I Dreamed of Mother…


colored tendrils
frozen on distant horizons,
like versicolor yarn
tangled in disarray
~reflecting confusions
of memories mutated
by whimsy of racing eons.

I saw her
face forgotten yet
like a faded photo,

her smile like a wisp of fall
floating in potpourri draught,
or a sliver of silver
on uncompromising black
of fathomless night.

fingers yearned
to caress those contours
chiseled in reverie,
but palsied I stood,
mesmerized as a moth
in lantern light,

while she beckoned
with a promise of embrace
long hankered for.

like a rain-song
her presence satiated
the thirst for maternal love,
as my loneliness
was erased forever and beyond,

I relived those
scanty memories
nostalgia a rolling spool
of precious but elusive
moments captured
like fireflies in
in a crystal bottle,
spread prismatic winks
of delight.

her voice
echoed dwarfing
the distance of lost years,
butterflies fluttered
in a hue-filled fog,
my gaze filled
with anticipation
of love nurtured by love
of a mother
now my shadow…




With years having peeled off
the trunk of existence
like scaling bark of eucalyptuses,
revealing ditch-water realities
beneath silver veneer of invulnerability~
naivete of the juvenile,
myopic fading eyes
find vision along with crow-feet
to acknowledge difference
between shimmering mirages on asphalted lies
and lilting laughter of
a brook benevolently quenching thirst.

Sandpaper mornings
seek to polish tarnished smiles
pasted on visages of insomnia,
as reminiscing hot delicacies from a table
long sold, I gulp down coffee
for both agility and anorexia,
while an angelic smile of innocence
embellishes my drab day in sequins of delight
to fill the emptiness within
with nectarine hope.

Follies of a careless youth
haunt tired days seeking reprieve,
trying to cram insides of racing moments
with activity, I search for oblivion,
for fulfillment in an insipid life~
singed , shriveled and battered.

Once where fluorescent dreams floated,
now umbras of pain fleet,
casting eerie silhouettes on days~
the clock beckons
me an automaton
bleached by circumstances
of hues, aroma and intrigue~
integral for living–as I keep existing
for yet another day
— a meaningless phrase
yet to be erased…

Between Teacups and Clotheslines…


Curls escape like wayward whims
from a stoic bun of stolid indifference,
as sweat beads pepper
furrowed brow of worry
like water droplets on lotus leaves,
trickling down oft to imitate
defrosted sigh of winter,
flowing down glass panes at noon.

Hands wrinkled, weather-beaten,
resembling that of her grandmother
–having endured many a frothy tussle,
wear rings dulled and faded by time
like sepia photographs in dogeared albums,
now wedded to fingers forever
and beyond~ only to be rotated in
fuming moments of urgency.

Within flour canisters she hides
meager savings of bargain and thrift
~ like miser’s gold-pot buried underground,
while she reigns supreme as a sorceress
surrounded by luscious aromas and flavors,
wielding her spatula as a wand
to create magical delights on fire-flames.

Humming fractured lines of lyrics
half-forgotten and fabricated,
she talks oft to herself just to ensure
that her solitude has not maimed
those long learnt conversation skills~
disuse atrophy perhaps?
For dinnertime woes and complaints
are hardly versatile enough
to qualify as a dialogue.

Refereeing squabbles and pillow fights,
absentminded daily appointments with soap operas
just to forget her petty troubles,
while the needle knit patterns of affection
for limbs long outgrown
as she fails to steal moments of respite,
the ticking moments befriend
her insomnia as she ponders
on impending problems
in murmured prayers for survival…

Snippets from a Wallflower’s Life..


within drab vases she displayed
the simplest of wildflowers plucked
not for the exotic uniqueness
she professed to treasure
but to prevent any comparisons
being drawn in beauty,
while her trusty but ugly potpourri
added fragrance.

drawn curtains
and shimmering candlelight,
to concoct an aura of romance
or to spin a reticulum
of silhouettes and mystique
to envelope
her less than average looks
within gossamer allure
of magic and mystery.

with her laconic words
her taciturn attitude she sought
to discourage closeness,
lest informality and warmth
breed contempt for one
who cold never be
but a firefly beneath
velvet skies sequined and bejeweled
in poetic fantasies.

