smitanand

drsmitasriwas280.wordpress.com/

A doctor by profession and a poet by choice I have written poetry for last 25+ years and aim to continue to do so forever.

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  • smitanand 15w

    Shenanigans of Scarlet Stilettos...

    She was exquisite
    slender and elegant,
    the colour of dewy roses,
    or cherry blush sun
    aglow on fiery tongues of smoke
    at dawn,
    a chiseled statuette
    amid grotesque figurine,
    she was like a princess amid
    rabble and snooty too..!

    She preened
    in the shop window admiring
    herself in neon reflections,
    and maintained a reticent distance
    from the other footwear,
    aloof and narcissistic she was
    lost always in herself
    and dreaming of morrows
    gilded in gold.

    A diva herself
    she craved to adorn feet of a prima donna
    dreaming of ravishing lifestyle
    and haute couture attire,
    days scented in frangipani
    and nights bubbling in champagne,
    looking down on
    pragmatic platforms, sneaky sneakers,
    plump pumps and perky peep toes
    she indulged in admring escapades
    before the mirror at night .

    She'd hide behind grotesque boots
    when some ingenue searched
    for that sleek scarlet number she'd seen
    from afar, in the shop window,
    away from shrewd gaze of the clerk,
    and pushed some other
    unsuspecting and pretty pair in front
    but posed coquettishly otherwise,
    teasing window shopping eyes
    with a sultry come hither pout.

    If tried by someone
    she thought didn't deserve her
    she'd pinch and bite those poor feet,
    and become clumsy and trip
    to be left with scowl and a swear word
    while she smirked to herself,

    But one night she found herself
    taken down and packed and wrapped
    without being given a chance
    to assess her would be owner,
    and apprehension clogged her throat
    as she lay squirming
    within a suffocating shoe box
    for what seemed like eons,
    feeling herself being thrown in air
    and landing oft with a thud.

    Finally she emerged in sunshine
    and peered with bleary, myopic eyes,
    at her environs and found herself
    in gnarled, masculine hands,
    to her horrified dismay,
    and was put in a dark corner
    of what looked like an archaic shelf
    amongst scores of other shoes,
    making her weep in despair.

    Haunted by nightmares,
    and shaking with unknown fear,
    she lay shivering and lonely
    until someone picked her up
    and she found herself under harsh lights
    being strapped on the feet
    of someone who looked like a goddess,
    was giddy with rapture
    till she was removed with a screech
    and discarded as itchy,
    while another scarlet pair
    gloatingly replaced her with a wink.

    Life was a frenzied, rollercoaster ride,
    she was tried and worn
    for a dance sequence or a scene
    and discarded unceremoniously,
    she danced on the prettiest of feet,
    walked down glittering ramps,
    went to shows and parties,
    for she was part of the props
    of a movie production house.

    Everyday was an escapade,
    she was worn or discarded to
    bipolar moods of divas she'd once revered
    she was a part of the glamour world,
    her life a paradoxical amalgam
    of neon lights and dark cobwebby solitude,
    as she became a flamboyant lie,
    -an inanimate masquerade item,

    Her dreams were a sneering hoax
    and her idols had grown clay feet,
    while she remembered the caress
    of the longing eyes of a gauche girl
    she had hurt with a shoe bite
    once in her ruthless vanity
    to now nurse an unhealing wound-
    foever scarred...

    ©smitanand

  • smitanand 16w

    Summer is Beautiful...

    Have you seen summer?
    she is ethereal,
    with her voluminous, blond mane
    of flooding aureate sunshine,
    her smile like warm treacle
    and shimmering honeydew
    on leafage,

    Her laughter echoes
    exuberant as the cascade
    flowing downhill
    from sweating sublime peaks,

    She has chameleon eyes
    changing to her whims
    like fickle weather,
    sometimes her gaze is serene
    and turquoise,
    as vast cornflower skies
    unblemished by clouds,
    or hurling with myriad emotions
    as bountiful rivers,

    At others grey thunderclouds
    churn with riotous expressions
    in those unfathomable, stormy depths
    the blazing ember sun
    burning amber on turmeric latte noons
    smoulders in her eyes in rage,
    and they sparkle with fireflies,
    when amused.

