Poetry is…


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.


Within Realms of a Dream


within surreal dream,
my consciousness floats
dangling between
reality and fantasy as
a pendulum in sway,
life seems a fleeting array
of distorted images
etched by imagination,
as opaque becomes abstract
transparency is misted
by the dewdrops of fancy.

in chimerical avenues
of distorted misconceptions,
the mind sojourns
confounded entirely by
hallucinations and delusions,
warding away into the straits
of labyrinthine catacombs,
away from banks of
a flagrant, vibrant reality.

a nascent sliver of reality
lingers on the gossamer visage
of fluorescent surrealism,
and clawing at this straw
consciousness seeks in vain to
emerge from procellous realms
of grotesque nightmare
of schizophrenia…



lost in obscure,
serpentine alleys of
surreal daydreams,
that engulf a moment
like dew grasped within
closing fronds of
touch-me-not leaves,
she sighs moist patches
on the visage of
clear window panes.

her imagination
is a gossamer veil akin
to mist of winter’s threshold,
that drapes some instant
that plays truant from
realms of reality,
groves of veracity,
to recline on cassock
of bittersweet fantasy.

in these moments
of escape from life’s sojourn
wishes blossom, desires flower
the incense of hope
seeps into the pores of skin
to enter marrow
of existence,
this is a bubble from
fluid of molten rainbow
and liquid moonbeams
that bursts after a moment
yet leaves lingering
dew of whimsical smiles.

like feathers of a dove,
peppered confetti in arms of
aromatic autumnal breeze,
the etched stardust trail of
a falling comet on indigo,
the song of a robin in flight,
blossoms of hursingar
daydreams are transient
fabrications of whimsy
that leave a lurking smile
or a twinkle of hope
in eyes long disillusioned…

A Rendezvous With Crescent Moon…


crescent moon2

the moon is a silver sliver
perched over lapels of blackberry nights,
a brooch on nocturnal bosom
like fragment of wilted dream lurking
in vacuous ambiguities of night sky,
a cloudy quilts cuddle
it in soft cotton-wool realms,
a flickering smile of the night
seeking to dilute its morose overtones.

we together shared a rendezvous of silence
as it alit on ripples of grappa bay
its countenance wreathed in tired wrinkles,
we shared roasted peanuts
sprinkled in rock salt and pepper
munching our elusive togetherness in quietude
sipping hot cocoa aromas
with chocolate-addicted tongues
licking away molten mustaches
from upper lips coated in sweetness,
as the night flowed gently
as a river epitomizing quiet grace.

wearing lunar crescent in raven mane
night preens in lake’s mirror,
as a coquette wearing starry tiara~
I and the moon share stimulating dialogue
talking of shooting stars leaving
stardust footprints in argent stilettos,
to prophesy the moods of morrows,
of sultry scents of blooming jasmine
destined to perfume threshold of dawn,
of frenzied moths in salsa
beneath jaundiced sheen of street lamps.

swapping smiles we played with fireflies–
crooning lullabies of fluorescence,
gathering dewdrops from sleeping lotus petals
it was a fragrant moment
when time stood still entranced
until the serenade of falling rain broke
the trance as bursting bubbles,
and you fled to hide under the clouds
only to foolishly drench yourself
in the pouring chill of rain-showers…

crescent moon1