roused beasts

My attic never blocked out autumn from lavishing me with buttery rays of Sun. Curled up in a ball I lay there on the bed of scrunchy leaves unless my feral friends eavesdrop on my noiseless moan. I have heard of those legendary beasts bracing up. The rustle of rich burrito drifting past me as

the aroma of hummus

I stretched my legs on the deck and drew in, letting the wild smoke fill my lungs. I loved the naughty nips of the sensual vermilion evening. A few yards away Sunny was gazing at the horizon across the blue ocean, through her dark glasses, slowly melting into the salty water. She wrapped her paisley

blossoming

My pulse quickens, neonate foliages sprout to cover the twigs over as rampant cordial gushes out of your sparkling gaze with such a great fervour that I could have been lost in their savoury swirls.

sunflower-whispers

” Fancy having a walk?” “Well…sort of,” While dusk is closing in and birds have arrived home, you want to bring both the sunflowers in full bloom close together. When their joyous rays are swooning over each other, scouting for a chance to pour their hearts, equivocally though. Their rays are gilded and the blurb

granny’s song

You heard me and put a name to my songs. Clad in the sparkling azure attire, bedraggled with splodges of mud Hunting for witch hazel and at times ill at ease yet, I was your ilk. Who abode in a mangy mud house with her granny. There was a little room for a cat to

telltale whiff

We got the rollicking for the telltale whiff Of the savory roar of our teenage dalliance In the liturgical hickeys that furl and flourishes behind the tattering piles of blossoms masterfully camouflaged behind the camera I’m yours… then I whispered at the nape of cold and satin-smooth pebbles knelt on the marshmallows Cloyingly sprawled across

i will meet you there

There is a field out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing. I’ll meet you there. ~ Rumi As the silver clouds which are swirling and running an errand across the flickering horizons augur auspiciously, I know you’re awaiting my arrival in the temple sited by the babbling river. Perched on the marble floor, I see you aflame like camphor and

a shadow in the evening

It took me a while to find my tongue. …Who are you? Staring in amazement I muttered under my breath. Wrapped in the evening blush a callow youth wet behind the ears, you were standing in the doorway. Holding the cup of non-dairy butter and cream I vegged out in the veranda. I could feel

barefaced life

A morbid longing has been compelling me to plumb the depth of marshes, and morass settled in the sand of time. A glimpse of the lass eking out living under the corrugated tin roof. That seamstress worsted by despair whose husband lives in another town, with another woman. Presumably, she is trying to keep the

a feminine pen

A woman’s pen must be sheepishly compliant, subjugated and enslaved. She must duck and dive when it comes to writing Junoesque, voluptuous words. She must never bare them by putting her hard-earned dignity at stake and never ever ever use blood-red ink because in her untold herstory the gender of her words is invariably feminine.