Sunday 28 October 2012

At masked ball

i wear the night
silky purple & silver star 
under  the  peacock  mask
mysterious as blooming moon flower

i dream the dance - violin strings and trumpet beats  
under smokey lights - basking lavender scents and drama 

where anything can happen:
tangos, twists, or trysts

at masked ball 
Willow Manor 

My dream dress: Zuhair Murad

My dream date:   Hugh Jackman

Posted for :   5th Willow Manor Ball 2012  -  My first time to attend this ~ Such fun ~ Grace

Saturday 27 October 2012

The fire within

i wake up to pitter patter of rain
and bare sight of you --
bereft of leaves,
dark limbs jutting in the sky window

how quickly cold dawn has sapped
green and fresh colors --
i see spidery lines,
delicate russet edges,   

small scar on my left knee, 
one-inch stitch on left breast,
frail back, slight bump on forehead -
all reminders not to jump on impulse
and throw caution recklessly -  

in time
i have become 
more of a tree
than a carefree spring cloud-  

slightly drooping 
eyebrows, tiny freckles under eyes,
bearing fruits and laughter lines,
with small mole on right cheek,
which still keeps growing -

i wear them all - 
120 pounds,  long wavy hair -
in graceful acceptance of season's passage 

but not forgetting 
to rise    
every morning (specially work days) 
and run
after the fire dream --
your feverish breath on my face --- 


“As if you were on fire from within. The moon lives in the lining of your skin.” by Pablo Neruda
Posted for:   D'verse Poets Pub - Poetics: Self Portrait - Thanks for the visit -
Shared with Poets United~

picture credit:  here

Saturday 20 October 2012

Dreaming of pumpkins

I.  Late Spring

On  the  warm  soft  soil
I lay, pale pumpkin seed 
By garden’s edge – I bloom
Orange cheeks, bee stung lips    

II.  Mid-Summer

I thirst for rain  and  sun   
To drench dry olive skin
Bend me over several times   
Growing round and long vines

III. Early Autumn

Fragrant, ripe - you pluck me
Peeling layers to taste cream
With sweetness of golden pears-
You come like swooning leaf

Iv.  Winter night

Hold  the  core  of  me
Dry and cold, sealed envelope  
Amidst  white landscape, I sleep  
Dreaming of spring    --  and you 

Posted for:  D'verse Poets Pub - Its About Time - I made pumpkin soup with Bosc pears - heavenly ~ and Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Sunday's Challenge - Chinese poetry form is Jue-ju 

Line length: 5 words per line
Lines per stanza: 4
Theme: Often suggestive of erotic love
Rhyme scheme: couplets or unrhymed

Picture credit:   here

Thursday 18 October 2012

Weeping willow (Complete- this is a long post)

October 18, 2012
Prince of Wales Hotel
Niagara-on-the-Lake, Canada
9:00 pm.

Anne looked across the party room, 
resting on the face of her fiance, Ben

Around her, chimney fire and voices swirled and crackled
with secrets and haunting stories of people who have lived and 
died in this land over 200 years ago - the Watcher, 
Sophia Shaw and General Isaac Brock. 

Torn and razed to the ground, this town was
the battleground between British and Canadian soldiers, 
against the invading American forces.    

October 1812
Fort George, Niagara 
7:30 pm

your face is cold but your lips 
warmly scented with coffee and cream,  
silky soft as the night, now quiet from gunfire burst        

tomorrow is uncertain, much less dawn's light  

the blustery wind is fierce, as is your ardor for 
battle of our soil and water, for our Motherland  

so give me the kiss of forever - 

stinging bite of intoxicated bee, 
lush taste of forbidden plump fruit 

that i will savor again and again

on my tongue, sweet nectar and rain
on my limbs, musky earth and autumn leaves    

i gather - fiery storm, impetuous clouds -   

for this night, unclasp my bow, lift me up 
that i will remember how strong and brave

you are, my soldier 

and when they bring me your body   

stone cold, gunpowder and bloody mud on your red coat of arms  
i will weep

a broken petal, lost soul  

along the cobbled streets and blue lake,
beseeching for your return

October 19, 2012

BrockamourManor, Niagara-on-the-Lake
5:00 am

Morning coffee, fresh and black, warms his chest    
as he waits for the service car to bring him 
to the airport for an early morning flight for business

Perhaps it is the lack of sleep or too much wine

but without warning, a prickly sensation like an ice drop
on his nape, startles him into awareness that someone might be 
behind him -- 

Ben turns around quickly but it is just 

his shadow and silence of the house, circa 1809, 
nestled amongst the gardens off the main tourist road
Hearing the door closing along the corridor, he calls out quickly,
probably a staff, “Thanks for the coffee.   I really appreciate it.”