while always blending
into anonymity,
like the shadow which holds
a flame in itsĀ  palm,
she was the calyx in a rosebud~
holding the petals together,
the silence which enhances
sweetness of a lark’s melody.

retstraint and stoic control
defined her,
she was a wallflower
who was too scared to yearn
for ephemeral fragrance,
despite her thirst to breathe
redolence into bland breeze
like the bowers of flowers
she has always secretly envied…

Life of a Flower


flowers smile in
the cascading sunshine
of volatile gold
and weep dewdrops
under night’s facade
of moonlit oblivion,

they droop at dusk
when the daylight begins
to fade and clouds express
their thoughts of adieu
by masquerading as
versicolor christmas flyers.

swaying to rhapsody
of the redolent zephyr,
they wink flirtatiously at
dainty butterflies and moths,
and sigh with envy
at glowing array of fireflies.

withering away
after a fragrant spell on verdure,
the flowers leave behind
a acerbic fruit of rawness
to ripen on boughs of life,
while the petal fall over earth
in a scented breath of devotion,
gradually mingling in humus.

flowers are alive
needing water and sunshine,
they have sentiments
responding to care and tenderness
their scented breaths
of affection wafting in wind,
are eulogies scribed in
appreciation of nature…

Yearning for Sepia Yesteryears…


I yearn to return
and traipse along those straits
sepia and serpentine
strewn in chiaroscuros spun
on boughs of flamboyant mesua,
riddled in raindrops
blasphemed by muddy puddles
and echoing in muted whispers
of scarlet palash petals
peppering silent mornings,
where rainbow fantasies of youth
sequined my nights
and childhood slowly altered
to blossom into juvenile desires.

where the chartreuse muteness
of tea leaves pregnant
in piquant syllables of aroma,
is unruffled by garrulous dialogue
of golden sunrays~
chirping after being laved in dew
and blue hills that fringe
obscurities of distant horizons
in their curves and contours
dusted in dawn’s golds
argent moonlight dreams
and fingerprints of reverie
of a long lost childhood,
still stand reminiscencing about
a naivete long molted off.

those days were
a grey monotone emblazoned
on cloudy sighs of cerulean heights,
the garbled poetry of sparrows
mingling with verses muttered by doves
to change blue moods
of tempest’s monotonous songs,
my giggles as I threw
my umbrella to the winds’ whims
and danced in falling rain,
those broken lyrics scattered
by my idiosyncrasies in the shower
and that sigh of delight
as I munched on orange popsicles
still linger somewhere
in that place I lived.

those trees which shared
my first love confessions,
their complacence aiding my decisions
as I hesitated and dallied,
the wildflowers in pink
that I picked and filled in
vases of loneliness,
to make solitude fragrant,
the hursinghars whose redolence
composed the aubade
of cerise dawns in flagrant bloom,
are still there adding magic
to someone else’s adolescence
while in a sunburnt land
sighing in heat waves
I dream of mists and rainfall.

Truck Driver’s Versatile Reflections…


siting in my self assumed cockpit
I measure the stretching elastic trail
on whirling tires,
never ending is this sojourn
except for when I siesta
on lumpy seats like the sun
taking respite beneath cloudy quilts,
or play truant as the moon
lolling over foliage hammocks,
to recline over hard jute charpoys.

I envy the sun and the moon
whose sojourn ends in timely fashion,
while mine ends to mood-swings of milestones
beaded along the gravel trail,
alone with my own company I befriend
the ditches and coal tar,
with diesel being my lifeline,
I must and I do race along
the serpentine road which goes
nowhere but takes me everywhere.

as that withered leaf of fall,
burnished and tinted in gold I am
the loitering gypsy destined to fly to
the moods of the wind of fate,
tanned and weather-beaten by life,
I ferry goods to their destination
going everywhere and belonging nowhere–

yes, I have a home somewhere,
beyond the hills in a tiny village where
my wife awaits my return
and my children grow without my love
I go there when the sun completes
on whole revolution to be
with them for but a small interlude
returning always to my real home
this endless, stretching road…