Rule of Survival…


sitting on seashore
at twilight hour beneath
cornflower skies~
freckled in fleeting clouds,
I watched cavorting tides
form turrets of false hopes–
only to be shattered
into splattered brine-droplets.

sea gulls shrieked in
language unknown to my ears~
imitating fish wife’s noisy rancor,
and palm trees danced
to the cerulean threnody,
while a dying sun~
eagerly gobbled by
the vociferous sea-waves,
left the skies covered
in fuchsias and wisterias.

in this soothing panorama,
I sat with a storm hurling within
trying to bring tempestuous emotions
within stoic control,
but raging sentiments for once
refused to be subdued,
just then mercurial mood
of weather changed
and I saw the docile clouds gather
on once serene sky
like gathering fury inside me.

a frown was etched
on the brow of tranquility,
thunder raged and winds went insane
howling and squealing
like a banshee,
waves tandem went berserk
and sea gulls leaped for cover,
while on the geometric rock ashore
I found myself within
the eye of a storm,
I saw the sky smeared in kohl
the hues of crepuscule erased,
and watched as giant palms
bowed to raging winds.

sitting there
drenched to the bone
I watched as tide and trees both
succumbed to ventose rantings of
the garrulous storm,
I learnt another lesson
on the abacus of tutor nature
that it is better to be cowed
by the indefatigable,
than to fight against it,
this was the rule of survival…


She Brews Storms in Tea Cups


she brews storms

she brews storms in teacups
leaving lipstick stains
on crumpled faces of paper napkins,
after a clandestine kiss
for his wife to discover
where lukewarm bowls
of insipid soup witness their rows
undiluted by mellowed candle light.

storm in teacup

she gathers kohl stains
from crinkled indigo skies at night
to scatter over apple blossom dawns,
tainting radiance of mornings
with her splashes of espresso whimsy,
her mood swings imitate tempest
and she always discovers
cynical amusement in blowing
life’s predicaments out of proportion.

tempest in teacup

a drizzle is a tempest storm
a breeze a cyclone in the making,
she collects golden pollens from meads
to freckle flawless cerise
of aurora’s soft, radiant taffeta
a frown on his face
she must autopsy to build into rage,
she thrives on the dramatic
the superfluous must be made crucial
every day is an opportunity
to build mountains from molehills…

storm in teacup1

Tempest Storm At Dawn…



Dawn was a liquid prelude
echoing in pattering notes on roof tiles,
its water colors washed away
by the deluge of overwhelmed clouds,
and drenched eucalyptuses
swayed like drunken sailors to
resonating music of the flute
of damp, tempest breeze.

With the duvet wrapped around
the lingering warmth of a lost, balmy night,
I sat gazing at the silver showers
riddling the aged, blistered pavements
in ripple-puckered puddles,
while some droplets splatter my face
through half open windows,
like pearls scattered from
the broken necklace of dreams.

Roses nurtured by sunshine
are bathed by monsoons in manna,
breaking with rapture to
kiss the soil in petalled sighs,
on glass panes  aroma of rain
precipitates in misty translucence
like the haze covering
spectacles of memories,

The sword of lightning flashes
while the thunder resounds as trumpet of war,
the earth is an insatiable sponge
absorbing the melodies of vagrant clouds,
the tempest o’erbrims¬†
the emptiness of solitude in
fragments of ambiguous poetry
waiting interpretation from
moments of quiet contemplation.