But there is only the wind

now rising like sand storm, whipping the fallen leaves
into a frenzy, straining the sounds
of someone crying

Sounds are coming from the second floor,
heartbreaking in the pauses
after a moment’s hesitation, Ben goes up the stairway
leading to the bedroom where Anne is still sleeping

Midway up the steps, he feels the energy -- 
pull of strong currents surging past him, like someone rushing
downwards in a hurry
He is taken aback for a moment and sees a shadowy tail of
someone going towards the foyer
He follows the movements and notes that the main door 
is now ajar in the cold wind,
the mist from the lake, giving the house an eerie vibe  

Slowly he walks outside and sees in the murky darkness
two outlines:  back of the woman standing near the horse 
and the horseman on the saddle
The blurry shapes confuse him and for a moment, he feels like an 
intruder watching an intimate farewell scene - a replay of that fateful night,
200 years ago.

Quickly the horseman in coat of arms, gives a nudge to the horse and is 
gone in the whirling fog, in the dark dawn, towards the main road
where his destiny and choice will collide

Ben shivers as the galloping hooves hit the dirt road, making it all too real for him.  
The woman’s back is steadily looking at the horseman until he is out of sight.
Involuntarily, Ben murmurs in admiration, “He is a brave man, our hero.” 

Slowly the woman's back turns towards him-- 
her profile now clearly visible --
she is wearing a long dark dress, cloak heavy on her shoulders, but  
it is the expression on her face -- eyes -- 
that he will never forget.

Then in the blur, she fades in the mist  

October 1812
Queenston Heights
7:04 am

under the blood stained blankets,
your face is cold, as well as your hands
fearless soldier, hero -   
you have fallen where you wanted to be –

fighting valiantly in the cannon lit dawn
one hundred yards west of the road of Queenston
leading the battle of 49th men,
not caring of your personal safety

your voice a bold call to arms
thundering like hard rain in hearts of the enemies
you stood on the crest, fatally wounded,
until your heart broke into a thousand pieces 

falling down on autumn leaves, moistened tears
and trampled heads of wild-flowers,
you lay in the organ notes of the battle, shouts
and shrill-war cries of the Mohawks

I wept under my heavy black veil, 
For all the days that could have been
For all the children that you and I could have raised   
And the willow trees wept along with me  

October 2013
10:00 am

Ben opens the car door to help Anne in the backseat of their mini-van.

After the fateful encounter with the ghosts, Ben had gone up
to check on Anne, who was still sleeping in the bed. 
Though they made plans of getting married next year, 
the specter of death and separation became heavy in his heart.
The face of the woman haunted him-- no, he decided not tell Anne
nor anyone what happened to him.  
Instead he prayed silently - a vow - that he will try his best 
to make her happy --
every single day and moment of their lives.

“It’s so beautiful here.”  Anne said, gazing at the autumn leaves and blooms.   
“Yes, it is.”  Ben smiles, marveling at joy and serenity on her face.     

She had insisted in visiting the manor house again on their way to Niagara Falls.     
“After all this is where he was conceived.”    
He is their baby boy, sleeping contently in her arms.  

Posted for Romantic Friday Writers:   House of Horrors - Word count - 994.  This is probably my longest piece.  Please check out the other stories in Romantic Friday Writers ~ MPA - Feedback is appreciated - which part is your favorite ? Thanks for the visit. 

Loosely based on love story of Sophia Shaw and General Issac Brock.   Brock was the great general of the British, and the most important strategist for Upper Canada's resistance against the Americans.  They were devoted to each other but Lady Sophia's parents refused to allow their marriage. Though an elegant hero Brock was not born of nobility. Their affair continued and General Brock swore he would return to marry her. Tragically, the general was killed in battle on October 1812.     Sophia never recovered and stayed true to Brock, never marrying. For those final few years, people in town did not see Sophia.  Instead they would only hear her cries from a second floor bedroom in Brockamour.  She is commonly spotted wandering the halls of the manor house crying in despair, longing for the man she loved. Her sobs are heard reverberating throughout Queen Street, giving her the name "Sobbing Sophia."  Source

