Monday, March 28, 2022

Zooming in on Fireflies

A few minutes past six,
​as light dims on
the Monday chores,
they appear,
on my right,
beyond a pale green
pre-summer canopy.
Six lamps. Or is it more?

Oh, the inadequacy of vision!
They, the fireflies,
hang in the air, a straight string;
dot on the line of sight my
seat provides,
through random banters
and toward specifics in history,
for the politics of posterity.

-- Leslie
 



Monday, December 13, 2021

The Dilated Song

Wish I could slow down
the song I play,
buying dilated time.
Its tempo reigned in,
but it's timbre intact,
for I dare not change the tune.

Will it help the dreams 
linger on in a trance,
a tad longer,
a minute or two,
a second or an hour,
a day or eternity.

The song heralds eternity,
and it plays in a loop.
Alas, time, its vagaries,
is linear, is a knife.
It rips open the winter jacket,
but it cuts cakes too...

-- Leslie



Sunday, December 12, 2021

Love, A Reflection

In a world without mirrors,
sans judgement,
and harsh glares,
I would spend
the vanity left in me
to cry, then reflect...

I become my mirror.
And, in the images
flashing by,
droplets of cold sweat
provide gloss
as well as the shivers.

Then, three hours past midnight
I touch her,
she kisses me,
and we see
our reflections merge,
within hand-held Amoled frames.

... In a world without mirrors,
three hours past midnight!

-- Leslie 

Thursday, December 09, 2021

Winter Longing

Lost for words, are we?
No. It's just that 
no brew could drown longing,
the one in winter...

​It is but a whiff of winter, sure,
yet the longing grows for
the warm rays of a sun
as seasoned as the coffee 
made by the first Italian barista,
or as potent as the sun
outside the smoking room
of an Indian cafe.

But it rained outside too,
and when it did once,
and when the leaves turned
greener with envy,
it indeed was a reminder
winters don't last,
but its longing does,
and it freezes it below nought.

-- Leslie



Tuesday, December 07, 2021

​Poetic Reality

If it's​ a slap one seeks,
look no further...
Pick a mundane pen,
write poems under the sun,
wrap it in soiled,
oil soaked crumpled newspapers,
preferably with stale news;
take it up a flight of stairs.

​And ​when,​ ​only when it's past midnight,
light it up...
Hold it up longer,
enough to burn the fingers
which held the pen,
and also held meaning
​a ​mere few seconds back.
Leave it there, let it burn.

Morning, read from the ashes​.​
​C​ry... Pry open the poetry chest,
search again,
soul searching, hole searching,
and write:
Some verses for posterity,
some for the next paper
to wrap the day's love and effort​.​

-- Leslie

Saturday, December 04, 2021

The Milky Way

The flashes are daily now, 
the forgotten Astrophysics lessons,
-- meant for the stars,
grounded for substance --
visits me in the mornings...
When, earlier,
I would only see chaos
dancing at the traffic lights
next to my window,
the dance for a living.

Now, I deal with bubbles,
brewing in the warmth 
of my words,
thoughts and deeds,
a fine white brew
meant to be gulped down,
but sipped, always, like whiskey.
That's a galaxy, it's the Milky Way,
and it's where science ends,
and my art begins.

​-- Leslie



Tuesday, November 30, 2021

Flowering Epitaphs​

If there were a few plaques
placed in random order
next to my flower pots,
would that make them
party to the larger injustice
the blooms ​highlight?

Life, indeed, is a collection
of epitaphs​ in stale air​,
some lost in the attic,
some to the vagaries of
destructive rebuilding,
and many among flowers...

... In random order,
the ​notions gather grime,
my dog chases squirrels around them.
His present, mine too,
​and the world stays
shrouded in smog.

-- Leslie