PURBASHA

“No pad, no plans and no clans! A no-man’s woman’s a nomad.”
Desire’s dance is delirious- on the staid stage of her stare- sad!
She’s fire! Her desire dire- drapes a demure damsel’s dampish disguise,
I hear: where her quintessence quiescence quivers, rivers of reveries rise.

Belonging- her longing lingers long, like length of lent, expectant of Easter,
She’s a yearning- an intoxicating cocktail, captive in a crystal canister.
She’s a raving craving- untouched, un-quenched, drenched in thirst.
Guilt-trips! Lips like tulips. Dew drips or is it a crust of luscious lust?

She’s sheer torment- the tipsy tasting tang, on the tongue of a tigress,
An unfair affair- never afar. A far flung boomerang- in relentless regress.
A piquant pining! Playing peek- a- boo, a pink bomb in a décolleté dress,
A saucy sorceress? A slit in a silk-dress; or is she a simple seamstress?

Purveyor’s printing press! She’s every woman’s stress- ‘My man’s mistress?’
Men muse ‘A seductress! Whose whore?’ They so adore- dreaming in undress.
I’m no seer! Still, I see her- steer clear of the party of perverts- they solicit her skirts,
Haps harps a sentiment, haps hopes a sentinel. Hapless she hurts, harpooned by flirts.

When I chanced at her, her charge pranced at her, a delight danced at her,
An honor! She’s a titbit donor at our temple’s door. I glanced at her, entranced at her.
Loitering while, in a library aisle- I caught in her eyes, her earnest contemplation.
One more query filled my quandary file- my questions beguile- tempering my temptation.

I pictured her, paddling in a puddle-filled, paddy-field, padding fulfilled pearls of perspiration.
Where my pen painted my praise- my prose poured as poetry. Her portrait - my inspiration,
When my sonnet sang, so it began- ‘Man or no man, she is a woman! And her clan is Human.
Now I know- No she’s no bronze bust! This gold-dust- I trust, tis a tinge of her toil’s tan.’