red petals of a rose
starting to collapse
under the weight
of light rain,

the perfections of
a summer sky,

leaves brushed
by sunlight
and patchy shadow,

the wind’s ghosts
fading to nothing,

the wind’s ghosts  
the blues of an august
sky.

Beggar gets a life
After saving one
Writer gets a life
After losing one

When all hope is lost
But for a sliver of light
In the form of an Angel
From Spain

He saw her unconscious
He saw her fuming
He calmed her
Troubled mind

She lives on
With that chimera
Of a goodbye hug
Or was it one that said:
Hello?

Beggar gets a life
After saving one
Writer wins a life
Writing to
Her Angel of Spain

Of all thoughts
Good and bold
Of all thoughts
Clean and right

Of all means
Clear of sorrow
Of all things
High and low

Honey
May i give you
A reverse hug?

He stands still
Opens up his arms
For her
To embrace him
From behind

As she lay her head
Between his shoulderblades
Listening to the murmur
Of his heart.

Somewhere in the realms
between transcendence
            and desire
where the power of change
always takes us higher
there walks a poetess,
who writes in spirit's muse
her words curling up and out,
                    wisps of smoke
                        in celestial hues          
She walks slowly
through the heavens
bringing down
slices of enchanted spells
and we can feel the pull
of her grounding chants
right down to
        our very cells
Her words reflect the workings
of a potently spiritual mind
connected to emotions
in a binding so divine,
into darkest ocean depths
she brings forth points of light
and wherever she steps
no matter where she goes
one feels her soul, so bright
as it lifts us up into the spheres
of music and words,
spiraling in whorls
where dust
             and magic merge
and as she walks through green,
through mountains, rivers, forest
her essence often glows
in heat and coolness,
in rush of creative flow
And yes, while we feel
this journey, these seeds
being so beautifully sown
we can take those
words of wisdom
and apply them
         as our own

I didn't see her for three days

then she was back
but her color was not

where her hair parted
was starkly arid
on her forehead
wasn't the dot of red
and her saree was bleached white

yet nothing was amiss
she intently scaled the fishes
cut them neatly into pieces
though a piece of her went missing

She knows well
for no price
can she stop the sale.