Reshami Qurta:

What colours do I clothe you in?

Pales of rose, sparkle of chartreuse,
fade in the iridescence that your skin
deflects; the pining glow of your blues,
cerulean dreams to weave on satin.

To dress my inamoratas it takes
the furious blush of each rainbow,
the barren winter trees, the lakes,
the brown iris of a bashful doe.

And pinks, that of passion partakes..



wood-fires stoke her hair, she is
autumn in every toss of head;

every sprightly patter of feet,
each embrace, every hug,

any delightful time we meet.


Pre-dawn madrigal; tender ache tugs at
faint consciousness of her awakening
on another continental shelf – a dream away.

Awareness of her form stirring, responding to
the tinkle and clunk of the routine and mundane.
Only she could bestow such beauty to this hour.

Strands of auburn, scents of musk, rustle and
rush; the fumble of fingers, the urging, the fuss.
A love past rues in the quietness of its world….

Love letter written at 0300 hrs,
but what better way to start the day?


undo your hair,
let the bare night embrace
her tchthonic creatures
in slender arms, despair…

unclasp your dress,
let your full breast splay
dark ambrosia to slake my
passion, cause unrest.


edge of darkness in
two caliginous corners of the world;
inky midnight – yours,
seductive pre-dawn, mine.
gathering desire in lonelier arms…

some alchemy,
in the silhouette and daguerreotype;
caressed by caliginous contours
of plumes,
all negativity turns to light!


Colonized-clan, blood-thirsty vandals,

a cohort that will as one attack;

a column of death that maws off symbiotically

for survival and proliferation.

An army of thugs and goons?

Or a selfish gene, coded to replicate and progenate?

If one cannot see the universe in a blade of grass,

it would be difficult to realize how the cosmos segues,

from event to unprompted event, on pre-determined cues.

And why each quanta of creation,

synergies naturally towards salvation.

Kennedy Center:

You were that girl; one for whom

someone as insanely in love as I could, fly

halfway across the face of the earth,

take the longer way home,

circumnavigate the world.

That afternoon standing facing a granite wall, looking at

your caramel eyes, you over my shoulder gazing at theĀ 

meandering Potomac.

Years later you recalling that brief interlude – a vacation of sorts,

commented how I missed the beautiful sight.

And me, shaking my head slowly, my gaze locking yours, smiling and saying, ‘No’.


Like fashion,

worst form of ugliness,

it disappears into oblivion;

trashed newspaper,

rustling headlines in derelict

non-descript parking-lots.

If you did not upgrade, you are history.


Inasmuch that it cannot be defined,

(except as ‘it is not that’)

compared, contrasted or described,

experienced but not elucidated, aligned

but not confined,

all-permeating and pervading, yet

quasi-sourced in the mind and four-chambered heart,

it is God.



The Mile-High Club:

Of all the journeys not embarked upon,

the one in which a fop would

in the confined, constraints of a capsule,

fub ecstasy, only to discover,

that heaven number seven, was

not necessarily 5280 feet high,

if enlightenment were thus nigh,

that would be the voyage of self-discovery,

one would like to undertake soon.


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