    Her veil is vermilion like dawnsky,
    gown a sonnet of colors
    sequined in dewdrops
    and she wears a tiara of constellations
    while silver anklets of monsoon
    are the symphony of her gait,
    and rainbow drapes her shoulders
    like a gossamer shawl.

    She has lushness
    in her curves
    and fertility in her realms,
    her angst is like a manna drizzle,
    that nurtures seeds,
    she waltzes like the sultry breeze
    and she crotchets poetry
    as prologue and epilogue
    to every day she lives
    on the ambivalent blues...
    ©smitanand

  • smitanand 16w

    Life of a Ferris Wheel...

    I stand tall a garangutan
    seeking to fondle the gossamer clouds
    looking like vast soap suds afloat
    and indulge in a dialogue
    with the snobbish sun
    looking down its nose at us lesser beings
    from its lofty celestial perch,
    while birds sit chattering on my head
    assuming I'm some weird tree.

    Surveying all around I see
    a carnival of colors and resonant music
    echoing as a rapturous beat,
    there is a merry go round revolving
    on its axis as children squeal their delight
    saddled on backs of quixotic unicorns,
    a toy train engine emits a shrill whistle
    as its chugs away with its courtier cabins
    along versicolor tracks,

    Shops with dissociative identities
    stand winking in neon lights,
    their faces hidden by eager children
    and harassed haggling mothers,
    their windows casting gaudy cajoling grins.
    and their rates outlandish.

    Aromatic potpourri from food stalls
    carried by teasing wind on piggy back
    tickles nostrils of starved appetite
    luring me scrumptious promises.

    A balloon man stands in a corner
    singing in a hoarse tenor
    to sell his colorful restless wares,
    while he wears colors long bleached
    by sun and time.

    An ice cream vendor sells
    winter dreams chiselled in
    milk, sugar, chocolate and more
    on a balmy perspiring afternoon,
    as crowds throng for a cool treat.

    A circus stands wearing painted smiles,
    and often I wonder about the acts
    being inacted inside,
    remembering vague eavesdropped tales
    aired by excited children,
    of the clown, the trapeze artists,
    lion and its trainer, bearded woman
    and the incredible magician.
    I yearn for just a sneak peek inside.

    And there is me highlighted
    as the fasted and largest giantwheel
    in the town fair history,
    puffed with pompous pride I whirl
    in the glutton breeze overfed
    on aromas, tastes and gossip,
    feeling the stars start in surprise
    and the dozing moon looks startled
    as I seem like a whirling wheel of fireflames
    wearing strings of winking lights.

    In my vast embrace
    I cradle children shouting with glee
    and screaming with fear,
    placating haggard parents and lovers
    kissing in passion at the acme,
    making me blush,
    hooligan teens hooting aloud
    and girls' giggles are riddled in
    innocuous stage whispers.

    I churn myself for long hours,
    and am deadbeat
    when the last ride ends at midnight,
    I sleep on my tired feet
    under a moon crooning lullabies,
    and a breeze caressing by exhaustion
    with feathery fingers,
    till a plum faced dawn arrives
    wreathed in irksome cacophony
    and I open reluctant lids to drink in
    the pouring photons of a new morning.

  • smitanand 16w

    Tale of the Daydreaming Traffic Light

    A strict traffic light
    I discipline erratic behavior
    of the delinquent automobiles
    racing on the whimsical road,
    controlling their speed and gait
    with my winking chameleon moods.
    preventing traffic jams and accidents
    with quicksilver perceptions.

    An insomniac I am always awake
    guiding mood swings of racing traffic
    with intuitive skill
    inherited from an ancestry
    of conscientious traffic lights,
    always endeavoring to prevent
    catastrophes on the road
    despite quixotic whims of weather.


