Winter Moon

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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.

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Bland Are The Moods of Winter

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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…

Winter is An Old Woman…

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Winter
is an old woman,
her face mapped in wrinkles
like frostbitten verbs,

She sits
on her haunches at dawn,
gathering citrus-scented dewdrops
from grass blades,
while painting her dreams
as azaleas in watercolors on
hydrangea skies.

Snowflakes
are christmas baubles
simpering treacle smiles in
the lukewarm sunshine,
hung on verdant limbs
of frozen pines,
adorning each silent apostle
in crystalline whispers.

Ladling peppercorn sighs
of fuming soup
on shivering platters
etching gasps of delight,
she sips cappuccinos
with parched lips,
scenting once cinnamon breeze
in caffeine vowels.

Using herbs
like versatile consonants,
of variegated flavors and aromas
sprinkled on bland days,
parsley and cilantro
green onions and garlic~
enhance the taste of existence,
as she spins love-yarns
in the kitchen.

Mists she spins
like gossamer hopes,
to quilt the barren earth
wrapping hibernations in oblivion
to nurture the nascent,
until daffodils awaken
from buried bulbs in springtime.

Sitting afore maple-wood fires,
on her creaking arthritic armchair,
she spins woolen jumpers~
blessing her progeny with warmth,
and indulges in marshmallow reverie
reminiscing of balmy August afternoons,
lingering in memory
as the taste of pickled mangoes
and roasted, buttery peanuts.

Autumn Exuberance

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kissing and tickling
footsteps of departing summer,

burnished foliage
~cinnamon confetti
tinted in red, yellow and orange

showered on solitude
of dust trails fringed
in dead grass,

flies vagrant like syllables
of a half-forgotten love-song~

lingering on crutches
of fake confabulations.

variegated
are moods of verdure,

stained by life’s versatile experiences
in graffiti hues born
from pastels of oxymoron autumn,

streaked on juvenile flutters
yester-years tempered
in the cauldrons of dead past

one last sigh
of exuberance born
from nature

before widowed and wizened
she wraps herself~

in geriatric shivers and
frostbitten mists
of armchair nostalgia…

Alleys of December…

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pine in snow1

within silver boudoir of December,
wrought in shivers of chill
wherein pine trees stand tall
with their aromatic sigh blending
in ladled marmalade of snowflakes
resembling citadels of sublime,
and mornings are like warm treacle
poured on landscape contours.

frosted windows

Boreas howls through boughs
covered in foliage rustles
ailing with frostbite and knocks
with invisible knuckles on windowpanes
bejeweled in honeydew frost,
days are abbreviated sighs of
soft, volatile gold~ warm with
glow of waning embers of nature,

winter sun

sun is a lethargic shadow of
glorious summer sun like gold coin,
the night is freezing and lonely
like a widow weeping
as it gazes at the topaz moon
aglow in her wedding band,
the hanging curtains of mist drape
sublime world in ambiguous oblivion,
only to be melted reluctantly
by geriatric winter sun.

frozen lake 8

lakes are frozen, their ripples caged
beneath shimmering veneers of ice,
trees are devoid of flowers,
nuances of spring yet to brocade
bland, colorless horizons,
twilight is only organza of nature
that abounds in versicolor graffiti,
song of winter in hushed whispers
of falling wisps of snow,
peppers world in frozen syllables…

Moods of a Winter Morning

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winter morn

pine needles salt
verdant blades of rustling poetry,
on marmalade winter morns
tinged in cerise tinted humilities,
like wisps of snowflakes
from tattered cloudy pillows
caressing parched cheek wrinkles
scratched in frost’s fingernails
in surreal honeydew kisses.

winter morn1

the morning is a faded manuscript
with illegible words shivering
on parched blankness of frozen moments
like blue annotations
of cyanosis on frostbitten silences,
while autumn disrobed trees
are draped in frozen quietudes
as they indulge in dreams
of weaver birds nurturing posterities
within fertilities of flimsy clouds,
and cranes meditating over azure glitters
to gather nature’s psalms from
golden fingers of lukewarm sunshine.

winter morn2

frost freckled glass window-panes
wink at mornings aromatic in
roasting marshmallows on cozy fireplaces,
pink roses bloom on vines
like sinuous lines of scribbled poetry
peppered in snowflake sighs
of a lethargic morn in January,
and fuming cups of eggnog lattes served
in chilled minutes, crisp as frost
blend like incense mingling
in the temple’s sinews of piety.

winter morn3

skies are crocheted in abstract fluidities
like a poet’s scribed imagination,
at twilights piquant in spicy roasted potatoes,
sweet peas taste like reunions
with long lost friends on a starved tongue,
adding flavor to evenings insipid
like cold bowls of soups forgotten on
table tops ignored in preoccupied business,
while crumpled blankets on the bed
lure moods with promise of sleepy lethargy…

winter morn4