Monday, September 28, 2009

Pentagon of Friends

The host sits patient, lady on chair;
I took the stands relaxed.
the trial is on, her questioning eyes;
Your Honour, am guilty; I was late.

Rain held my breath,
darkness held my bath.
The dancers left for dinner,
as five stay back in the room.

The royal one stretches out,
all white, cute as well.
Church and the high noon mass,
her Sunday tales with the chips.

The bubbly one, the Caligula
she can't hide with boots so small.
Sharp wit and sharper smiles,
all rise, a gourmand in the hall.

My buddy here, fair n handsome,
destined, designed to sway 'Ma Lady'.
We'll ride, drive and fight tonight,
seasoned pro with his machine and mix.

Dessert bell, bowls from heaven,
missed stick-counts no more the talk.
Happy vibes, this circle of friends;
Hey, it's five, it's a pentagon.

Saturday, September 26, 2009

Sensei n me!

Arigato; and the revered bow,
my eyes touch the master's feet.
A way of life from the Ring of Fire,
the art I had grown up with.

Arigato; for the guided moves,
the mixed strides of a ballet of war.
This sword I will temper with care,
by gentle blows in lukewarm fire.

Arigato; for the life and fights,
insights and the hindsights too.
Turning left and a twist of hand,
guarding my back, breaking my fall.

Arigato; for I had all the time,
more than my blood, the younger.
The pain and sting as I kissed your hand,
was a pleasure, a mix of red and salt.

Arigato, from the third year,
the cycle near that Jewish house.
The hide n seek between meditative monks,
fighters; me then felt the pulse.

Arigato; for the teacher touch,
and the words as your trusted aide.
The counts made my supple flesh,
the pen gave my heart the wings.

Arigato; for those clenched fists,
as I twisted out of an exposed back.
When I bled and fell and stood again,
never a man but made something close.

Arigato; for this divine path,
lost, nay I'm back on track.
Digital wilderness and Saki fog, fight;
the legacy, Yeah I'm still alive.

(An Ode to my dear dad, my karate master and my guide in life. 'Arigato' is Japanese for 'thank you' and frankly speaking, I don't have enough words to thank him for the goodness he has added to my life. The picture above was taken when I was four odd years old, just after my promotion from white to yellow belt at my dad's dojo in Mattancherry, Kochi.)

Highland trip

A flickering tube in late-night shift,
dots of light merge in motion.
Behold a finite meaningless mosaic
- our target, two pairs of tired eyes.

Foggy; yet, no one hits the yellow lamps,
the smooth ride onto grassy plains.

His handiwork - the table spread,
day's efforts turn night comforts.
A joint force, we make that climb;
a level plane, the take-off point.

Laughter, but who's joking;
this serious time for making peace.

Harvest's on with the blown out grains,
replaced by a fresher yield.
Potent dose of a highland shrub,
to weed out all that lover's pain.

White smoke drives us up,
no missing notes the sail is smooth.

Dreamy eyes aren't waking up,
arise, her invite for the retro mix.
Swings and kisses, guns and babes;
tough men die as the focus fades.

Sleep... a voice from afar,
long after that Thunderbird song.

Tuesday, September 08, 2009

Effort and life

A rushing creek, motorised hum;
as water drains to the bigger world.
Sweat and a sweet li'l toil,
dad begins, a son completes;
a double team, a dream team;
and work moves in our unsteady pace.
A near futile but worthwhile dig,
to drain and clean our backyard pond.

Scoops of mud and slush,
marked yesterday by blood and sweat;
of mama's dear ones and my own clan,
we dreamt once, built inch by inch;
'five year' plans and more at times,
unfinished still but green and fresh,
castle and our personal guard
- this world is mine, built with love.

Not even an hour's gig,
but my heart sings, zeal and gay.
I became that kid today,
the one lost three years back,
walking out to a world of words,
making marks of the worthless kind.
My days here now fills a void, the strength;
the will, growing to fight those ugly ghosts.

Thursday, September 03, 2009

Love Canvas

Whitish - red, blue and the gray;
black mix here and there,
the Artist's mind roves,
the moving canvas, modernist strokes,
unfinished but a beauty to behold.
Crimson lines, faded and short,
night is young, His girl wild;
the lover's lips will fill the rest.

The disc's on, rolling beats;
disco lights and party raves.
Spilt paint on the floor,
his tongue mopping every ounce of juice.

Light's out, but life's not;
mix and birth, beauty of love.
(On the evening sky, the unfinished painting, by an
artist busy making love with his girl)