Esther

Her picturesque laughter, resplendent with roses, and doves, 
and gleaming sparks of stars flitting about, up high above,
resembling shoals of silvery fish darting, splashing around,
amidst thin branches of cedars spread out like sidewalks of Rome,
criss-crossing the skies, as tufts of wind startle them, and the leaves, 
that nod in exultation, brushing her face – this vague silhouette
of a woman – a stranded poreclain vase – left in the woods, soaking
the obscene, saccharine richness of the dank Prussian blue, but
with a blushing, feminine softness brought to the blend.
Esther stands alone, mothered by the seas, bathed in some antique,
pearly luminescence, that extends back to the stars. She erases herself
in the deep trees, as the wind drops, and the music empties the air. 

#For my new friend, Esther.

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Sipping coffees

Sipping coffees
by roadside pavements
at a cozy table
made for two
hugging warm
our coffee mugs
your solace – a velvety latte
my desire – a cappuccino
steaming hot
just like our love
sunken under
dollops of cream
I try to gulp it down in one go
you want to savor it in little sips
– a spillover
of brimming desires,
of lustful aromas,
of carnal love,
like sugar-cube icebergs floating
lost in themselves
blending together
sweetening our cups
you wink at me
you doe-eyed girl
with foam covered lips
somewhat bitter
somewhat sweet

yours eyes – a bit of darker shade
like dark onyxes
lost in space
mine – a bit of brilliant topaz
that turn orange
in the afternoon glaze
I look closely again
at your youthful eyes
as I undress
your lovely soul
and we speak silences
just when your
cute face leans in

closer to mine
lessening distances
between our hearts
and your coffee eyes
keep tickling mine

I see in them – me
– a tiny reflection sparkling
that makes me feel at home
and we recommence
sharing s
weet
hot coffee breaths.

#An old poem re-shared

Snapshot of a wet evening

The crimson dusk slips in slow, cutting marshes to shadows, 
pouring from the skies a compelling tang of twilight dampness,
and a quivering emptiness that moves among patches of blades
of fermented grasses, and lily pads, and sacred pink lotuses
that keep unfurling crowns of golden stamens – up, cloudwards, 
signalling notes of intimacy that oft’n accompany pious evenings,
to souls eavesdropping into symphonies of rustic solitude – weightless
in space – like random tongues of the universe – untranslatable,
yet familiar. I listen to the brewing pond, and grey pebbles murmuring,
learning patience from the venerable old snails that speak no more.

#Random

White Elephant

Succinct verses decaying, dissolving,
like footprints of time fading o’er melting ice caps,
evanescing lyrical utterances of a dead ink
spilled over into a green lake,
while language vanishes like white plumes of breath.
A textual history lying deceased,
nebulous rumors now inanimate,
a careless contempt of pain,
a mishmash of conflicting rules:
all withering like adamantine – cautiously slow.
Soft margarine bodies lying buried underground,
growing hard and brittle, like a handful
of shriveled leaves, 
once pliant, docile, now dry:

hard’s the companion of death.
The lubricity of things dear, firmly grasped

but slipping through fingers;
old earth absorbs it all in necrophiliac love,
scattering everything to dust, while you sit there
sipping life’s gall, 
waiting for your turn. 

#an old poem re-shared
#Apology for not reading your posts (if I used to)! Things have kept me busy!
#A new side-blog: rishuscribbles

***

Wet Junes

warm summer mists douse
peachy suns dangling high, like
melons in the sky!

#This one’s for you, Orange, will make you smile. lol. Get well soon!

A figure in the rain

A vintage hourglass silhouette, a warp and weft
of timeless existence, sweeping waves — of the incessant
susurrus of hushed voices, and 
almond sands oozing,
from that hyper-feminine, elegant visage — granular,
proceeding in bits, an opium to senses, like a mushed
sonata, or an intoxicating poison —  which she wields, 
unintentionally. A thermometer heats up, but it’s raining
cold below the olive 
clouds of trees, and the lush
foliage that strains, 
and filters, bloated raindrops
to something pure, 
as they glide through exuberant lengths
of fabrics that line, and ruffle her skin, 
dappled in
mirthful colors, a tangling of lighthearted prints, un-weaving
dreams that fall gently all around, binding me with her,
and that which billow like wet paint brushes – or, like bristling thistles,
moving, pricking — making everything come alive, back from sleep.

#Random-fiction

***

Get well soon

wind-tossed poppies waft,
scribe wishes on clouds adrift,
of warm “Get-well-soon”s.

#A Haiku for my sweet, and kind friend, N.
***

Colourless

A sea swell of fondness slipped in through
the happy window, as the daybreak cast nets
of the marine haze, o’er sunken, sagging rooftops,
and the listless apathy that blinds her face.
She’d grown older, but muter — an ugly wreckage
— with each passing storm — this rosy girl of twenty-six,
cloaked in the brilliance of a carcass
from head to toe; she saw slavery in everything,
where he saw love;
she saw the cottages in dirty tones: in shades
of black, some vibrant, some dark, while he tried
to bear her petulance, and acrimony,
in a milk of human benevolence, indulgently, as one bears
the caprices of a sullen child. She never felt at home
for as long as he could remember, but he’d seen her
shoot rainbows, once, with her winsome laughter, that’d sliced
the blues crashing against the infinite,

capsizing the sea and the vernal sky, but those rainbows
now lay burning like wartime bridges — charred,
ashen in monochromes that blent with the darkness
inside of her. It’s not enough to cover despair
with colors when there are no rainy days.

#Random Fiction
#Word-prompt by M

Losing to time

He wipes away the dust from her freckled face, as she smiles
lovingly at him — like always, coaxing him to sleep on her lap,
where time also slept, as it does in all photographs. He found her
between the pages of an ancient album, imprisoned
in silver bromide — apocryphal memoirs of time — a haze of nostalgia
that cushions the relics of past. These photographs of her, of roses,
of damp tea-stalls, where frisky, old chaps trotted, around the old-age home,
and dim lanterns hung, playing with shadows from the east’s receding veil,
lay silent like a patient Saharan afternoon.

A vacuity swooned upon him, as a world formed in his head, and he lost 
tracks of people who’d faded away, their scent-spoors drifting — hushed —
like contrails hanging in the blue, merging slowly with winds
that scrape and tittle-tattle secrets of sullen back-alleys
with blood-stained pavements where old scores’re scrupulously settled,
of scented candle wicks snuffed with a spittle — inside sacrosanct war rooms
— that foster cataclysm, and reek of stuffy rumors of realpolitik that brew
holocausts of greed, — and where history’s re-imagined, — everyday.
He felt the blankness stretching ahead, stretching on all sides; the leaves
of his pages seemed to have blown away. 

#Random Fiction
***

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