More on the Ghosts of Niagara-on-the Lake here

Picture from the Movie -Pride and Prejudice

Saturday 13 October 2012


brush of cold wind 
sapping my skin, dry of wine
into wrinkled flesh, sunken cheeks 

of black crow in dwindling sunset,  
amber eyes glint - sharpened blade - 
on driftwood, an oil lamp waiting 

for striking match to burn 
every autumn leaf falling,  
until nothing but grey sky and ash linger

on boat empty of voices - 
your charcoal pelt, slippery and wet 
of deadly things 

pressing down my chest,
i cry out your name - 
on dry throat and swallowed tide - 
above me you are

all the verses I want to write
but your fearless lips are drowning 
slowly - 
bitter black sea     


Posted for D'verse Poets Pub - Poetics - Poeticaphobia - hosted by Stuart McPherson ~ 
I have a fear of falling and drowning in the open sea.
Shared with Poets United:  Poetry Pantry
picture credit:  here

Saturday 6 October 2012

Cooking for two

fresh wheat bread -
crust broken and dipped -
in virgin olive oil
stirs the tongue of basil, lemon
and herbs, their garden of roses

this is the way he touches her -
thick buttermilk and minced shallots
curling the pan, inhaling poppy seeds
and mushroom, softening skin

this is the way she falls into him -
slowly melting, nose flaring in sensous
intake, white wine twining with sea salt, 
as his fingers knead and entice the aroma

of creamy white sauce, over cooked pasta 
crimping her hair in honeycombs,
waiting for the serving fork to twirl -
sprinkling of black pepper and parmesan cheese - 
his love - warm - on her lips

Posted for D'verse Poets Pub- Poetics - Foodloose ~ another food poem ~  
Shared with Poets United
~  A Happy Thanksgiving to all of my Canadian friends and readers ~ Happy long weekend ~  

picture credit:  Tagliatelle with Poppy Seeds and Prosciutto

Thursday 4 October 2012

The red velvet cupcake

fresh salad and pumpkin soup,
my dinner for the last months,
or to be more precise, my diet to be slim as a vine  

autumn leaves are filling the ground -
speckled yellow, dotted golden and papered cheese - 
reminding me of harvest, buttered corn and roasted turkey   

my stomach grumbles with each spoonful,
thinking of cupcakes lining up in the bakeshop -  
chocolates, lemon and most of all, red velvet cupcakes -

"She said that the cupcakes are the best desserts, easy to make and
you don't feel guilty as it is a single serving.  One can be very creative
in its presentation, using flavored icing and toppings."

my finger idly traces the orange peels like broken glass on the table linen 
-- ironic that what is kept away is most often in one's thoughts -- 
sugar temptations, sprinkled or whipped, whisper at every turn 

only the mirror knows my madness,  
with expectations heavy on slim shoulders
I fork the salad greens, pressing down on the craving at every turn.    

"Just two-thirds of the way up is perfect as cupcakes expand when baked, 
and if the cupcake pans are filled any higher, the batter will spill over when baked. 
Any less than two-thirds, and the cupcake won't "dome." 

i found a big pine cone, broken petal and famished rain, fallen star
beneath the needles leaves and maple tree, and I took it inside,
feeling kinship with imperfect beauty  


                                                Dexter theme cupcakes from Magnolia Bakery

her lips quivered with thoughts of red velvet cupcake

topped with whipped cream and cherry syrup --

it was a constant battle between her sugar tooth

and dieting for an hour glass figure to please her fiance 

after three months,  she finally gave up and binged --

the cupcake was sinfully sweeter than his kisses

First post:   D'verse Poets Pub:  Post-modern prose
Second post: Flash Fiction Friday - For the G-Man - A post in 55 words.

picture credit:   here

Monday 1 October 2012

The distance between us

there is a river inside my chest
    when i think of you 

one year has passed like 
   a heart beat from yesterday

some days, i make paper boats
   out of the love poems i have written 

some nights, i fold them in origami    
   stars and hang it over the silk lantern    

where the moon catches and strings them   
   like tea lights across lavender skyline         

you in the crowded, scorching city,    
   me in the park smelling autumn leaves 

across the ocean, you pass by rice fields,  

   while my nights scent of red apples and pumpkins 

i imagine you falling   
   to greet me on my arrival, kisses  

red as poinsettias, fiery as raindrops,  
   closing space, gaping emptiness, with a firm snap,  

nuzzling cheek, inhaling all our memories,  
   whilst i melt like snow    


Posted for:  OpenLinkNight of  Imaginary Garden with Real Toads (Monday) and D'verse Poets Pub (Tuesday) 

- Thanks for the visit ~