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.


Untitled Vignettes of Morning


sigh of verdant song
of spring reflected
in sparkling visage
of morning dew,
is like naive whisper
of a juvenile dream
yet to unfurl
its chatreuse realms
to mandarin sun.


a sleepy bay
stretches lazy limbs
at dawn to erase
lingering kohl of insomnia
from vision of melting moon,
painting the sky’s complacence
in tangering moods
of cider-lorn fall.


silver epistles are scribbled
on transparencies
of window’s intrigue,
in braille of beaded frost
as a prelude to
snowclad sublime of
an introverted january morn.


cerulean fingers
of brine wriggle
in delighted anticipation,
eagerly rising and falling to
try and touch
the distant skies,
splashing sun’s frowns
in wistful fluidities.

Elegy to a Lost Morn…


the morning blessed
in fluid graffiti poetics,
bursting as photon sprinkles
from a rising sun
stretching aureate limbs
over vain breasts of blue hills,
sighs a fragrant aubade
over the dozing landscapes.

lurking vestige
of crescent moon on azure,
is like a lingering dreamy sigh,
a faded arc of eucalyptus skin
glued over splattered acrylics,
the pole star glows
like winter’s orphaned ember,
a radiant beacon of relentless hope
or just a voyeur eye
of the long erased inky night.

the lemon blossoms
freckled in sparkling dew shake
wet faces to dry citrus petals,
night jasmines wither
to salt grass blades in perfume,
and frangipani with
glowworms fisted in sublime depths
seek to adorn morns in smiles.

but shriveled as
a muted, sepia autumn song,
its garrulous words
replaced by placid silences,
the morn of honeyed benedictions
is tainted in pollution’s fumes,
bruised and smudged,
its purity blasphemed, molested
as a virgin’s chastity,
by callous talons and fangs
of a bedeviled, haunting phantasm,
she is a lost dream
yearning for rejuvenation,
from indifferent faces…

Moods of a Winter Morning


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

She Blushes in Apple Blossoms


apple blossoms1

on flamingo february mornings,
a lecherous winter sun
winks broadly at cerise dawn
as it stretches golden limbs
between ancient hills
tinted in amber shadows,
by winter’s eloquent whimsy.

apple blossoms3

she is innocence
a nascent whisper blooming
in spring’s boudoir,
scented in wistful dreams
~an embroidered song
on blue bonnet skies’ organza
by sunshine needles
wielded by nimble breeze.

apple blossoms4

river borrows pink aubade of dawn
reflecting it in fluid, rippling lyrics
singing its own version
framed in silver asters of daylight,
drowsy lilies open crinkled eyes
to read this poetry writ in soft pinks
adding couplets of her scented syllables.

apple blossoms2

prima dona orchids yawn
in redolent epistles in early hours
wearing her night gown
of abstract candy-floss sighs,
and wakes to hurriedly change
in pink silk gowns
to preen on sinuous stalks
as the reigning queen of march…

apple blossoms

I am a changing dream…



I am chilled sigh
of blazing hearths of january,
scented in burnished whispers
from incinerated maple-wood,
and wafting warmth
from bittersweet cups
of frothy cappuccinos,
my veil spun by ancient hills
as translucent fogs,
my realms bejeweled in frost~
never tasted by
an anorexic, wizened sun.


I am confusion of february
a confluence of snowflake’s monologues
and daffodils golden giggles,
cuddled in honeyed sunshine
reminiscent of lukewarm saffron milk
sweet, scented and mellow,
a moment dozing in time’s grasp
forgotten as a caterpillar
nascent within its chrysalis
its butterfly flutters hibernating.


I am fragrance of march
exhaled by tulips,
the breath of lilacs hanging
as a divine promise
on thresholds of drowsy morns
I am withering hope of roses
marauded by spring showers,
exotic incense of orchids
wafting in sunshine,
psalms of worship echoing
from variegated lips
abloom in redolent meads.