    But I have a trifling flaw,
    I love to indulge in daydreams,
    brief interludes of fantasy are my only vice
    I find stolen moments, when traffic lags,
    to ascend cerulean heights,
    meandering over cloudy moustaches
    of a hirsute sun,
    to find a little fairytale to sprinkle
    stardust over my grimy life
    from the land sparkling sunbeams.

    In these moments of respite
    I forget my duty as the traffic sentinel
    taking short flights of fancy
    to fill hip pockets in twinkling photons,
    sometimes at midnight I fly to the moon
    erasing the shadows on its face
    I dance with the lunar hare in moonlight,
    plucking planets to play
    as marbles on the crosswalks.

    I sometimes envy the streetlight
    it can enjoy long hours of restfulness
    after its nocturnal vigil,
    while I am destined to be
    always alert to guide relentless traffic,
    I am proud of my responsibility
    but at times I resent the stringent rules
    and yearn to play hookey
    as those willful children at school.


    I know I shouldn't daydream
    it is a dangerous flaw,
    yet often when the road is quiet I tend
    to encourage my illusions,

    but one day at dawn
    as I stood preoccupied gazing
    at sun spilling molten lava on treetops
    freckling verdant foliage in gold coins,
    a truck came swerving down
    the serpentine road at high speed
    gliding forwards as a juggernaut
    bent on destruction,

    and snapping out of my reverie
    I cast a scarlet glare at the offender
    stopping him in his tracks
    just before it could hit a mother
    pushing her baby pram
    across the zebra crossing.
    I was mortified
    and promised myself to never
    ever indulge in careless daydreams again
    putting lives in reckless jeopardy...
    ©smitanand

  • smitanand 16w

    I am a Scar...

    The emblazoned sigh of pain
    tattooed on alabaster skin,
    shriek of a sneering wound echoing
    from cobwebby catacombs of yesterdays
    Imprints left by a cataclysm
    on the face of reality.


    A proof of endurance and survival
    etched on the sinews
    proud laurel of resilience,
    insignia of undaunted courage,
    memory of a deception
    smirking on the being, as harsh remider
    of the price paid for gullibility.

    An imperfection
    adding character and depth
    to simplicity and gauche naivete,
    lingering sigh of a love song
    long erased by fingers of cynicism,
    a crescent moon lurking from
    undiluted nights of haunting despair,
    on the blushing morrows of hope.

    A besmirching allegation
    of betrayal taunting as a slant grin,
    like a divorced clause from an argument
    still existing on today's being,
    a moment refusing to blend into
    the ambiguity of an obscure past,

    Shadow of twilight fleeting
    on vermilion panorama of dawn
    calligraphy scribbled as dark poetry
    from the pen of whimsical time
    a nascent thought faded but
    still pestering an irked reverie,
    a grimace that is silently streaked
    on canvas of existence forever...

    ©smitanand

  • smitanand 17w

    Being a Comet...

    A dirty snowball
    born as an idiosyncrasy
    of the eccentric cosmos,
    it travels in a stardusted hyperbola
    spewing fuming expletives
    and shrill profanities
    as a combusting pressure cooker
    when attracted by
    the sun's unparalleled gravity.

    It grows a tail
    as inner demons are born
    inflating the ego
    of a once docile frozen sphere,
    emitting a fussilade
    of burning sparks in the infinite
    in sheer envy when it witnesses
    a flourishing earth,
    it melts away
    in vociferous sunflames,
    like a moth infatuated by fire,
    or collides into an unsuspecting moon
    carving craters on sublime skin.

    Simmering with rage
    it reiterates its steps attacking
    like an insane being,
    showing up with its blazing tail
    at either dawn or dusk
    when the earth is a mellow painter
    spilling pastels on celestial canvas
    and the sun good natured,
    spluttering and grumbling
    in sparkling syllables
    of premonition as astrologers
    frown predictions of evil omen.

