An November Morning


An orphaned moon
lingers as an un-wiped tear
on bland brim of ughten,
as night blends into nothing~
scattering night-jasmines
on the bosom of sleeping earth.

azaleas, carnations n’ orchids,
blossom is fragrant celestial bowers
on sapphire clarities,
a perplexed sun awakens
with aureate yawn pulling
flimsy curtains of candyfloss clouds.

morning breeze sprinkles
dewdrops on sleepyhead roses~
a mother getting her children
out of bed and streaming dreams.

dewy grass tickles freshness
on her nude soles,
as she basks in warm treacle sunshine
photons are sequined on
tangled hair like wayward thoughts
to spin halos in early light.

tea leaves bleed
burnished fluidities in water,
and mixed with lemon juice
it leaves a citrus kiss emblazoned
on her thirsty lips,
as she savors untasted flavors
of a naive morn,
crisp as a golden croissant.

Epistles Scribbled in Tea Leaves Aromas…


a caffeine addicted dewy morn
sniffs at faint aroma
exhaled by simmering tea leaves
in a lecherously whistling teapot,
her eyes closed against
misty lipstick dreams,
arms stretched in coral embrace,
a stale yawn like
dredges of last night’s coffee,
tasting bitter within chapped lips.

scribbling ambiguities
on sublime parchments of thoughts,
like crayons doodling
wavelengths on cloudy opalescence
at frangipani dawns,
I scribe epistles addressed in
envelopes of anonymity,
about swirling concentric feelings~
as liquid colors bled in
brewing saucepans in cinnamon golds.

writing out pent up, pregnant silences
into hopscotch calligraphy
of alphabets, I unload my grievances,
unanswered questions, snippets of intuition
and confusions on frailties
of translucent paper,
concocting myriad scribbles scented
in citrus droplets, crushed ginger
and blended spices~
bay leaf,cardamom and cinnamon,
syllables of potpourri autumn,
reminiscent of tea gardens
who mutely witnessed my cerebrations.

relating memories garnered
down life’s bittersweet odyssey,
peeping from within ancient diaries
and forgotten sepia snapshots,
incidents favoring blandness
of routine existence,
facts learnt and fiction savored
in cognitive jigsaws,
I pen myself on sterile blankness
breathing fertility like
flowing waters of rippling rivers.

warming frostbitten sensibilities,
like frozen fingertips
revived by hot, russet lemon tea sips,
flavored in honeyed sun rays,
I pour myself on crumpled sheets
with ink of insomniac nights,
while sinuous steam stains
the clarity of crystal moonbeams
in grayish wafts of aroma
and my poetry is tapestried
in syllables on pothole faces,
as monsoon which crooned lullabies
and aubades for my childhood…