Four seasons

Poets I - After spring

Spring comes 
And spring goes
Suddenly, friendly times
Bite back like foes

As the sun sinks
Perfume sprayed 
After the morning shower
Goes stale and stinks
Poetic hearts feel betrayed
Spring or not 
Dead leaves still rot

Romantic dinners
Turn poets into sinners
The haute cuisine food
Surely changes the mood
But bits left on the plate
Turn l'art de la cuisine
Into ugly and mean 
Faces of our fate

Poets struggle to stay sane
Wait for spring to come again.


Poets II - Summer's gone

Summer comes
Summer goes
Suddenly, young leaves
Have autumn woes

Those long summer days
Had their charming little ways
Of keeping poets preoccupied
With exposés of curvy maids
But somewhere deep inside
The soul's internal frays
Had continued
Now the season has changed
Young leaves have aged
The early morning mist
Is slow to lift
And the cool heavy air
Has got harder to shift

Poets too are more mature
But the future seems less secure
For each gust of air
Carries a whiff of despair
As trees are left plundered
Poets just wonder
Is life really fair?

Naked trees reveal fractal magic
Even chaos has its secret logic
Poets meditate and contemplate
Celebrate nature, as it recreates


Poets III - Beyond autumn

Autumn comes
Autumn goes
Suddenly, there is fear
But poets know
A new beginning is near

With the crisp autumn breeze
It had rained dead leaves
In yellows, reds and browns
Death had come tumbling down
And for a while it seemed
The whole town
Would just drown
In la folie-âge

A blanket of death had covered all paths
And yet, for those who cared
And dared
The sight was breathtaking!
Poets knew
Beyond demise
Life would spring anew

Shedding their gloom
And all thoughts of doom
Poets had set off on their beat
Crushing death under their feet
They carved out new paths
And after long walks
And despite sore feet
Poets had rejoiced
Penned and voiced
Rich verse
Such was nature's treat

The naked autumn trees
Had woefully exposed
The lovebirds hitherto hidden shame -
Their somatic love's ignoble game
That cutie-cuddly spring
That carefree summer
Of hot love
Had gone
Alone
Sat the lovebirds
On twigs that had branched out
Under their feet
Their remoteness
Their loneliness
Now left bare
Was for all to see
Now, in the chill of winter
The lovebirds look fat
But it's only fluff
And all that
Beneath the puffed plume
Beat wailing hearts
Ticking hopelessly out of tune
The chill bites body and soul
Keeping warm is the only goal
As struggle becomes an endless strife
Clinging to dear life
The lovebirds are seen to cuddle
But this time round
It's just a handy huddle
So close
And yet so far
Such is lovebirds' lot

What is so
Is also what's not
Poets watch and smile
Salute nature's guile


Poets IV - Winter's end

Winter comes, and winter goes
The cage warms the heart
But poets long for a restart
No matter if the cold bites the aging toes

The late autumn rains
Had pounded the crispy crumbs
Of the dead leaves trodden on by poets
Into a mushy smelly slush
As bits of their lungs decomposed
The trees stood still
In meditation—all composed
With their feet soaking wet
In pools of cold dark sepia--
That would-be ink
Of a grand re-composition
Come spring

In the still sepia slush
Shiva danced without restrain
The bop, it seemed, had Vishnu slain
Dark destruction stained the terrain
Mother earth was cold, scarred and potted
Her aging face grey, heavily spotted--
Visage of a maid much exploited
Then it snowed…
Soft white flakes
Floated down gently
Almost reluctantly  
Flake by flake
Layer upon layer
God's white foundation
Filled up the crevices
Concealing the blemishes
Mother earth was having a make-over…
Underneath, the dark sepia froze…
Smooth, soft, untouched, and without sin
The blue ball dressed in pristine white
Looked once again like a virgin bride
Wide-eyed poets looked in disbelief
Admired the gift the heavens had sent
But only they knew 
That she was secretly pregnant

Suitors battled to court her
Ethereal winds whistled like street urchins
Clouds swirled like chauvinist dancers
But the sun—the culprit—shone its brightest
Slowly the shy maid tilted
Succumbed and melted
In the heat of passion
Winter was gone
Like a discarded fashion…

From sepia's warm dark womb
Emerged a boundless bloom
Poets laughed at the prophets of doom
As they watched Vishnu's seedlings
Sprout on winter's tomb


© Jitendra Khanna 2005