Further down the river
is a quiet island,
my hideout in days of yore
when love as a narcotic
seeped in to my blood streams
coursing wildly to the beat
of my thumping heart.
Tides from the estuary
never touch its shores
waters are wave-less there,
nature is at her fecund best.

We rowed and rowed
but found nothing there,
turbulently lashing waves
told us a story different
from the one  for long
in my mind encapsulated.
I stood for a moment, accepting defeat
and felt  the maelstrom of time
swirling around, emphasizing on
the irrevocability of  the things past.

From where does this pain come?

Once close to my heart,
the island in my mind's stream,
though I left behind and
swam forward not to look back,
is still there, though not here in space.

A festoon of larks swing across a spire of clouds.

Watch as the sun
Slowly slides over the horizon
Leaving behind a touch of
Pearly pinks, dusky purples
And vibrant hues of red
Ah there,
Battered dreams quickly wither
Darkness settles in,
The crystal envoys
Paint a portrait of
Pure serenity



Hope is reborn
Our destinies are within our
Reach as our dreams soon
Come to realization
It's a beautiful ambiance
And the solid gold
Paints over the Eastern side
And it's overwhelming beauty
Is welcomed by those
With expectations of
Bettering their present

Sun drenched wild grass, in an ecstatic swirling dance-
didn't forget to tell this boldly to her lover, eager to please her:
"gentle breeze, how tantalizingly you caress and titillate,
but to tell the truth, I'll long still, for a robust wind, an ace pollinator."

A leaf, delicate and torn,
Wafts in the caul of autumn
Like a whisper in a blooming
Crowd and only the smoking
Sun knows the ***** of dreams.
Where in the whirled is wisdom,
As a breath so fairly as the fallen
Wakes without wake nor wonder?
Where in the fork of fawn, innocent
Fold, the gentle does, of the burning
Forest, is silence mute?  Where is a light,
In that hold, what rising colour is buried in
The frozen gleam of the golden and forgotten
Seam and swoon of sweet ephemeral summer?

The coquettish full moon, on a cloudless clear sky,
apple of the eyes of lovers from far and wide,
impishly wicked you are, in that avatar enticing
your eyes seek only the one for whom your heart beats for.
At times you are an anorexic crescent wearing a misty veil,
flirting with fluffy clouds, you make each one go  crazy
Curiously I behold the village belle simple, peeping out-
of the window of her cottage, waiting for the lover,
who comes at odd hours with palpitating heart
My love, you are one of a kind, displaying myriad faces
an enchanting presence, I crave, each moment, in whatever form
how could I ever prescribe the way your love to reach me
your love is my never setting moon,
                                      whichever way you choose to express.

Pitch dark night
mutely complains against starlight,
fireflies, moon beams and each spec of light
seeping in from galaxies lost in billion year dreams

The greatest injustice,
in the voice of wind, night murmurs
is light that makes discordant notes
marring the spellbinding orchestra conducted by darkness
extending softly like a drapery of silk, all over the world
rising and falling to an invisible baton's moves, swift or slow.

But her reign, she forgets, is only till sun comes
riding his chariot and seamlessly continue
drowning the music of darkness,
completely in his tenor of light touching alto soon enough

I was with the ocean last night and your body
Was its vessel, overflowing.  Words were frail,
Drops indwelling about the shapeless sky,
Water reaching for its own height and breath,
Like touch, were as desperate letters exchanged,
Endlessly read, until like loamy vellums, they
Disappeared in our hands.  Inklings of tide-
Pool and driftwood.

                               My blood was a river that ran
Its course.  Members feeding your deltas and birds
Breeding where the water-russet sheds on pampas
And inverness.  Eyes like wing through ever—
Green, empties the fossil shell.  Fire, brimming
Mountaintops that were, for countless millennia,
Sleeping.  Did I mention that the earth moved?
No?  Her displacement was involuntary.

Then came the waterfalls, lifting throughout
Time.  The scent, searching for its identity,
The wave, calling to its own name— Ocean,
O— cean.  And flowers, opening like galaxies
In the after-light.  A universe of face and hand
With hunger for salt-rain and then the cloud
Burst-blue and spilt and spun more redolent,
Deities, in joyous creation.

I breathe, in your ocean, like a child unborn.

Stars in dust wasteland,
Seen once, every seven years,
Desert flowers bloom.

The bud feels a nip,
tender,soft, by naughty mist's
creeping fingers of desire,
defying the diktat
of  the  morning sun.
The flower within
folded under a cover
bustling to come out,
refuses to remain coy and inert.
She is unabashedly eager
for more intimate touches
by the swirling playful mist
that seems to have
a hundred fingers.
Each touch has
made her bold,
expectant, she blushes.
Quickly awakened
from slumber, she'll
wait till evening light,
fades in the garden,
when her eager lover
will again make waves,
in the air, drawing  
forms with smoky vapor.
Moving mist will tickle her
till the morning light
that has a keen eye
on this child of rose bush
in his care,
drives the amorous mist afar.