Poetry is Born…

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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.

Rule of Survival…

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sitting on seashore
at twilight hour beneath
cornflower skies~
freckled in fleeting clouds,
I watched cavorting tides
form turrets of false hopes–
only to be shattered
into splattered brine-droplets.

sea gulls shrieked in
language unknown to my ears~
imitating fish wife’s noisy rancor,
and palm trees danced
to the cerulean threnody,
while a dying sun~
eagerly gobbled by
the vociferous sea-waves,
left the skies covered
in fuchsias and wisterias.

in this soothing panorama,
I sat with a storm hurling within
trying to bring tempestuous emotions
within stoic control,
but raging sentiments for once
refused to be subdued,
just then mercurial mood
of weather changed
and I saw the docile clouds gather
on once serene sky
like gathering fury inside me.

a frown was etched
on the brow of tranquility,
thunder raged and winds went insane
howling and squealing
like a banshee,
waves tandem went berserk
and sea gulls leaped for cover,
while on the geometric rock ashore
I found myself within
the eye of a storm,
I saw the sky smeared in kohl
the hues of crepuscule erased,
and watched as giant palms
bowed to raging winds.

sitting there
drenched to the bone
I watched as tide and trees both
succumbed to ventose rantings of
the garrulous storm,
I learnt another lesson
on the abacus of tutor nature
that it is better to be cowed
by the indefatigable,
than to fight against it,
this was the rule of survival…