,
as he leads each day
assuming himself to the master
of his own treacherous fate.

Winter Moon


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.

You Are A Mirage…


on yellowed
and moth-eaten pages
of nostalgia,
love scribes with
the quill of reverie,
spilling in language a tale
of lost love~

an autumnal love story
withered to
burnished confetti
under the vision
of a voyeur harvest moon.

lingering as
a wordless, faceless tune
within threads of breath
as a whistled strain~
your memory lives

your smile beckons
from beyond horizons
clad in mist and mystery,
your face a poetry
of beauty and symmetry.

gathering radiance
from moonlit benevolence,
and fragrance from
roses dancing in the rain
exuberance from moths
in frenzied salsa under
icteric streetlamps,

colors from
rainbows and autumn foliage,
music from rippling cascades
their feet clad
in stilettos of silver,
energy from waves
crowned in frothy coronets~

I seek to
recreate that lost magic,
revive that
passion of first love
long faded like the scent
of withered hursinghars
at twilight,

and capture you
like fingers trying
to catch elusive mirages…

Poetry is Born…


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.