An arty soul

One rose was full of perfume that She fainted in her own arms

as if perfume had undone the airs of her form


She plucked the song from a twig of her perfumed memory

as if it was her sixteenth birthday stirring two decades


She hesitated with the thought inducing coffee

as if it was her two decades gone on cloud nine


She blew a whistle to dig out the unconscious mind

as if a thousand clouds like herself were hidden beneath the thought


She gave up the final chase of a pretty job

as if her hidden thoughts have found the little Buddha


She didn’t give up the Buddha then



Those who sat at the kitchen table were goons

And those who would sit at the kitchen table are bridegrooms

The difference are in their spoons, the equally before the law all have Easter lunch as social cartoons.


I read adlib a silence written on your face,

you have washed your face thousand times,

silence won’t go away that way

I have deluge of flowers at the bay,

only to bind me to the charming coupe de etat,

of a citizen holding bunch of roses in her nubile hands,

to throw away the raincoat in the face of wind

And clamouring for more love from the seasonal rain,

as it would blast the streets and so do the flowers

In watery glimmer have all died because of silence on your face

And she was reactionary to emulate your love as her fate

Cirque of seasons

How softly summer could guess about the winter?

By falling and through the fall elopes


Winter is a dead stranger,

met about in the snow


Till the Spring jumps from nowhere,

into the bower of flowery maize,

with the memory of dead leaves of grass passed away


And an evening yawns in the summer gleam,

cooling heels and starting over, the Cirque of seasons,

By falling and summer through the fall elopes Eden

And presents on the earth a wintry meadow

with the beckoning of a spring heaven