When those rain bearing clouds hover

When those rain bearing clouds hover
All over the sky and drizzle soft drench me
From head to toe, how oft I think of you,
Your hair black I found in those clouds
They carry scent of earth moist and your
Perfume too come flowing in the cool breeze,

Your eyes I see in my mind, curious and gay,
They take to you, love and I feel your words
Drawing pictures melodious in sing song fashion,

The city seems so beautiful then,
Every part of me go about finding Beauty Thine
In simmering images coming and then going away
Being so Borne by the rain drenched air,

When the rain bearing clouds hover over head
How oft I think of you, monsoon
Your incomparable presence how
Makes me sit quiet and to ruminate,

How oft I see you then in my mind
Ages have must gone down
Days must have gone traveling to unknown shores,
Still those dark rain bearing clouds
How bring me closer to you.

A few feet away as they wandered *

Every day they would go cycling
To the River and the hills
Just a few feet away from where
They stayed ,

There they wandered as two
People trying to make out
What makes it good to savour life,

And he being someone always in his mind
The dream of spices and other little things
To do something for culinary Delight
Would ask her about fruits and vegetables,
Herbs and nuts and seeds,

She, would keep on telling him
What were the four necessary sauces
To master the art of cuisine, French,

How much salt and pepper
Were to be sprinkled
On which dressing,

What could make even the trivial into
Exotic something,

They would just wander
Into the hills and near the stream
They would sit ,
He would try to catch a fish or two
Putting bread into hooks
And she would just giggle
Telling him the ways fish move there,
'Try worms instead of bread'
She would say,

He would look at her face,
Amazed ,
'You know so many things ...'
He would retort,

She would just smile
And give out secrets more
Of the art of cooking
Of that province not known to him,

They would wander thus
Into hills and a River flowing,

They would wander thus
Into talking more of wonderous things.

(*Note: loosely based on a scene from  a flick titled 'The hundred foot journey'. )

The morning at the ville*

The morning at the ville
Like a picture still
Oft I think I see
Where just after Autumn
Came the winter with glee,

The arterial road running through
The village always had a view
To find milkmen cycling to
The nearby town and men who
Took to the road, waited like statues
Beside the road, beneath the tree,

The morning at the ville
Like a painting still
Oft I think I see
Waking up after an Autumn
To the winter's glee.

(*Note: loosely based on a painting as attached done by John Fernandes, titled 'Winter morning' .)

Morning near Velleron *

You are like morning to me,
Blooming poppies and the meadows
You all bring to me,
And the more I look at you,
I wonder more, how beauty is there
Spread for us only to admire and
Behold, how I get swayed by the breeze
Of summer as it blows,

You are like a new day to me,
Arriving with scent of flowers
And a wonderous scene ,
The more I feel you
The more I make out what makes life
And see, how I think of you and me
As joined by Love Divine.

(*Note: loosely based upon a painting as attached, taken from 'Postcard from Provence' series)

Twilight snapshot

It had been that time of day
With twilight we had our say,
And looking at the expanse of life
Into thoughts of Love , took a dive,

The sun was then coming to bathe,
The River kept flowing taking us towards Lethe,
The breeze after a spell of rain caressed hair
Sitting and watching life how flowing fair.

Overlooking the sea

Once sitting quiet, overlooking the sea,
How we thought of life, passing by,

It had been a morn, the fisherman's shack nearby had been busy ,
the boats were made ready for a trip,
the birds had then woken up-their sweet chirpings filled the air,

And we thought to just sit,
Both of us were so made drenched
By the light of the day that we talked
Nothing,
We were only letting the feel sink deep
Into our mind and soul,
We felt the breeze caressing us,
We heard the waves lapping incessant,

We fell all the more for life,
We fell all the more in love.

I won't say it today*

Dusk. I won't paint you another sunset,
another beautiful striped sea; no, not today.
~ Mia Barrat

I won't say that you should sit beside me
Looking at the dusk falling before us
No, not today, for today I have found myself
Right there in your eyes, as you looked at me,
And I at the overwhelming sky,

The railroad had sung beside us
Taking us away from us to the far
Where twilight sings not of separation
But of the communion of our souls,

I won't say that you should sit beside me
Looking at the dusk falling before us,
No, not today, for today I have found myself
Right there upon your face, as you shone
And I as that found in reflection.

Today, I will just look at you
And the passionate sky
Turned so beautiful,

Today , I will go beyond mere exchanges of words
Between you and me,
Today I will transcend our so called love,
Today,
I will be your sky,
And you the Calm of a dusk
Enveloping me.

(*Note: the painting attached is titled 'Nighthawks, 1942,'by Edward Hopper.)