    Then at last it is quietened
    by a complacent time,
    and after a billion eons of enmity
    it becomes subdued and indifferent
    metamorphosing into
    an asteroid that follows
    a stereotypical orbit
    no longer a harbinger
    of catastrophes...
    ©smitanand

  • smitanand 17w

    A Day in the Life of a Mirage...

    A moodswing born from
    apprehensive introspections
    of a bipolar atmosphere
    I take birth at noon,
    when nature's thermostat
    goes ballistics,
    under a sweltering sun
    sizzling and spluttering
    on hot skillet skies.


    An alluring illusion
    fleeting on unsuspecting azures
    I lurk as an idiosyncratic error of light
    as photons have heatstroke
    and I am created as a counterfeit promise
    of verdant oasis in barren aridity
    giving false hopes of satiety
    to thirsty travelers and beasts.


    I shimmer as a distant reflection
    in hallucinating skies,
    crumpled and fleeting like
    a water body mirroring lushness
    but it is a lushness stolen from afar
    life an erratic bullet
    or a disillusioned jigsaw piece,
    and parched, tired beings chase me
    a phantasmagoria of nature's whimsy.


    Always they feel I am nearby
    while they keep following me
    like an elusive dream,
    from noon to dusk
    then when the sun retreats
    with its blazing spitfire sunflames
    the atmosphere cools

    and I am erased as a foolish idea
    from its graffiti horizons,
    and the traveler or beast loses hope
    dying forlorn on callous sands
    still simmering with recollections
    of a noon now lost...
    ©smitanand

  • smitanand 17w

    Adventures of a Sombrero...

    I was
    a cowboy's dream,
    desire of a swanky mariachi
    and my maker's delight
    dark as sinful chocolate
    my felt skin smooth as silk
    as I hung in the shop window
    eyes painting bleary rainbows
    in the harsh sunshine.


    I was cocky,
    dreaming of horse rides
    farmhouses and country bars
    that I'd heard of from
    the gregarious customers
    while eavesdropping on boring days,
    and which I'd soon visit.

    One morning,
    while hanging on
    my accustomed perch,
    I smelled blueberries in the air
    and wisterias
    mixed as an exotic blend
    and found myself
    taken down by hands
    soft as the caress of zephyr.

    I saw an angelic face
    smiling, her hair an aureate halo
    as she examined me,
    and then she paid and I was hers
    too shocked to voice
    my indignance I was
    a masculine hat not
    a lady's frivolous frou-frou
    she couldn't buy me.

    Yet petulant and helpless
    I lay on her carriage seat too pissed
    to enjoy my first ride,
    I fumed with fury
    planning to scratch her brow
    or just fly away to escape
    and find a handsome male owner.

    But my fears were futile
    for she'd bought me for her spouse
    tall, dark and handsome
    as can be,
    and then I lived a reality
    more amazing than any fantasy,
    riding horses over mountain trails
    perched rakishly on his head,
    visiting inns, bars and offices,
    I become his bosom body.

    Growing older
    my shine mellowed
    and I was wrinkled, threadbare
    but still I was worn
    as a fond present
    from his beloved wife
    soon however I was replaced
    by a younger hat
    its visage reminiscent
    of my faded youth.

    I hung in a corner,
    riffling through old memories,
    forlorn but resigned,
    and then one day I felt
    again a caress on my being
    as tiny hands fondled me,
    so I was worn again
    now by a little boy,
    his head was small, I sat askew
    riding bicycles and ponies,
    running downhill and
    playing in the orchard
    I enjoyed another adventure
    - childhood
    as I became a legacy
    given from father to son...




        
    ©smitanand

  • smitanand 17w

    Escapades of a Cookie

    I was born
    on a mixed feelings
    September afternoon,
    balmy and wet from
    flirtatious breeze romancing
    a cheerfully lazy sun,
    lolling on raincloud swings,
    from the womb
    of blazing aromatic warmth.

    Came out
    in the sunshine, with a shrill beep
    of precision,
    and was greeted with
    a whoop of unadulterated glee and awe
    even before I opened
    crispy eyelids to drink in the sights
    of the sepia afternoon
    its breathe an exotic blend
    of petrichor and cinnamon latte,
    waking to find shiny almond eyes
    and a buttery grin welcoming me
    as chubby hands clapped their delight.


