A WOMAN DANCING
feminine, life, Love, Nature

Love A Wasteland

Behind those crooked smiles

lie some grief, little pain…

Those winning dimples,

sunken deep in cheeks

hollowed by cheap joints

of gas-stations telling tales

of murky betrayals. 

Ruby wines oozing of

the pale veins in those

abandoned cabarets.

Love a  Wasteland!

She did bloom a Rose

or a Tulip

somewhere!

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autumn, feminine, food

My Kitchen Empire

When my man is under the spell of elusive

raven nights, I carry in my bosom a long

-held secret, in glimmers of the faint

candle-light

 

I carefully lay my eyes upon the shelves of my

oriental kitchen, laden with my bridal 

copper pots & pans, embellished of

emerald peacocks and exquisite

Mughal florets.

 

My majestic Indian Mortar, Earthen Moroccan

Tagine lay enthroned midst the spice

bazaar, magical herbs gilded like

jewels in the crown of my

Kitchen Empire .

 

As I stir heavenly liquids against thick walls of

ashen pots the mushroom fumes of blunt

peppers, topaz turmeric soar much high

raising the temperatures of cold

Connecticut nights.

 

Uncle Sage and Aunty Rosemary sit beside me

all night whispering to me the magic that

will unfold tonight, as I stir the curry

in circles with all my might I often

shed a tear- or so on 

 my plight ,

 

The divine basil fills up my senses and assures

that things will go alright, while the ruby

peppers keep raising the temperatures,

and tiny sparkling drops crawls through

neck much to my annoyance.

 

Lamenting lemon appears, splitting into a glorious

vision of two, infusing with the clear waters

of great American Land quenching my

thirsts with concoction of fabled

lemonade. 

 

As the coterie of spices tinker in the pot, I realize

I need one more ploy and blow a puff of

aphrodisiac Fenugreek to stop the

ensuing battle tonight…

 

All this and more till oriental sun-rises on my imperial

Kitchen Durbar….

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Madam Giselle
feminine, Literature, poetry, satire

Madam Giselle’s Tragedy

“Makeupum Divina lipstickum 

Hail Oh, scentum , perfumee lios

Goddess Stilettum que sara sara”

 

Madam Giselle woke up to one glorious afternoon,

and damn those long-long lashes stretching little

over than the river Nile. Sparkling stilettos towering 

way above the heights of the leaning Towers of Pisa!

Having Insight 24 inches waist Madam stretched her back,

skillfully squeezed her belly to adorn golden Victorian 

corset, but it wasn’t to be easy for Gods have conspired and

were hell bent to bring down the penniless heiress from the

25 floor Ivory Castle.

As madam painted her face white with crushed powders of

corals from the far-off Gulfs in the fashions of Japanese Geisha

Fluttered fake lashes, ostentatious snobbish smiles extending

little more than her chiseled jaws, heavily armored with

 French powder and perfumes.

All the effort to slay any man who dare to passed by, hurriedly made

her way through the narrow allies of apartment suit in a

perpendicular fashion to avoid crushing her precious creases.

Oh so much pride, such high vanity, but she is indeed a beauty!

Tragedy fell upon! A loud thunder as heavens roared

heels cracked the sparkling Stilettos fell apart before her careful

gaze giving way to the bare ankles. It was to be the

first omen,

Acrimonious beings floating  fluttering in air laughing,

giggling; a loud thunder & descended million unwelcome

tiny crystal droplets, soaking the kohl smudged eyes

cascading into pools of black waters….

“Why it had to happen to me” ,cried Madam Giselle

Was my crime to be in vain or was it just a naive disdain?

But a little pride is not bad for a woman of my type!

look at my face
feminine, Love, Nature, poetry, woman

Behold darling & just look at my face

Behold darling and just look at my face,
do I need more ruby on the lips?
or need to walk alluring with sweeping hips?

Maybe I should too get bulbous bones fixed!
But love my darling is not a spectacle
No! Love is no rosy cheeks or her
dimpled face.