Morning at the farm*

Morning at the farm
Of Tilly Foster, is laid
With green grass
And the rooster there
Calls one and all
To make the day
With leisure pass,
The breeze there
Carries pollens yellow
And seeds of dandelions,
Songs of peasants
There ring true from dawn
To dusk, morning at the farm
Is laid with green grass,
At Tilly Foster, it is such a beautiful
Scene, in warm sun only to bask.

(*Note: upon a painting based as attached, done by Jamie Williams Grossman, titled 'Morning at Tilly Foster farm'.)

At the day's end, like The Angelus *

At the day's end, with the dusk
Settling in , upon the land,
Hearing the gongs of bells
Perhaps coming to them
From the faraway town,
How they stood still
with clasped hands,
In the midst of the vast
field kissing the horizon,
How they stood there
The Angelus, as the day
Came to bid adieu to
Their toils and sweat
At least for a night
To brace with rest,
How they stood like
Statues against the perspective
Of a dusk , descending quiet,

The wheelbarrow near
Had the fruit of their hardships
That they had borne
For days many, yet
Every day when came to pass
Like that, they would perhaps
Stop their works, and say
Words few, softly , muttering
Their little hope, love and wishes,

How with the passage of the day
They came to stand there
And to say their own words
To the world.

(*Note : loosely based on a painting as attached, done by Jean-Francois Millet, titled 'The Angelus'.)

Just that country *

It had been just that country green
Where the hay cart crossed the river
It had been just that famous scene
With that cottage of Will Lott near,

Where perhaps for hours sat he,
To see and watch the passage of a day
Where perhaps he sat with glee
To find a country perhaps of May,

There he had made the river
To sing and to make a setting vast
There he had made a choice
Of painting that could for centuries last.

(*Note: upon a  famous painting based, as attached, done by John Constable, titled 'The Hay Wain', 1821.)

That cottage at Boucherons*

That cottage at Boucherons
Just beside those woods
Could have been for us perfect
To make out our love, watching birds
Taking flight to the Sky from their nests
Loving the beauty of their life,
That cottage at Boucherons
Would have been one way
For us to feel the serene and
The  blessed one, who is present
In every form of Nature's unfolding,
In fields, meadows, wastelands,
In flowers, trees, forests of pine and birch,
In streams and rivers and oceans,
And in human and other creatures;

That cottage at Boucherons
Would surely bring us closer, home.

(*Note: upon a painting loosely based as attached by  Jean Baptiste Camille Corot, titled 'le cottage de boucherons'.)

Starry night over for us *

Starry night over and above us
We then our night , with songs pass,
You singing spinning away of Cale
Will never us from our Love fail,

We will be like that two men
Struck by the song filled vein,
Starry night over and above us
We will just with our talks pass,

I will think of River Rhone
That once so beautifully shone
In painting , a sky so ravenous,
You will with songs of Love the night pass,

The little ripples on water blue
Will fill us with beauteous hue,
And the songs will truly hold
Our tales of love never told,

It will be a night so different
Above us a sky illumined
And water close and very near us
As with songs and talks will we the night pass.

(*Note: loosely based on a famous painting by Vincent Van Gogh, as attached.
This particular painting once made John Cale to write a song.)

When you are in my arms*

When you are in my arms
It seems so beautiful
That I find flowers blooming
By the river Seine perhaps,
It might be a wonderous day
The breeze might surely be flowing
And when we would stand there
At the street, in early hours,
We would be having the feeling
Of being into a heavenly lair,

When you are in my arms,
Any day will be a day of spring
Or it will be a day to cherish
All the more for us to sing.

(*Note: loosely based upon a painting as attached done by Anwesha Chowdhury Mitra. )

Walking through the meadows*

Going walking down that track
Through the meadows has no lack
Of sweet smell of flowers wild
Tossing their heads in the breeze of summer mild,

It is such a lovely sojourn
Walking down the field one morn
Watching the day upon the green quite
Drenching a soul with beauteous light,

Just then probably one feels life
Whispering tunes gay, beyond strife
That brings one closer to earth
Where nature creates images of Holy mirth.

(*Note: upon a painting loosely based as attached, done by Bonnie Morgan Hyde; courtesy: Keith Linwood Stover, Iulia Gherghei.)

