Long Snow clad Poems
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Heavenly Himachal
Snow clad hills with sun's silver shine,
Whitened by moonlight like crest of waves,
Tree covered folds in the mountains,
Are like a gigantic crumpled velvet rug,
Soft and supple twigs hanging intertwined,
Turbulent rivers flow flawless through the heart,
Rains drizzle and seep deep into bones,
A gaze through a mist of fluffy clouds,
Smoky night sky and stars await twinkle,
Chilly breeze that preserves the smile,
God in every bit can be seen alive,
Alongside the serpentine path as you thrive,
Serenity to soul view from every angle grants,
Heavenly abode leaving never would you want,
Feel melody in heart and song in the air !
August 26th, 2014
For contest ' About places' by Charlotte Puddifoot
* Himachal is a state in north of India.
I have seen you flash by
Amidst thick green foliage and swaying pines
Like a distant silver dream
On receding skyline
But was never satisfied
For a close encounter I craved
I did then go up
The Space Needle in Seattle
Hoping to have a clear view
Of your snow-clad balding pate
That thought profound thoughts
Against mortal blues of the empty sky
But, alas, you remained
Elusive to sight
Hiding behind shifting clouds
Yesterday, I drove over a hundred miles
Climbed my way to Sunrise Point
Hoping for a close tete-a-tete
You played truant again
I saw a blank
Of nothingness, void
A grey screen of clouds and mist
As snow-flakes flew around
The board before me read
You were somewhere there
Amidst mighty peaks
Right before my unseeing eyes
Doesn't matter Rainier
You are there, I know for sure
Like the Himalayan peaks
I haven't seen
And yet am charmed by their beauty
On calendars, picture-cards
Inherent philosophy
Their height and grandeur speak
Better luck next time
Rainier, you are a teacher
I have now seen
Lofty nothingness, void
Against which I have all the peaks
Of the world that speak
Of Truth that belongs not to things
But to an evanescent dream
That the Lord, whoever He is
Conjures up for stupid minds
Love Letter to God from the Virgin Mary. (You could sing this one, tune is "What am I living for...? sung by Clyde McPhadder, way back when.)
What are we fighting for?
Look at the sparkling sea,
So beautiful..
What are we fighting for?
Look at the snow-clad Alps,
So pristine,
What are we fighting for?
Look at the desert dawn,
So golden warm,
What are we fighting for?
Look at the valleys and lakes,
So serene and calm.
What are we fighting for?
Look at the tiny ant,
So perfectly small,
What are we fighting for?
Look at the human form,
So miraculous,
What are we fighting for?
Look at the clouds,
So fluff and moist,
What are we fighting for?
Look at the Planet Earth,
So bountiful,
What are we fighting for?
Look at the blazing stars,
So heavenly,
What are we fighting for?
Look at the Universe,
So infinitely large,
What are we fighting for?
Mary's Love letter to God,
What are we fighting for?
What are we fighting for?
aquamarine horizon with crimson hue,
unfolds a sublime picture of dawn,
drowns the senses in tender lilac dreams,
sways away to a mythical land unknown.
spring birds merrily cooing songs serenade,
saffron imagination dawns on dreamy eyes
swirling all vibrant colours of rainbow in palette,
fragrant petite graceful flowers wake us up,
chartreuse waterfalls falls soft on coral rocks,
dazzling moon takes the centre spot,
mighty ocean poses as the mirror for her.
from tiniest seashells to icy mountain-peaks,
indomitable sand-dunes to snow-clad evergreens...
beautiful world!
lavender yearning for magic fills my passionate heart.
Beauty, an undefinable definition,
exists around us....in
beautiful moments, beautiful scenerios,
beautiful emotions...
to be unravelled to the beholder
who marvels at the exquisite bounty of the miraculous!
January 29, 2023
Writing Challenge - "B" word Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Constance La France
Alluring elegance of Simla, the queen of hills,
Morning pleasant breeze, at night gives chills !
Snow clad mountains, silvery charming shine,
Tall Deodar trees , dense forest , also few Pine,
Aromatic flowers garnish nature's platter, vividly grow,
Rivers run smooth , at times exhibit a turbulent flow !
Soulful scenic marvel, must artistry come alive,
No artist or poet here can ever fail to thrive,
Green valley on one side, hilly serpentine road,
As summer sun peaks, it is my heavenly abode !
