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.

Bland Are The Moods of Winter

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Benign and blameless~
the mist clad, bland morn of December,
like a lingering gasp of cerise,
yearns for polychromatic epistles
scribbled on canvas of March,

Robbed of lush verdure
after transient lure of burnished golds,
denuded boughs shiver beneath
quilting heaps of winking snowflakes in
the faint honeydew sunshine.

Within frostbitten soil’s depths
the daffodil bulbs slumber
dreaming golden dreams,
while the meads hanker after
colors and fragrances of flowers.

Nights are silent
and draped in mystical fog,
unspeckled in stardust sighs
and the moon finds solace from
nocturnal vigil under
blankets of cotton wool clouds.

Its hues faded, lost, stolen,
a colorless winter
broods in its armchair of nostalgia,
reminiscing of bygone
versicolor springs
golden summers and cinnamon falls…

Snow-Kissed Firs in Winter

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grayish-azure, overcast skies
finger-paint verdure needles of fir
in argent desires and introspections,
smearing their shivering realms
in volatile warmth of memories
of a lost summer dream,
which shimmered like a sequined veil
on the rippling bosom of mute bays
in the blazing sunshine,
and etched transience in form
of chiaroscuros at their feet.

wisps of cotton wool sighs,
drape the silent contours of winter
in frosted, moonlit anticipation,
fir trees eagerly await
festivities scented in myrtle syllables
lit in soft glow of rainbow lamps
and flavored in baking sumptuousness,
where glitter-paper wrapped gifts
are piled under its frozen thoughts.

the winter sun sprinkles
treacle on fir’s frostbitten boughs,
like a baker sugaring bronzed delights
in saccharine sentiments,
the wind sighs chilled sonnets
on window cheeks,
scribbled in gold-dusted alphabets
by wizened fingers of aged westerlies,
to be read by myopic sun
too preoccupied in munching
on snowflakes popsicles.

Alleys of December…

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pine in snow1

within silver boudoir of December,
wrought in shivers of chill
wherein pine trees stand tall
with their aromatic sigh blending
in ladled marmalade of snowflakes
resembling citadels of sublime,
and mornings are like warm treacle
poured on landscape contours.

frosted windows

Boreas howls through boughs
covered in foliage rustles
ailing with frostbite and knocks
with invisible knuckles on windowpanes
bejeweled in honeydew frost,
days are abbreviated sighs of
soft, volatile gold~ warm with
glow of waning embers of nature,

winter sun

sun is a lethargic shadow of
glorious summer sun like gold coin,
the night is freezing and lonely
like a widow weeping
as it gazes at the topaz moon
aglow in her wedding band,
the hanging curtains of mist drape
sublime world in ambiguous oblivion,
only to be melted reluctantly
by geriatric winter sun.

frozen lake 8

lakes are frozen, their ripples caged
beneath shimmering veneers of ice,
trees are devoid of flowers,
nuances of spring yet to brocade
bland, colorless horizons,
twilight is only organza of nature
that abounds in versicolor graffiti,
song of winter in hushed whispers
of falling wisps of snow,
peppers world in frozen syllables…

Moods of a Winter Morning

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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

Winter is an Unraveled Secret…

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wintermorn2

bland days
like blank, crumpled sheets
of muted amnesia,
are bracketed within
parched lip morns cuddled
within warm affections
of cozy mink blankets,
and your honeyed caresses,
twilights abloom in wisterias
and nights echoing in whispers
of flimsy snowflakes,
with a lingering flavor
of sweet peas and mandarins.

daffodils

daffodils are nascent dreams
in slumber under soil
within oblivion of bulbs,
like a pearl inside
oyster’s dark uterus
beneath hurling tides of sea,
or a lunar eclipse
which hides radiance
as a closed fist,
while skies wrinkled in clouds
yearn for topaz blaze
of summer sun and hues of fall
emblazoned both as
prologue and epilogue of
chapter of daylight.

cherry blossoms

a tired yawn
sighed over stale sheets
on mornings clad in powder puffs
of milky, opaque mists,
is an epitome of winter
which is ache of frozen limbs
melted by borrowed heat
from furnaces aflame in cinders,
it is faded memory of old age
strewn in sepia fragments,
transience of cherry blossoms
withered in abbreviated moments
from fingers of longevity,
are like winter daylight
brief and mellow, fringed
in blackberry nights.

Thoughts Brewed in my Kitchen

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tea leaves bleed
aromatic synonyms in water
as it bubbles to fill
piquant anticipations in gaze
of lethargic, mist-draped winters,
poured into chiseled transparencies,
insinuating russet delights
of sweet apple cider.

cookie crumbles
voicing soft innuendoes
of honeyed pleasures,
unheeded by a tongue rolling
in hurriedly munched bites
tinged in caffeinated sips
as preoccupations enshroud
sensibilities of an overwrought mind.

as currency crisp afternoon
crumble like stale scones,
into twilights crocheted in wildflowers,
warming cold-numbed fingers
over brewing warmth of coffee
I rifle through lists of ingredients
needed for impending supper.

appetizing breath of curry
fills the blandness of shivering nights,
preening in starry tiarras,
as moments shell and crunch
their oxymoron moods
like fire-kissed peanuts,
seasoned in finger-licking spices
luring gluttony from
routine monotony of dinner table.

ice-creams relax
their realms undiluted by winter nights
cuddled in snowflake sighs,
while hot chocolate sauce laces
their frozen dreams in passion,
and chilled spoonfuls
are gulped in rapture
to frill cold in icy pleasures.