Winter Moon

Standard

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.

Advertisements

Winter is An Old Woman…

Standard

Winter
is an old woman,
her face mapped in wrinkles
like frostbitten verbs,

She sits
on her haunches at dawn,
gathering citrus-scented dewdrops
from grass blades,
while painting her dreams
as azaleas in watercolors on
hydrangea skies.

Snowflakes
are christmas baubles
simpering treacle smiles in
the lukewarm sunshine,
hung on verdant limbs
of frozen pines,
adorning each silent apostle
in crystalline whispers.

Ladling peppercorn sighs
of fuming soup
on shivering platters
etching gasps of delight,
she sips cappuccinos
with parched lips,
scenting once cinnamon breeze
in caffeine vowels.

Using herbs
like versatile consonants,
of variegated flavors and aromas
sprinkled on bland days,
parsley and cilantro
green onions and garlic~
enhance the taste of existence,
as she spins love-yarns
in the kitchen.

Mists she spins
like gossamer hopes,
to quilt the barren earth
wrapping hibernations in oblivion
to nurture the nascent,
until daffodils awaken
from buried bulbs in springtime.

Sitting afore maple-wood fires,
on her creaking arthritic armchair,
she spins woolen jumpers~
blessing her progeny with warmth,
and indulges in marshmallow reverie
reminiscing of balmy August afternoons,
lingering in memory
as the taste of pickled mangoes
and roasted, buttery peanuts.

Thoughts Brewed in my Kitchen

Standard

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.

moments of november reverie…

Standard

snow on trees

whiplash winds flog
trees denuded by pilferer autumn,
as sugar-flakes fall
from mixed feeling grays, to pepper
landscapes and sweeten
the bitterness of November chill,
with wispy, caramel kisses.

hot chocolate
simmering in warmth
of kitchen strewn in blended aromas,
a lonely cup of cocoa
tries to mellow, to sugarcoat
lingering piquancy of departed fall,
before filling emptiness
of hollow, porcelain throats
to trickle down drooling tongues
as pacifying gulps
of winter’s complacence.

fireplace2

golden glow of flickering amber flames
ablaze in hearth coated in soot
of past years and memories,
casting sepia shadows on bokhara rugs,
as armchairs cuddle duvet quilted moments
festooned with trysts in reverie.