bedecked in night lights
this nubile city beams pleased
darkness, her other.

A fleeting face to face,
serendipitous,
on a humid tropical evening,
was the first time;
it felt like a shower.

But our probing  eyes
must have known better,
they curtly demanded
one more quick look
as we passed
each other;
we were obedience personified!

Then eyes met eyes
many times by chance.
Two birds of passage
found themselves
preening feathers
on the branches of the same tree
chosen in an impulse,
proved so right!

You sit with your crowd
on the side of a long step
one on the flight to the cinema
a favourite spot I learn, later.
The arrow from your eyes
hit it's gleaming point where it should
with such sweet force
as I come down the steps
and I become  a falling feather.

At the shadow of the book shelf
I find you , a pigeon soft  
sitting at the table across me,
making our lonely hearts
speak in the eloquence
of loud thumps
in enforced silence.

But the true meeting
did happen in between--
in that expanding space
of sweet, sweet silence
within us blowing trumpets!

Your eyes were the keys
to open the door to that chamber,
through the keyhole of my heart,
love bled copiously from that impact,
like nectar, which I was
tasting for the first time ever.

None like her, the twentieth time darling of the Oscar
Still Meryl's esteem, a few thought should be scarred,
"An overrated actor" teased irate Trump,
"expects moolah to wear a dress, show oomph"
In spite of the "Streep tease" Meryle is the undisputed "act-star"

Two tumbling Ivans, at least  in him, exist, he could tell
One is soft, easily provoked to pink  goosebumps, all over
When his lady love comes dancing, in a body hugging dress
There is the well known other,visceral,yes, "Ivan the terrible"
At the eruption of ******* frenzy,he who roars like a beast.

Perhaps few more too are on the prowl, all beyond the pale
If he challenges with a firm resolve,they may show up!

To my friends
who can write
fresh-smelling
bouquets of words
with splendid color,
I offer my envy.
Mine are the blunt, stunted words,
rooted in the cracks
in pavement,
or forcing their way
to light around
overbearing rocks.
Some useful
in their own way,
edible or flavorful,
some with a
pedestrian beauty,
but few that one
would bring home in a bunch
with a box of candy.
More appropriate
in a grimy, young fist
crumpled in love,
destined to be vased
in a water glass
by a doting mother,
or shredded petal by petal
for the sake of soothsaying...
he loves me, he loves me not.

I need to read
to seed my mind
with a variety
of strange fantasies,

to inhabit a multitude
of identities
and let disparate ideas
be revealed to me.

I’ll set them free.
scattering all these things
like jig saw pieces
to an unknown puzzle.

Then I will write
A new  fictional
world of words with
truthful purpose.

I will let all prose
flow
letting all poetry go
where my subconscious
wills it.

I will follow fleet of foot behind
barely keeping up
with my quick witted
well read and readied mind.