Jerusalem Artichoke (Helianthus)


Tanned yellow tiles,
The open face of a sun flower,
Pollen-clutched bees and butterflies,
Composite, compound soul,
That keeps vigil on the forefront
In an anthesis of a celestial sun,
That can swallow yellowcake,
Through her sieves and tongues,
And stands untouched through time,
Like an Elizabethan virgin,
Who smiles for the simple reason
She is not just an artichoke
Plucked at budding, before she emerges
As a flowerhead, just a Jerusalem artichoke,
Giving the tongue, a meager divinity of taste,
And the tummy, the torment of the wind,
And yet, perpetuates as persistently,
As Christian tradition.




The past unfurls and the asphalt paths
Seem like scarelet Turkish carpets

I guess the peasant I see every day on the mirror
Forgot my blood lines, my royalty

Of a clement past, I cease to remember
And the horror that I can’t seem to forget

Fate is not growing wings inside a cocoon
It is forgetting how you used to fly, even soar.

Future has its memory in the past
And the past simply are butterfingered memories

Slipping through your heart, when your mirror
Is myopic, and inverse of luck appears

To stamp every endeavor. You ponder, why does
Memory always forget smelling the fragrance

Of a beautiful red rose yet recollect
The bloody grip of the thorn-filled stalk?

Only to realize, memory is a diorama
Of downsized dreams, where a bonsai can be found

Carrying on her apices, whorls of little blooms.

A Wild Flower

What arrests the gait

And remedies the inclement

A fleeting escapade in time

Where a curtain is drawn 

To conceal the labyrinths of the human heart

As providence radiates in color

In the tender texture of nature’s satin 

Where a simple gaze lingers

In an elixir of silence

As the curative properties of beauty

Heal the hurting soul

With an ounce of alchemy