I write of women I will never meet

 I write of women I will never meet, I sing to their beauty of so sweet. Without them there in my mind I am incomplete, I write of women I will never meet.

I dream of things locked inside my head. I cry for those I know are dead, their ghosts haunt my nights like memories I want to forget instead since I dream dreams locked inside my head.

Her skin is ebony or amber light, her touch is soft/hard in the still of the night, her hair is thick thin it is my delight, she's almost in focus yet still out of sight

Her voice trickles down into my ears
her songs is tempting lasting so many
years, she is the composite of all my fears
I long for her embrace and her tears.

I write of women I will never meet,
I compose rhymes that will lay at their
feet, Without them in my lines I am
devoid as a blank paper sheet, my ink
dried, tears cried for the women I will
never meet.

Portrait of a Woman

She holds the book to her breast
the pages bent, well read showing
the marks of time spent in communion
with the words within.
She looks out of her world
pensive with the doubts that plague
her, the fears that await her comings
and goings, the need for love,
the desire for self, for worth,
for touch.
Her fingers, on the crease of leather
the binding pressed, her thumb poised
her voice silenced in the thoughts
of love and life and the desire for
hot coffee, silken cream on scones
the moments alone when the mists
play against her window to the
morning lulled by the violins
and cello, the bassoon wails
into the space that fits all these things
that are now and will always be her

place.

Water Beauty Love

(Saundary Baanee Pyaar)

I find her bathing in the waters of life,

her saffron sari floats in the holy waters, the Jazba drifts there between

us. 

She does not see me for I am 

unseeable, I am in the wind, I sweep low

across the expanse to wrap myself

around her like a choli into her embrace. The softness of breast, the rise, the fall of her chest, a faint smile crosses her face…

“Go where you want” whispers the Arjunas to me, lift her arms, as the trees, touch the sky, Intezaar, a blessing

for hope as she floats in the currents,

sun-kissed a blush on her smooth skin

the soft sighs, the water shaping her form, caress the flick of her fingers

the scent of us like iris lingers.

Queen of Thorns.

Here she lies, the Queen of Thorns,

There she lived, no one would forgive 

the crimes done to her, the scratches 

the scorn. She learned to hide alone

 in her room a sanctuary where

she could weep. Promises to keep, before she 

lies down to sleep, 

With each tear, the petals fall down

her blood is on her dress, her crown.

Here she cries, the Queen of Thorns, 

Where she slept, the pain under the rug,

sufficiently swept. The pain from a 

thousand small cuts, the shame from

anyone seeing them, the game of no ifs,

ands, or buts. 

A star is falling in the moonlight

red on pale skin, crimson silk white.

Here she dies, my Queen of Thorns,

Her life a portrait of passion, no one 

remembers to mourn, She was my one

true love, the one who was supposed to

become my wife, She exists only there

between the moments of joy and the darkness

of strife.

Her lips purchase the air she breathes

my lies, our love, which one did she believe?

She tries, the Queen of Thorns,

To stop in the gallows, with a nod to rope,

I will die in my curse, cowardice without hope.

She pauses to listen, she turns to the east.

Her rescue will come from the villain, the 

Beast.

A tale is told, almost as old as time.

of love and sacrifice, suffering for joy sublime.

Speak of...