I am the laughter of april,
reflected in sparkling gait
of a mischievous brook,
skipping on silver stilettos
on shingle scattered
like marbles in her path,
the days singed at corners
like marigold petals,
when winter slowly fades
with blankets cozying up
alongside moth ball piquancy
and summer blossoming
with flowers of mango trees.


I am the sultry breath of may,
with a sublime sun stealing
the chill from marble footsteps,
day like scribbled poetry~
a blend of shadows
and twilights strewn in
melodies strummed
on quixotic banjos of crickets,
while noons are parched words
thirsting for lemonades.


I am the clarity of june,
scented in ripeness of alphonsos,
molten serenade of distant blue hills
echoing in cascades
on velvet shod geometrics,
I am the rarity of china roses
speckled on verdure hedges,
my moments like acrylic graffiti splashed
rainbow wings worn by butterflies
writing sonnets in nectar.


I am the liquid treacle of july
poured over cobblestones
in silken symphonic fluidities,
the murmured epistles of
gypsy clouds writ in ripples
on muddy face of earth,
I am the bipolar moods of azure
an exuberant sunshine
mingling with grey overtones
of a mixed emotion tempest.


I am the whimsy
of august sunshine
oft enveloped
by monsoon clouds,
my chiaroscuro silences
tinted in tempest grays,
and trumpet of rowdy thunder,
with soft reverberations
of fluid melodies
brocaded on potholes
in musical ripples.


I am complacence of september
a subtle metamorphosis
molting myself in yellowed foliage,
an array of hours aromatic
with potpourri and flavored in
sweet gulps of apple cider,
a honeydew sun leniently smiling
over trail rustling in old songs,
and a butter bowl moon
perched on autumnal beggary,
as alms of benevolent, indigo skies.

autumn twilight

I am brooding gaze of october
piled under boughs in tangerine,
tasting like crisp crackers
on the palate of consciousness,
I am a bronzed whisper
like baking cinnamon rolls,
my crepuscules withering in
burnt scales on indifferent roads,
mornings like placid hymns
reverberating in temples,
and nights like princess tiaras.


I am caress of november days
acronymed between elastic nights,
tinted in volatile golds
tasting like latte afternoons
flavored in sweet choco-chip cookies,
dew peppered salmon dawns,
scented in wisteria
and nights like lingering taste
of wine in crystal minutes,
with a muffler clad moon
pouring chianti on chilly soil.


I am snow-song on december
scattered in mute pearls on life,
my words muffled, my tune fractured
draping quietude in expectancy,
days like sepia reminiscences
from dogeared yesteryears,
nights like forgotten emptiness
with a lazy moon asleep
under blankets of vague mists,
and stars reluctantly
grumbling on their long vigils,
trees adorned in silver jewels.

Citrus Blossomed Mornings…


lemon blossoms

a tempest doused sun
sits outside on cloudy armchairs,
drying limp,blond locks
in the rain-kissed breeze,
watching innocence splash
in puddles to splatter mud on
faint echoes of rain-song
reverberating as violin strains
resounding even after
versicolor epilogue of rainbows
hung on horizon’s threshold.

citrus blossoms sigh
psalms on cerise pedestal of dawn,
whispered lines of poetry
breathed into a silent draft,
caress drowsy eyelids of slumber
like petal-soft touch
of elusive daydreams,
pouring into harshness tortured ears
as soothing,honeyed symphonies.

naked feet on dewy grass,
imbibe ambrosia of nature’s embrace
as nostrils inhale deep breaths
of scented zephyr,
and inquisitive sunbeams sneak
through raven strands
weaving a halo for her face,
enhancing sparkle of her smile.

picking night jasmine
as testimonies of hymeneals
of daylight and moon-sheen at ughten,
she captures withered lemon flowers
in curious palms
breathing in citric fragrance,
but these piquant flowers
like the laughter of snowflakes
are not suitable for temple’s pedestal,
destined to be momentarily sniffed
and forgotten on dewy grass blades
like shattered dreams…