Written on 13/6/14
Contest- Hills are alive with poetry
Sponsor- Scott thirty seven
* Simla is the capital of state Himachal Pradesh ( Devbhumi Himachal meaning thereby Land of Gods ) in India.
Ranked 5th
Now for Andrea's contest- let's get technical
Awarded HM
Snow-clad, wondrous, Christmas eve,
Trains take flight, if you believe.
By the window, huge snowflakes fly,
As down below, sleepy towns go by.
I hear a caroling in the night,
As colored lights twinkle bright!
Can it really be the blessed Mary,
Her angelic song quite customary?
At the lustrous edge of tomorrow,
With its sacred, golden sunrise glow,
Slowly along, glides the holy train,
In the starry sky, like an airplane!
While below, on still Candy Cane Lane,
Toy soldiers stand before frosted panes,
Among the sleighs and huge lollipops,
As the falling snow piles on rooftops!
Softly twinkling stars and glowing moon,
The joy filled dawn will be coming soon,
With memory of a song that'll never end,
For this eternal gift is a true Godsend!
When it left the Arctic it was as a wild angry wind
that stormed its way across the ice bound Arctic ocean.
Blowing the snow clad icebergs and whipping up the ocean.
As it crossed Alaska and into Canada it had gentled
now it played games with leaves and softly kissed flowers.
Gaily it soared over the Rockies and tugged goats beards
causing them to shake their heads and stamp their feet.
In Playful mood it swept on hugging the coast awhile
then veering inland, it travels the plains and grows in strength
turning into a raging tornado causing havoc as it passes.
Moving ever southward it basks in now warm sunshine
and skips over the gulf of Mexico filling yachts sails.
Deep down in South America it turns into a wild fury that
uproots trees snapping them in half like matchsticks,
Then onward once more dancing past the Falkland islands.
Its destiny is now in sight and with triumphant roar
it rushes on over the Antarctic ocean and slides up
the icy barrier then screams its way across the tundra
yet slowly it loses its power and as it reaches the incline
this moody wind fades away until with final breath it dies.
It was a Christmas Eve.
Wearing my casual winter outfit
I set out for my granny’s home,
a mile away from my dwelling.
The moon rising from the horizon
spread its soft glow all around.
Under my feet, on the snow-clad ground,
the silhouettes of the snow laden trees,
appeared to me as the spirits of the dead.
The dilapidated houses with icicles under their roofs,
loomed up to me like the ghosts with mouths open wide.
Silence everywhere, and not a soul nearby,
I felt that I was haunted by them at every step.
My heart pounded out of my chest
and my teeth chattered beyond my control.
This unusual jugalbandi made me unconscious.
When I awoke, I was in a hospital bed,
cold to the bone and wet through with the sweat.
Midnight boom town streets have this allure
imagining an uncanny venture
eavesdrop veil surround but dark as coal
how I love my after hours stroll
Secret worlds unfold their impish plot
mesmerised entanglement a tiered whatnot
black crush velvet sky we must extol
how I love my after hours stroll
Gilt fantasies that float across each lane way
fluorescent gremlin from some ghostly parking bay
gust on salt ice pier might buttonhole
how I love my after hours stroll
Snow clad mall whistler gaffe prone
while wandering the ink hue urban zone
a chapter lift and snatch from begging bowl
how I love my after hours stroll
Traffic signals stellar stoic stance
heartbeat of nocturnal moonlight dance
frozen digit signage reeks of twinkling North Pole
how I love my after hours stroll
Sitka’s vibrant euphonious voice,
as alluring as the violin tune,
the musical trail to beauty symphony
of the country north to the future.
Nature there blooms like a flower,
the sunset splendor sequestered.
The twilight rays of golden thread,
the auric frill between trees,
emerald tapestry weaved in Totem Park.
The gilded splash of the ripple rows
on the jade frame of Beaver lake,
the sapphire sky’s mirror in glacial vale.
Mount Edgecumbe, the dormant volcano,
the standing sentinel in lavish landscape
with crimson crown on snow-clad cone.
The northern lights of surreal Sitka dusk,
the living paint on kaleidoscopic canvas,
the captured amazing scene awfully wonderful.
___________
June 5, 2023