Poets of past who sighed deep and longed
for the fairer beings all turned blind!
Beauty doesn’t rest under your heels
Lures are not in bosoms but in depths of souls

I can arch my brows high if you feel
but you see you will again run up the hill
to find some jawbones are missing still!

Mistake not my tenderness for frailty
Or mark my words for random triviality!
Let’s not avoid me today as always in haste
Behold darling and just look at my face!

Baklava
feminine, food, Humanity, Kindness, Compassion, woman

The Golden Baklava

The molten honey oozing out from the layers and layers

of criss-cross diamond pastries, packed with luscious emerald

Persian pistachios, and the fragrant cinnamon from the land

of mythical fire dragons, the rich raisins handpicked by sultan’s

virgin hoories from the ripe grapes on the caravan routes of the

mighty silk-road, Oh! what a decadent mixture of zahidi dates

specially bartered in return of a passionate kiss to an ancient

Bedouin  flanked by the flock of camels travelling across the mighty

Saharan sand-dunes, a heavenly sweetened delight capable of

seducing even the astute gods in the majestic skies, I just

surrendered myself in the feet of the great-Turkish pesermick as

he so softly made me sit on his cozy lap and put a morsel of the

golden beauty  from his lusty mouth into my parched mouth.

I fell into a hands of sinful ecstasy worth thousand opiates and my

promiscuous mouth just exploded with decadent flavors and for

my heart it just got ruptured as I licked the juices from the

golden baklava gently crawling on my warm flesh.

 

( Baklava is my favorite sweet, I just love it)

 

Lolita
feminine, Humanity, Kindness, Compassion, Humour, Literature, Love, poetry, satire, sensual

Another Loilta ( Revised)

Stretching apart her thin toothpick legs 
Sat robustly on his stunted arthritis legs
Suckling chocolate lolly-pop euphorically 
Careless licking melted cocoa from corners of lips 
Droplets of sweat accumulated on the forehead
A raw beauty in the care, guardian of
Venus two steps behind womanhood
Could feel the-hard bony rib cage against
His sagging rotten flesh, pulse palpating swift 
Impoverished  bosoms like two sand dunes, 
adorning  emaciated slender waist, yet 
not evolved into any shape, resting on a thin frame 
Could sense a ruffle beneath trousers
Serpents crawling underneath, slowly gradually
Raising  heads out of Ecdysis, sloughing old skin
Squishy, velvety pulsating reddish fleece 
Held his tremoring hands back, a young passion 
Taking birth in his heart, an urgent yearning to 
Explode with rapture at this rare rendezvous 
Odorless Scent of a young body filled his nostrils 
Like on opiate he fell into an ecstasy unparalleled
ready to  burst like a volcanic rapture, dormant for 
Seventy years, a malady damping elated spirits
Frightened maybe he has forgotten the tricks
Nervous fisted his hands with a fractured ego
Mustering courage extends forth sweaty palms
Trying to feel the touch of virgin demoiselle
Heart missing a beat gushed into million stars.
Little snake-lings crawled back to the hood.  

feminine, poetry, sensual, woman

Belly Dancer

A gentle fierce damsel
A face so exquisite 
From the fertile valley of 
Great Saharan lands with
Voluptuous serpentine moves
Sensuous tattooed hissing belly
Adorned with silver hip scarves 
Softly sexually on the rhythms
Of  Arabic darbuka
Back and forth, side to side
Teasing with tender bouncy
Bosoms trying to peek out, 
Of choli embellished with coins
Transparent meandering harem 
Pants allowing onlookers to 
Have a heavenly glimpse of 
Treasures hidden beneath in 
The sinful darker corners 
Evoking awe, a silent heartache
An ecstasy like being on 
Thousand opiates 

Tanya Shukla

( This poem is dedicated to the beautiful and feminine art of belly dancing. During my long work in middle-east, I got a chance to enjoy this ancient form of dancing, traditionally used to aid women in child-birth)