As deep as breath goes

No softeners required, lemon or lime my ecstasy
my medication as I pace along lines
of the mind’s track field–
the muse knows nothing of the promise of tomorrow
nor predicts slow opening of your eyes,
your groans bittersweet
as cinnamon sweet and savory all at the same time–
still making me grin
your eyes dark as olive give away hints of a night
ungovernable,
let them trace my back and dust it red
as moonlight dances and touches upon the shelves–
I have waited too long
for expressions of your chocolate onyx want,
I want the song; I want the song.

 

Photo credits: The works of Miles Johnston, Pinterest

Word List: Onyx, Groan, Lemon, Shelves, Cinnamon.

Posted for “Get Listed with a Mystery Guest” @ Real Toads

Posted on Pantry of Poetry and Prose @ Poets United

To Begin With, the Fading Night and Blossoming Day

“Each night, when I go to sleep, I die. And the next morning, when I wake up, I am reborn.” ― Mahatma Gandhi

Every night when I lie down beneath the stars I die,
my only companion
being a blanket of sky and words ringing loudly
in my ears,
and every morning as I wake
my mind conjures new images for the soul
to dip in—
and even though the eyes may only discern one step
at a time
I am convinced the universe is leading me nearer
to my purpose,
my reason for existence for which I sought to embrace
the world.

The self is often unseeing, unaware of the path it’s supposed to be
of opinion,
I gasp as the cold air caresses my cheek
as though beckoning to observe the landscape,
the underlying possibilities for my poetic heart to indulge in.
The clouds diffuse morning light to a subtle sweetness,
as I ask myself the following questions: Who am I now?
who was I before?
I suppose awakening is when we finally learn to be true to ourselves
disregarding what others have taught us to be,
and while I choose to remain close to origin,
I can’t help but wonder why branches deeply rooted long to stretch
towards the horizon–

I am conscious of half empty tea cup and few rainier cherries
poised on the table,
their thick and creamy yellow flesh eager for a second bite;
eat, love and offer your palms in prayer, there is only so much
the heart can endure,
early thirties led me to understand who and what I truly am–
poetry my vivication, my pulse, my strength
as city remembers a forgotten tale and shadows shift like pearly rays
across a cruel moraine,
ignorance’s silhouette shows no remorse as verses scatter into the open–
I am a flickering flame familiar with its various hues
and shades,
as I ready myself for challenges my pen has yet to face.

 

 

Photo credits: Pinterest

Posted for Midweek Motif @ Poets United

Remember when we were strangers?

You leave me unfinished
staring deeply into the abyss of time,
I, a rough sketch of desire, attempting to put words together
your scent lingers as rain
conjuring a gentle yet dark pattern upon my skin,
remember when we were strangers–
in tandem stationed in the bucolic hills
the shape of those days
meant nothing if either one of us wasn’t contained in them,
your scent dances around inside my head
as autumn leaves cascade to the ground unhindered–
the night has already beckoned the body to rest,
conscious of raw rush taking over as I drift into sleep.
Your lips erubescent — taste of the finest raisins and cherries
oh, how I wanted you to define me!
You are poetry that seeks to align me with the world
without pretense;
I, a warm and persistent candle wafting in the wind,
remember when we were strangers?

 

Photo credits: Pinterest

Posted for Sanaa’s Challenge @ Real Toads

And on  Writers’ Pantry @ Poets and Storytellers United

Over the river and through the woods, we tread knowing well what’s ahead of us

Breathless,
I watch as frost grows over the windows,
the cold air allows me
to discern
the thoughts forming slowly in my mind,
and fire
which despite freezing temperature continues
to fill my chest.

Can I embrace you, to wake me from oblivion?
Brush upon your lips lightly,
offer a kiss,
and rage against the hypocrisy of adult world?
They say
there is something better waiting down the road,
but how can we fashion what’s to come
when the bondage of past continues to plague us?
The world before us is shrouded in smoke,
and we as a nation are fed sweet milk
in the form of media–
what disconcerted times are we living in?

Sheathe me in your ardor,
as I offer you the soft wisps of black hair around my nape
touch me darkly, decadently
as the wind does to a rosebud–
I sense the desire burning inside you through the sigh
that escapes your lips,
and if by tonight, I forget my name, remind me
for in the end it’s youth which needs to take up the torch
of perspective and change–
I breathe deeply, as eyelids open to affirmation in the line
of your mouth.

 

 

Photo credits: Pinterest

Posted on ‘Anmol’s Challenge’ @ Real Toads

& Posted on ‘Open Link Night’ @ dVerse Pub

& Posted on Poetry Pantry @ Poets United

Amidst the last illusions of mist beneath a November sky

To say that this was how it was meant to be
would be ideal,
a glimpse of roses riotously blooming in hopes
of
appearing indigenous–
I write down words that beg to be kissed,
to be read in whispers
knowing the world is cruel
and acquisitive.

Close the door, lest storm washes away emotions
like glowing leaves outside,
it seems to me that love is nothing more than a metaphor
wasted nowadays,
but then you come along and prove me wrong
as certain
as vigour that returns to trees in Spring.

Needless to say, I enjoy silence, hovering in the air
comfortably around us,
you’ll find I am sugar rush that helps put things
in perspective,
inhibitions have never really been able to hold me
back,

so, leave behind your moments of shame
as stars
continue to shine behind begrudging clouds.

Everyday people urge us to be authentic and yet,
when we cut ourselves open for them to see
they flee–
I am growing accustomed to the ones who are deep,
so, I am learning to navigate the ones
who are trivial instead–

you are an orange sunset amidst smoke
and chaos,
desiring my wit and charm in matters austere–

to say that this was how it was meant to be would be ideal.

 

Photo credits: Michal Jasiewicz, Watercolor Painting, Pinterest

Posted for Midweek Motif @ Poets United