October

The yonder hills look like
The birthday cake with green topping.
My eyes were swimming in the ocean
Of the sky's infinite blue.
Autumn golds are melding together
Sepia toned with a tint of brown,
Rustling leaves look like the lips
Of girls singing in a chorus.
There's our favorite coffee shop
Where our hearts will beat in 'mocha lattes'.
And, yes, as you say, this is HAPPINESS!

© Portia Burton

Me and My Muse

The dusk has fallen, it is getting dark,
Alone and nervous I wander in the park,
The breeze is cold and has started to bite,
Everything is gloomy, nothing seems right.

Now comes wafting a  scent  that I know,
And in an instant my eyes start to glow,
Lo, there she is! A goddess in every way,
Has the breeze stopped in awe of her sway?

She is my muse,  heavenly  and  glorious,
Friendly as  a fairy, albeit mysterious.
Her tresses glisten around her angelic face,
She comes to me in her lovely grace,

Like a charged spirit I rush to her,
How ardently we meet each other!
In her calm eyes I find my solace,
But she gets dissolved in our embrace,

I submit to her and through our union,
I realize that we are not two but one!

© Portia Burton

Granny's Cottage

I am visiting my granny's cottage
Some time after her sad demise,
I hold my breath on the threshold
As her memories flood my mind.
Without going inside I can see
Each room of this tiny cottage:
The front room where she welcomed
Her friends, and even a stray goat.
Her table by the curtained window,
Where she raised her cup of tea
To the rising sun, and to the birch
Whose branches always waved to her.
Her kitchen where she always had
Something delicious only for me,
At least her dainty hand-made cheese.
Her husband's study which remained
Locked even for her darling me,
It was actually a treasured vault
Where the memories of the moments
Which she had shared only with him.
Then her room, her books, her bed,
Where as a child I slept in her arms,
As my mother also may have done,
Reaching for her face with tiny hands,
While drifting away to meet the fairies
On the wings of her magical stories.
And it was there our roles where reversed,
When I had to put her to some sleep,
As she clutched my hand like a child
To find some support while drowning
In the unbearable pain of her sickness,
And it was on that bed I had found her
Sleeping peacefully in the arms of death,
And as per her wish I had prepared for her
From her garden's flowers a clumsy wreath.

© Portia Burton

When I Decided to Love You...

When I decided to love you,
I first charted your sphere,
The orbit of your attractions,
Traced the tendrils of affection
Sprouting from your heart
To see where they finally reach,
Only to find encircled with them.
I then realized it was pertinent
That I should start loving myself
To be worthy of this adornment.

© Portia Burton

My Room

Sorry, my room is totally disorganized:
There are more books of poetry
On the shelves than text books;
Crumpled ***** of paper containing
Unfinished poems jeering at me
Are lying here and there, along with
Some incomplete drawings and paintings
Of wingless birds, truncated trees,
Confused paths ending abruptly
Before reaching any destination;
Dried up brushes coated with colors,
Disheveled like my auburn hair...
Then, in a corner a dusty vase
Squirming with dried, crooked stems
Mourning the petals turned to dust...
And me, circled by an invisible cage
Which prevents me from touching the sky
Which calls me out like an yearning lover...

© Portia Burton

I will accept your flowers...

I will accept your flowers
With a guilty heart
For robbing them of life
Which we can never impart.
I will hold them gently
Close to my chest,
But will they find it worthy
Even for a momentary rest?
from their faint fragrance
I seem to hear their words,
'Why do you pluck us in bloom,
Like you shoot down the birds?
'Tomorrow when we will wilt
You will throw us in the dust,
But the same fate awaits you,
You'll return to dust, yes, you must.

© Portia Burton

Tattoo

I blossomed like a wild flower
That is allowed to grow from its crack
By an ancient moss-covered rock
By softening its stoic arrogance.

I then felt a soft musical strain
Rippling through my tingling veins,
Felt transparent like the morning dew,
Adorned with the sky's ethereal hue,

But just then the moon came up above,
Making me hastily cover my *******,
Lest she should see the tattoo upon my heart
Carved by the soothing singeing of the stars.

© Portia Burton