fuzzy verse

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Sleepy days and
blooming nights —
f i e l d s 
drying out
of fine 
c o f f e e

A nice, slow sip,
tasting some
fancy b e a n s —
a fragrant future 
drawn on my
bitter e s p r e s s o

I stole a puff 
blowing some faint
s m o k e verse —
but your tired eyes
wouldn’t read
f u z z y letters

S l o w words, fake rain,
dripping on
h o p e f u l grass —
some shattered glass
Spilling red ink
onto w e t  p a g e

On sleepy days,
I write a faint
smoke v e r s e —
Our fragrant future 
d r a w n on a
bitter espresso

orchid spaces

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//We both felt dizzy with verses
Electrified!
Living in orchid
               Spaces

Lucid—
All those rhymes 
of yore

Such widowed thoughts
Our lonely oasis//

/Moon passages
And wicked faces
Bespoke suits,
Poetic races

Discerning fables and
   Fizzy odes/

//We both felt dizzy with verses
Electrified!
Living in orchid
               Spaces

Such widowed thoughts
One homely oasis

Lucid—
All the rhymes 
Of yore//

The Departed

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He felt like sneezing;
laughing to himself;
or remaining silent

            Helplessly searching
 for drowsy stories
      to put into words

"Finish that page!"
    the choir
        - w h i l e
   h e  h u m m e d 
    a  h o p e f u l
         t u n e - 
   kept chanting

And then, 
just like that, 
he departed

Thankful for the life
he’d lived
loved
l
e
f
t

lazy sounds

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A yellow rose
a bright red Moon
these wrinkled thoughts—
they need 
some ironing

I outstretch my arms,
I yawn, I smile—
safe in the knowledge
that I am not 
immortal

                          /Loathing
                          this endless
                          loop of
                          lazy sounds/

*

A yellow rose
a bright red Moon
those wrinkled thoughts—
they crave
some irony

A spider web
some deep, brown eyes—
a saturnine reflection 
in my morning
coffee

                          /Loathing
                          this endless
                          loop of
                          lazy sounds/



*
A yellow rose
a bright red Moon
those wrinkled thoughts—
they need 
some ironing

Where did She go?
I sensed her, near—
yet now she's
nowhere around 
to be seen

                          /O Muse, come back,
                           bearing harmonious gifts—
                           effacing this senseless
                          loop of lazy
                          s o u n d s/

liminal spaces

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/ forgetful
regretful
a mindful path of
multi-storied 
v  e  r  s  e  s /

                 searching
                 for liminal
            s  p  a  c  e  s

observing
those pondering
f  a  c  e  s

*

    . . .  o p p o n e n t s
       aware
          contenders—
       beware
             
      of those doubtful
         intentions
               unspoken
  d i s s e n t i o n s . . . 

sketched
on damp paper—
and never 
aired

*
/ forgetful
regretful
a mindful path of
multi-storied 
v  e  r  s  e  s /

                 searching
                  for liminal
            s  p  a  c  e  s

fierce like 
assonant
traces

you can
now 
view— 

though
I  n e v e r
b   a   r   e   d

Lights On

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Feeling homesick
all stranded
left the building
keys inside it—
no way back

                He’s now so lost

Lights are on
the lamp
still shining
those shelves—
empty

                Books all gone

Who’s the liar
who’s the beggar
who’s 
      the
thief—

                This empty soul

Feeling homesick
all stranded
left the building
keys inside it—
no way back

                He’s now so lost

He’s got
talent
he’s a genius
such smoked mirage—
portrait, 

                Pawn

writerly

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I read
overread,
skim-read,

d
   a 
      n 
          c
                 e 
       
           &

 r                 a            
          e                   d   
                              

          .           

and, 
while
r e a d i n g

b e t w e e n
            t   h   e 
    l         i        n       e        s

I keep losing
       my
             t r a i n 
          
                  o   f 

   t            o            g            t
        h            u             h       

          .             .

I don’t wanna
read
overread—
or 
misread !

d
  r 
      i 
          n
                k 

           &

 r                 a            
          e                   d           
  

.          .             .

      
           S o ,

             I 
w      r       i       t       e


***********

It’s been a while since my last post
(Or my last writing activity,
 for that matter)

Now, 
slooowly,
getting back to 
writing mood

Please bear with me -
While I invoke my
Free verse muse

Happy to be back, 
beautiful,
naughty, 
dark &
clever 
WordPress souls !

ink rain weather

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Walking barefoot
on fresh grass
rain keeps
smearing
this old
draft

                   / Faint
                    reflections 
                        o f 
                     o u r
                  d a m p
                 r  e  a  l  i  t  y  /

Dizzy letters
all get 
blurred
eerie story—
last line
slurred

              / D r i z z l i n g lines
                   in ink rain
                    weather /

Books all
tattered,
O, too frail!
this ink
watered down—
too pale

All these stories
drowning, bold;
fading lines
on torn page
drawn

                  / Faint
                    reflections 
                        o f 
                     o u r
                  d a m p
                 r  e  a  l  i  t  y /

(Were they
really any
good, though?
I wonder 
now—
too late)

           / D r i z z l i n g  lines
                   in ink rain
                    weather /

the colour of your dreams

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I often 
get lost
in your 
canvas 
p a l a c e

My hands 
all dirty 
with
old
p a i n t 
 
What’s the colour 
of your 
dreams?        
              I   d  a  r  e 
               a   s   k

  Yet you 
  never 
          utter
    a single 
w o r d

So I strive to
find my
answer
in ink
s k e t c h e s

*
I often 
get lost
in your 
canvas 
p a l a c e

My hands 
all dirty 
with
old
p a i n t 

What’s the colour 
of your 
dreams?        
              I   d  a  r  e 
               a   s   k

Those 
undecipherable
ink 
 
        s
      t
       r 
        o
         k
        e
     s

Paint 
pirouettes
that won't
tell any
t a l e s

*
My dreams 
are
sometimes 
coloured
y e l l o w 

— with 
a 
dash
of 
b l u e —

Your eyes closed,
while I get lost
in the true opacity
of those abstract
i m a g e s

So I let 
all shades sink in—
colouring your reverie
back to 
r e a l i t y