Saudade

            Picture Courtesy: Ghosts from the Past

A hundred hues had the winged winter-tide
when your wonderful name was all I owned.
I'd once owed you my canvas crimson-toned,
yet dearest, you are no more by my side.
What fortitude has Fate, emerald-eyed,
to finagle hearts of fire, have souls stoned;
take you away, leave me ivory-boned?
Blossoms that bore all blows, no longer bide.

Memories do bring you to this maimed bed,
yet I crave you as God would long for gongs.
Grey is my world for I have still not bled
many tears or truths or hopes or songs.
Lord let me die and shroud me but unwed
lest my soul should reach not where it belongs.

Siesta

                    Picture Courtesy: Google

The fervid fumes of a summer noon;

the opaque zest of a sky stark,

crept like synonyms of 'spark'

into the eyes and made me swoon.

Faraway from trills and tune,

under Humility's archaic arc,

I napped, a sapling sans a bark;

I slept with my silver spoon.

But Aye! The Succubus came so soon,

drowning dreams and limping a lark;

dooming the day to a dismal dark.

And Oh! The Sibyls no longer croon!

Lost are those nimble Nymphs that hark.

Yet in its face I float; I hope to paint an Ark.

Meera's Muse

           Picture Courtesy: Google

The garish eve defied its span,
swallowing night in its stride.
Amazed, she gazed at the bride,
who eclipsed a coy caravan. . .

The groom, his brow dripping tan,
stood by a mare of golden pride.
The maiden rose; "Mother", she cried,
"Who is going to be my man?"

"Look there", the amused queen began,
"Kaanha is your groom, you're his bride;
turn to him when your tears have dried!"

Entranced, the princess divined this plan;
slender hands caressed the idol, deified-
cried Meera to the muse, "I am your bride!"

A Sonnet in Flames

                 Picture: My Own Canvas        

The drunken gaze of Night befell,
on a lonesome angel breathing blue.
Twice she tossed as drops of dew,
fled her eyes and wrecked her shell.

The wanton watcher rose from its tomb,
dropped its robe of black and gold,
crept into her heart; its feet so cold-
and gave a hope to her hapless womb.

Long after Lust had limped its lyre,
travails trilled in the angel's gut.
Night was lost; its eyes shut-
Dawn placed her on destiny's pyre.

And there she lies still, to burn an eternity-
to burn and to mourn; to earn her certainty.