Bed Tea-se

Monhegan's Schoolteacher, 2004 by Jamie Wyeth 

Moonlight spun strands veiled from dewy-eyed Sun
Or, the poetry book, open at the page you left unread

Bare pearl poised skin, with pristine angelic bosom

Or, an empty chair across the unpolished wooden table

My parting lips or, the hum of my warm-honey-tongue

Tousled bed-cover unraveling my modesty-much-siren

Or, the tranquil snow patiently kissing the naive-horizon

The precious sight from the gold-dust tainted glass

Or, the melting warmth that the blatant candle renders

Anything or,

Everything

To beseech your hushed heart

To offer to your matted thoughts…

Shall I wait for you?

On the late night dinner, of course…

I am sharing this poem with Mag 165

Love-Blues

Monday morns, giving me blues

Specks of solitude nip my longing heart

Love revamped, passion chose to preen

Prancing to the lonely dark nooks

And, it feels novel - so new

All I wish is to have you

Come here, come near

Beauty lay veiled, so much to unfurl

Yearning for the moment...

Kisses and hugs,

Treasure unkempt in the Garden of Eden

Rob me of my full silver moon

I am impatient, 

Dying with every aching breath...

Homecoming

I didn't - no - never saw a Dead

Then I saw him lying there

HIS Brutal fist was again at work

Squashing ripe tomato must be tad fun

My drowning heart, lingering to beat – to throb

Inhumanity, ruthless word once heard,

Dancing with its dark dreadful eyes gaped

He lay there devoid of his brain and eyes

As if they never belonged to him, ever in real

And, so-called-humans found it cool to click and flaunt

Was that the right time to set your angle and flash?

A son, a brother, a husband, a lover

How many things he must have - wished to be

For now, so many things he - failed to be

Screams swarmed and bellowed in my clogged throat

I wanted to yell, snap at their cell phones

Then a whiff of stale - no, not stale

Cause blood was still oozing from his cold head

Freshly-blood-stained air gushed pass my hair

Hallucination must be, it'd whisper in my ear

And, might be to the half-dead conscience of all standing there

I heard, I felt or my mind's eye was again at play

HE scorned his creation, mumbling in disdain

“Thou a'rt human by my choice,

Thee shalt be Inhuman in thy ways,

Thy conscience is a warmer place,

For Shaitan seeks warmth to thrive,

It shalt suck away all that thee possess,

Churning it into as-cold-as-dead-breaths,

Take heed to that kind of Homecoming

For Malicious is the trait of thy guest”

Sluggish sultry smothering realism dawned 

Quiet as feather, savoring the wind's flow

Lulling my awakened conscience to sleep

Callousness, malice, egocentricity, apathy

That's the sieste’d humanity is in thrall to…

***Sieste'd- Enjoying an afternoon nap on a hot day ( World is at peaceful rest 

                         when its hot and burning everywhere)  

      Shaitan- Devil

      HE, HIS - GOD ***


I am sharing this poem with dverse Meeting the Bar: The Unfathomable

Blaming the Butterfly

“What is it that you are holding in your hand, baby?”

“Mamma, it’s a GAARRL pin”, my 3 years old couldn’t even say the word GIRL right

“And, where did you get it from, Baby?”

“I snatched from her, and now it’s mine” his voice sturdy and tight

“My baby would give this back to the girl tomorrow, won’t you Darling?”

“No..No..I won’t, It’s mine and only mine” came his daring reply

He ate, played and slept clutching the pin in his tiny but gritty fist

The beautiful pink coloured butterfly tucked on the pin is to be impugned

It must have grabbed my baby’s attention and made him filch

Nit-picking shall annoy me, fostering the heart of a loving mother

But, a woman’s instinct gets nickeled with palpable fear dainty as a feather

A knot in my gut got tied with the occurring thought of might-be repercussions

Is that it or will I be witnessing such instances more, am I being paranoid?

Nuance it may seem, but my quivering mind fathoms deep farther inside

His ‘claiming Habit’ gave me chills

He might do it to feel that ‘Manly thrill’

Trust me all flawlessly beautiful girls there

He shall be charming, natty, genes shall thrive

What clenches my throat is the Time tested fact

Vanity swaps sanity

Hence, dreadfulness stabs

He might clasp and claim the same girl’s honour, like the pin fancied him once

Oh, He is a nascent bud, three years old still savouring the bright shades of life

He being palette and me a palette-knife

Mixing, applying or scratching the erroneous colours is my craft

I shall not let him cherry-pick and paint the canvas of life with flaws

I am and shall be savoir faire

He shall revere the ‘Platonic Love’, not ‘Noxious lust’

Pin he yanked is broken with butterfly lying apart

He shall soon absorb the lessons of his life

And no butterfly or nubile would ever get hurt…