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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Dusk to Dawn…

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amethyst skies
at crepuscular hour
are reflected on sapphire waters,
as epistles of poetic calligraphy
resonating with versatile hues,

when the topaz sun
is gobbled as mandarin morsel
and periwinkle heights
pantomime a giant chrysoberyl,
of oxymoron shades
soon blending into
an obsidian night.

the opal moon
ailing with insomnia pours over
ivory, printed volumes,
in long hours of silent onyx night,
and the diamond stars
effulgent above peer at the lovers
painting rainbow dreams
within molasses of eyelashes.

budding chartreuse whispers
kiss fringes of
a blossoming tourmaline dawn,
the sky like an armful of scented orchids
with a silver lunar sliver
on the distant aquamarine,
like a half forgotten love song
lingering on edge of reverie.

Poetry is…

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Poetry is a stargazer~ admiring
constellations through
telescopic metaphorical adjectives,
gathering stardust on
fingertips addicted to printed word,
having verbs and nouns
sticking to them like ink,
and clutching a singed symphony fallen
from flaming comet-tails.

Poetry is a painter~
playing with consonant pastels,
watercolors blossom
on the canvas of reality,
using the crayons of simile
it plays on aisle and blank paper
every emotion or thought
finds shades and appearance in
the brush strokes of poetry.

Poetry is a gardener,
using tools of versatile imagery
to brocade blossoms on verdure,
fragrance born from flowers
floats above to scribble
verses on bosom of twilight,
toiling to nurture
saplings of metaphors,
watering them with adjectives
and redolent vowels budding
on the stalks of imagination,
pruning the wayward and commonplace
to be-ribbon flowers
in gerund intricacies to form
a bouquet of redolent poem.

Summer’s Mischief

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Summer is a juvenile boy,
hopscotching with pebbles
on afternoons strewn in
quixotic cricket’s rhapsodies,
and butterflies fluttering
salsa delights,

He scatters and gathers
moments like sparkling marbles,
winking in honeyed sunshine~
wearing a hat pinned in sunflowers
he guffaws his laughter
to flower into mustard blossoms.

On hibiscus-tinted dawns~
scented in mango blossom verses,
he sequins delphinium bays
in constellations,
spilling his moody eructations
on azure clarities
to crayon vibrant dusks.

he offers naive faith
in night jasmine filled palms,
tolling bells of worship
on temple steps of tranquility,
fingerpainting rainbows
on kohl streaked blues,
he discovers flavor of first love
on adolescent tongue,
in peppered kisses of tempest.

playing peek-a-boo
with chameleon silhouettes,
he scribbles his secrets on clouds,
with the moon his ball
he aims to taint the night
in mud-stained shots…

Fairy-tales of the Meads -2…

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Rapunzel tendrils
of dusk-lorn wisterias,
hang in scented breeze
casting long, sinuous shadows
in receding light
and streetlight speculations.

Cinderella escapades
of butterflies
fluttering their nervousness
while ranting in
language of ambiguities,
donning firefly-refulgence
under moonlit fantasies
to ballet in floral ballrooms
only to be left
holding a pumpkin at midnight.

Sleeping beauty,
lost in eternal slumber
wakes up to honeydew kiss of spring
to spread her laughter~
as a golden daffodil,
making the dawn redolent.

Snow-white
whispers of night-jasmine
peppered on soil,
are each like spawned love-child
of sunshine wedded to the moon,
poetry of white and saffron
and perfumed in love.

She is Zephyr…

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she is
wreathed in fragrance
gathered from
boudoir of flowers,

invisible and elusive
garlands of strung scents
compose realms in
rainbow-crocheted meads,

when virgin sighs
of awakening daffodils
with gold-dust wombs
herald colorful spring.

pink-white whispers
of cherry tree,
pepper silence of mornings
~citrus-lorn and clutching
to lingering sliver
of lunar promises
fading on face of azalea skies.

she finds her whimsy
in moods of sakura blossoms,
her laughter reminiscent
of sunflowers and plumeria,
her sensuous dreams
abound in breath of roses.

painting evensongs
with nectar of violets
wisterias and stoic amaranths,
she adorns nights
in sequins of night jasmine,
and pollens of dahlias.

she is the dream
of lotuses daydreaming over
lake’s indifferent embrace,
exuberance of marigolds
in balmy summer’s veranda,

she is
emblazoned essence
of poppies on aurora-sky,
ambiance and prosperity
blooming like hibiscuses
~footprints on marble-steps
of worship.