Flotsams
Fins
sprout from the nape of my seared agony...
My
body is a smouldering scarlet sky,
Hauling
a conniving cumulonimbus...
Can
fins mutate into reticent squalls...
Sweeping
the scattered flotsams of my mind...
Into
some trash bin, to be mixed with tarmac...
An
urchin tore a few veins of mine,
with
his dexterous fingers...neatly across the perforations...
My
veins: purplish palpitating poise...
Platitudinous
peonies, often burrowed and belittled...
His
fingers bled as my ballistic bludgeoned irises morphed into screeching
splinters...
He
threw my strewn yearnings, now ornate as splinters...In a poetic
shrill...
At
the amethyst azure, that nibbled her toes, with her playful fangs...
What
we call thunderbolts, then gargled with a glass of pungent mojito...
The
Crepuscule
The
crepuscule smiles,
she
has been asked to muddle
the
coquettish mocktails of our days.
Her
dimples filling up to the brim,
of
those surreal glasses.
Each
glass holds the cue...
Yellow,
Orange, Red, Magenta...
Paradisal
puzzles knotted in eclectic hues.
Being
poured by her dainty fingers.
They
await, all agog...
Albeit,
they aren't tricksters,
they
don't try to entice.
Serene
zeitgebers they are...
Learn
their foot tapping patterns,
you
will need those
to
foxtrot with the ensuing obsidian shrills.
For
now, she is the translucent gaze,
the
first promise of your dawn.
How
discerning is your palate?
Will
some sips suffice...
To
distil the anticipated,
gravel
groans of your path.
Will
a few gulps have the prudence...
To
foresee the savoury see saw
being
churned by swirls,
in
those chosen glasses.
Until
then tread along
the
seams of that crepuscule,
where
sunrise blooms write
to
the withering foliage
as
dusks emit sighs of relief.
Where
empyrean landscapes
peep
into each other,
their
glances stirring up
the
microcosms that we call life.
Banshee
Creased-clandestine
bellowing, pummelling the gongs of our connaissance
Our
conscience: a capricious canopy straddling,
Spring-sauna,
Banshee-shrieking...
Cudgelled
into wryly whimpers, wheezing wings...
Mangled-magma,
hitherto swerving macadamized masonries
Clambering
out of their plunging moralities, those plummeting precipices...
Their
asphyxiated tongues and wrists ricocheting...
Quercus
coccinea: blithe burlesques of languished limbs
Limping
pirouettes, our souls pivoting...Souls dribbling...
Through
their capitulated cacophonies, awashed sighs...
Sanctimonious
soul-screams, battered at the seams...
Appendix:
Banshee: In Irish folklore, a female spirit whose wailing
warns of impending death.
©jyotinair
The quintessential transformation evangelist, Jyoti Nair has acquired professional prowess, in the capability development and project management gamut, incessantly catering to rapidly diversifying business needs. She currently spearheads multiple operations for L & D and Quality Assurance, spanning across HR and Recruitment, while being employed at an Indian Multinational Technology Company, acclaimed as global leaders in IT services, Digital and business solutions. She finds the process of writing therapeutic and nurtures the poetry raiment as her second skin. Her works feature in numerous, global poetry anthologies and distinguished poetry journals, has won many laurels for her literary pursuits, however she inherently cherishes her solitary quill and fervently whets her pen in stoic resilience. In her modest opinion, our rusted souls are beckoned, hearts feel more alive, if we engage in some literary tilling, day in and day out.
All the poems are superbly penned. I find short of words while writing about them. You are so blessed with the gift of words. Love reading your work, it always inspires writers like me.may God bless you with much success. You deserve it.❤️❤️
ReplyDelete