Woods and the country road passing by it

Oft when I chance to see
Woods and the country road
Going by it, how I think of idyllic setting,
A road to take not to go into the woods
But just going by it , reaching a lake
Perhaps where in our childhood of tales
Told by grannies, we had oft met princes
And princesses and their curious journeys, there we had met with seven dwarfs perhaps and snow white,

Oft when I chance to see
How I am taken to that age
When there were evenings to gather
At a hall, after the day's plays
And to listen with wide eyed wonders
Stories from granny, who would chew
Betel leaves and fan  us with her
handheld implement  made of palm leaves and would take us to a different world, altogether,
We would think of all the characters
She would have told us about,
They would come alive in our dreams
We would hear horse's hoofs ploughing through the road, owl's hoots too would
Come to us and we would go places
With granny,

Oft when I see woods and the country road
I think of tales that come unhindered
To my mind and with broken bits of them,
Like filling a drawing board with zigzaw puzzles , with those fragments of tales
How I make a picture complete,
Of our childhood, our grannies, their stories, their memories,

They all come together how making me understand life as a mere passage
Of ages, of generations,

How a painted scene become strongly evocative, carrying so many things,
Of wonder and excitement,
As I look at woods and the country road
Passing by it, reaching perhaps a lake of our childhood.

It was a lovely morn to walk down the beach*

It was a lovely morn
To walk down the beach
Waves came and away they went
Touching our sand filled feet,
Not far away those trees
Sang songs whispering in the salty breeze,
We took the walk as our ritual then,
Finding oyester shells , crabs and little snails,
Spread like little marvels,
We them picked and those pebbles too,
Sand castles we made,
And spent the day
Thus till we got weary of our plays,
And our bodies glowed
By the soft mellowed sun,
Floating over Aphros.

(*Note: upon a painting partially based, as attached done by Alexander Kudin, courtesy : Musica Pittura e Dintorni)

Mirror mirror tell me*

Mirror mirror tell me
Am I not young still,
Are not my lips carry
Luscious feel,
Aren't my hips
ready for a turn
Doesn't my hair
Holds dreams auburn,
Doesn't my Bosom keep
Love red and deep,
Aren't my eyes blue
Made for a Beau,

Mirror mirror tell me,
I am the beauty
that the world seeks,

Mirror mirror tell me
I hold youthful blush

Mirror mirror tell me
For me the world does the rush.

(*Note: loosely based on a painting as attached, done by Pino Deani, courtesy : Musica Pittura e Dintorni)

Found *

It was early morn,
The drover was just
going out of town,

In his cart he had the calf,
The drover had made his way out,

Just then her he saw,

'I think I know you, maid,'
He had her said,
Jumping off from his cart,

The girl looked at him for awhile,
Soon her face got pale,
She turned her head against the wall,
While the drover her requested
To get up and not to be,
So filled with pity,

But the girl turned her head,
And muttered,
Something choking her voice,
'I remember Thee,
The Kindness of Thy youth,
But Thy pity,
I can never that take'

The day was just then blooming
The light at the bridge was still there burning,

And the drover holding the girl's hand
Pleaded and implored more,
But the girl had turned her head,
And against the wall she put to rest,
All her shame and grief.

(*Note: based upon a painting as attached done by preraphaelite poet and Painter Dante Gabriel Rossetti titled "Found". )

On the girl named Summer and her life and love*

As candle feeds the flame
There she had been, a Dame,
Summer was her name,

She would go down the town on bike
With breeze she do talking alright,
She would sing out holding a mike,

As days would roll out from one to three
She would go working like a busy bee
Making her friend, an architect, in eyes towers see,

One day she would go with him to bed
Another day she would keep him confused,
Another night they would at a garden get laid,

This Summer the girl carefree
Kept doing what pleases she
Wanted to do all her simple life,

Her boyfriend Tom counted one to five
Months just sailed away, smoothly flew by,
Summer kept arriving as warm sun behind clouds lies,

They drove through the city streets,
They  met each other as morning through casements peeps,
They went places strange where they with fashionistas did meet,

Then one day at a pub Tom got
Into a brawl that turned rancid and hot
And Summer being what she guided by thoughts

Told Tom it was seriously out of her way
To find her boyfriend getting so blown away
By things that never pleased her self,

Summer being such a carefree sylph,
She cared for Tom as her love
But she never wanted to see her world break apart,

Then oneday , while having a leisure time
Summer told Tom how men came and away went,
Marcus the quarterback, Charlie the rock song,
Summer told Tom where they in her mind belonged,

Tom got an idea out of Summer's tales,
He made songs which he sang at a pub as coins fell,
He went pursuing his own story riding a train,
There he met Summer after many years, again,

Thus Tom and Summer kept catching each other
At places unexpected with fair or inclement weather,

Summer had remained still the same,
As a candle she just kept feeding the flame.

(*Note: upon a character called Summer of a flick titled "500 days of Summer" based, loosely. The picture attached is that of Summer as portrayed by Zooey Deschanel, in the flick as mentioned.)

Dance dance *

With music she went into a flow
Steps her she with beats matched,
The fan in her hand she had held
And with that she when lunged
Forward or slightly moved back,
In her she held how a poem intact.

(*Note: upon a painting loosely based as attached, done by Pino Deani, courtesy: Musica Pittura e Dintorni, Alex Artista)