Swine Watch

Yes I did, I met the doc;
he looked at me wary eyed.
I ain't a terror, I cried;
you swine, he smiled.
Let's wait n watch, eat these n be good!

Enchanted Elliots!

Misty night, oh, the feel;
the highland realms, without grass or fuel.
Fair, the four-course treat just starters;
even that goosebump served in purple linen.

Ah the drops, first my ears;
then the trickle, kisses all the while!

Twilight sky, the crimson blink;
the expanse beyond, bluish gray;
their knot - fireflies, stars behind screens;
and right at Elliots, behold, the prophecy!

A German Jew's number game,
comes true in an heavenly turn;
clock dilates with relative ease,
it's magic, not science my friend.

Feet wet from the milky pool, a mirror;
the river, time and her steady flow,
slowed dreamy by the sea,
and light shows, the plot thickens.

Minds drift east to the glow,
waves spread out in a tantric,
concentric ballet, a hypnotic spiral;
streaking across the grains of gold.

The man - all flesh, heart n beats,
the elements add the sparkles.
Shower, no hurry no worry,
we were drenched before it made its stop.

Maestro, the bamboo wand;
and the spell from the sorcerer's breath!

(I've tried here to give words to the images that went though my mind as I enjoyed flute maestro Hariprasad Chourasia's concert at Elliots Beach last Sunday. The pictures were taken by SL Shanth Kumar, my colleague, one of the best creative photographers in town)

Eagle's Wings

A valley, bright yellow streaks;
by divine intervention, the colours mix.
Rays filter through the glass canvas,
an artist's dream of heavenly shades.

This feast is what brings me here,
the cherished visions, His work;
the healed soul; His word;
and the quenched thirst, wine and bread.

Full, august I sat, what next;
the lift above the silver sails.
Draft by her timbre soft;
Eagle's Wings, I'm free as a bird!

(To the Sunday voice at Santhome)

Rain Amour...

Drops, life turns green again,
pitch lightens, the voices in me;
from grunts to whistles n tunes of love,
feeling beats, breathing fresh;
a brief stop near, I'll hug you tight,
rain, where's the pain gone, my friend.

I walk, my senses aflame,
heart caressed by birth, the sweet scents;
Earth, her thirst quenched; amour, amour!
Rain, stay in bed with me, my love.

Smiles, the splashes, a bud in play;
it's always fun sailing the clouds.
The slides and falls, slushy hugs;
rain, keep me young eternal, my girl.

(It rained here a few days back, yeah, it rained!)

I Snooze, I dare!

I snooze, delaying the alarm bells;
a while, seconds precious for I'm a man.
Saturday night; dreams, a distant free world.
I snooze, I dare to trash the etiquette;
set for you and me - the enslaved bunch.
Ya, I snooze, awake to the ugly truths.

That old house...

Yesterday, I was searching online for some pictures of my favourite place in the whole wide world, my hometown Kochi, when I came across a traveller's blog which had this picture below with the caption: "An old house in Fort Kochi which badly needs renovation."

Well, my memories raced back to the good days of playing football wearing a tie and uniform, yes, my school days. And now I just have to tell the Mr Traveller and his partner that this is not just an old house but this is where my dreams took shape, a place where boys tried their hand at becoming men.

The poem is my attempt to walk back to those days when playing football and running behind "virgins" from the nearby girls' school were our biggest priorities...

That old house...

Yeah it's old, haunted I bet;
but it ain't a fossil, not yet.
It brimmed life once, full of zeal;
young, naughty teenaged brats.
Then the only world I knew or cared,
pals, soccer and the hidden books.

Ninth grade - year of virgin love,
when Slash ruled with strings n Rose.
Here I took my baby steps,
naughty smiles and breaking hearts;
hidden treasures, the thirsty kid;
yeah it's old, but it's my school.

Creaking wood, creepy rooms;
dust storms, that British fan.
Bunked hours, the beach boys;
the stolen rides to Princess Street.
Casanovas - primed hearts, the iron bikes;
and cane candy from Henry dear.

Those windows, well, they lit my life;
yeah it's old, but it's my school.

(On my school, St John de Britto Anglo Indian Boys', and the most charming of its classrooms - the ninth 'C' division, with direct access to the beach, life and more...)

Nine beats and a bit...

That trigger-happy single shot,
the eight strings finally resonate.
Music fills the air,
the sub-sonic cadence.
Muscles dance in a rhythmic trance,
harmony of life, the divine poetry.

The world stood still, sweet li'l wait;
nine beats and a bit later, the moment.
Bolt strikes again, the flashes;
a wall comes down in Berlin, where else!

A jester off the blocks, the baby;
stallion in gallop, the strides;
salutes in the end, arms raised;
Usain's made it true, the man!

Shooting arrows, breaking barriers;
child's play for this gentle giant.
Even foes remain gay in awe,
he has mastered time and space.
Spikes, tights, gold and olive crown;
the king's conquered world and hearts.

(To Usain Bolt)

Dog Biscuits

Oh, that's great, they say;
your master's as big as they come.
Owning minds, limiting dreams;
behold the leader, who bringeth the good Times.

How does it feel, they ask;
being paid in gold and likes.
Little do they know,
but, I'm a dog, not man!

Heel, roll, jump, stay;
good boy, here's your doggie treat.
Biscuits, creamed and salted; fooled;
tail between; I lick my wounded pride.

Vembanad Love

That old banjo, serene;
the strumming, in sync with life.
An old song, the ringing bells;
those nights, the carpet and the shivers.
The lazy afternoon flow, drowned
- in ideals, a dreamer, the serious trio;
then the plunges to your moist depths;
Vembanad, the secret love.

Was younger then, no wiser now;
the wild days, adorable brute.
I could hunt though very blunt,
life called and I turned my back.
Swimming, then drowning in bliss, oh youth;
my simple mind, where's the toddy pot?
Papa, this is where I'd make love to her,
Vembanad, the Lady in Blue.

Slow, the music fades,
No, let it be, let me sway.
I kissed didn't I, that summer night;
I danced didn't I, that monsoon hit.
Nay my love was pure and soft,
never lust, I saw your soul.
That is why I made love to you,
Vembanad, the lovely bride.

(Looking back to the days spent on the shores of
Vembanad Lake in Alappuzha, Kerala)

Full to the Brim

Down south from where I breathe,
right by the Bengal Bay, this cove.
Fruits, goodies and hearty laughs,
a canopy of love to keep out the sun.
Streams of affection, the breeze I feel;
a mother and son, their little world.

An hour's toil, elements, the dust;
sweat flowing, but worth it, no doubt;
as I stretch, my legs relaxed;
full to the brim on every count...

... My heart - with the mama's care;
my soul, with the positive vibes;
my eyes, not tears, yes, with joy;
and my tummy, with the fish and cheers.

(To DD and mama)

I'm Broke

I'm broke, the month-end blues,

when my wild runs down bright alleys;

the card swipes and friendly toasts,

catch up, a reality check, I'm broke.

The manicured, recessed paycheck ain't any help,

'peanuts' for monkeys, go eat or starve.

Gliding my pen for what? Fake orgasms!

Wake up, just look at you, man you're broke.