She was a spectacular tree.
People called her the flame of the forest,
for she was obviously striking, vivid and classy.

I need not narrate the superlative majesty
of the flame – tree, for one time or the other
we have all been breath-taken by her peerless glamor.

What matchless artistry!

I am here to quickly share
my ruminative gloom for that lovely assembly
of flower, leaf and woo...

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Like those magnificently lonesome trophies -
      once hard fought for
      with all our might and capacity
      and then left to rot on the rocks;
      abysmally, in perpetuity -
all laurels and triumphs get jaded and weary
dominions faded and supremacy sickly.

Every hard earned victory
      once immaculate and pristine
succumbs to frivolous, lame apathy.

The slick sheen gather...

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Passion is carefree, often buoyant.....breezy,
and is absolved perpetually of prohibitory rationality.

Being logged in to it for a little over eternity,
this is exactly how I have felt:
intense, steamy
...maybe a bit frenzied.

Passion is also a sudden, swift salvo.
On many a fleeting occasion, ergo;
I have come perilously close
to suggesting my maudlin ardor
and poetically propose
a...

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It was a special speech:
...a part of the distinguished lecture series.

The Chemistry professor spoke on alternative corridors for a reaction to occur.

He exemplified how Manganese dioxide, when added to Hydrogen peroxide, yields water... ...hydrogen oxide.

The talk seemed insipid till he skillfully indicated
that Manganese dioxide remains untied with the reaction and can be recovered s...

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We track the oblique, sly fireflies
that keep popping fitfully by.

While life swarms invitingly by the side
we remain rabidly hustling
recklessly trailing
those brusque cracking stars
      ...shifty, deceptive, volatile
in onyx-bronze, raven nights

❋

We: the tenderfoot novice
bulldozed on many a graceless trip
half-cocked, peripheral, stoned
and profoundly ill with pitiful

sh...

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An uprooted tree lies ebbing in the street.
The one who pledged everyone with a refuge
is herself in exigent need.

People come, see the fallen one.

Not a soul seems to be concerned.
Zero, zilch, nada, none.

They don't remember
those cloistered, sizzling infernos of June
those solitary, shivering nights of witchy new moons

and those

sodden, sultry volleys of pouring monsoons

...

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At the foothills of vintage age
you feel perceptibly less somber
for there are only meager remains
of mostly forgotten days -
      little to smile, rue or cry for
and an amorphous
yet obligingly finite future -
      trifling to put together or fight for.

So dear Chandra:
here is a congratulation:
It must be awesome -
this imminent privilege of geriatrics
and this stolen bit of tran...

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