    Such an ecstatic response
    left me gooey and warm from oven
    glowing aureate,
    and I smiled in return,
    while I listened to tempest's rap
    echoing from corrugated rooftops,
    and smelled an autumn tinted monsoon,
    of shivering nutmeg sighs,
    it was a wonderful homecoming.



    Filled within confines of an ancient jar
    painted in frangipanis,
    with my oven siblings I lay curled
    in a fetal position,
    while sunshine filtered in
    on prismatic footprints,
    lulling me asleep in my new home
    as I dreamt of butterscotch morrows.


    I woke up to
    the sound of a thud,
    as my glass abode landed
    on kitchen table after a air swoop
    and its lid was opened,
    I felt the caress of morning breeze
    on my streusel cheeks,
    and movement
    of delving fingers nearby.

    Fear of the unknown
    clasped my being as I witnessed
    a brother of mine
    emerge from the jar
    and being eaten by a little girl
    with swinging pigtails,
    with gulps of milk as she enjoyed
    every mouthful
    while my fellow cookie
    disappeared as a waning moon.

    Every day passed
    a dreaded apprehension,
    as I lay curled in nook
    trying to resign myself to
    a scary fate,
    and one afternoon
    when prodigal sunbeams
    etched chiaroscuro on windows
    and air was echoing
    with sounds of playing children
    I found giant fingers hold me
    as I tried to squirm,
    pulling me out of my alcove.

    I was frozen with fear,
    as I found myself being placed
    in porcelain platter,
    with my other kith and kin,
    and laced in molten chocolate
    -proverbial dressing of the lamb
    I thought, my pulse a staccato beat
    in my brown ribcge,
    I mumbled soft prayers.

    Another hand picked me up
    as I tried to be brave,
    yet hoping for a miraculous escape
    while I was dunk within
    hot fluidity of a swanky cappuccino
    sporting a stylish stubble,
    I found myself melting
    within caffeinated realms,
    and was gulped down
    with a mouthful of bittersweet coffee
    and I found meaning of my life
    in the rapture etched on the face
    of a stranger as he savored me
    - a sumptuous chocochip cookie...
    ©smitanand

  • smitanand 17w

    I am a Whisper...

    I linger on wings of wind
    as a soft sigh of nascent words,
    a sentence wrapped
    in mystique and mystery,
    I am the butterfly flutter
    of a dialogue,
    sibilant sister of silence
    I have dissociative identities,


    I am awe
    a surprised gasp wearing
    an exclamation point,
    voiced in wonder,
    the alphabets, nouns, verbs all
    stunned to utter
    a louder response
    with an awestruck tongue .

    I am a secret
    like translucent mist
    draped in ambiguity
    the words often unintelligible,
    like a code yet undecipherable
    to the casual ear,
    I am fodder for gossip mill
    often salacious and scandalous
    or just mildly amusing
    in content.

    I am an endearment
    shared between those beloved
    the sweet nothings
    adorning a romantic interlude,
    when the lips
    kiss the ear with a phrase
    sighed in redundant syllables
    felt more than heard
    in throes of passion.


    I am a monologue
    that finds a frail but audible voice
    something spoken to self
    that requires no speech
    just the bare bones of thoughts,
    but was uttered
    as inadvertent error,
    its footprints like those seen
    after the tide recedes,
    barely legible.

    I am a prayer
    sighed with reverence,
    send heavenwards as a wispy feather
    a desire, dream or hope
    sent on wings of faith
    a communication of the soul
    and the almighty,
    meant only for his ears.

    I am dejection,
    an amalgam of pain and despair,
    words uttered without vitality
    lifeless and colorless,
    when darkness haunts
    and hope succumbs to pessimism
    painting dawns grey and forlorn
    and no rainbow concludes
    ashen musings of tempest clouds.
    ©smitanand