Friday, October 22, 2010

Shallow low...

I wish I was lost, playing
in that field way below;
breaking shackles, and the
rut from dreams of proletarians
and their bald-headed run
to office each morning.

The dark depressed pitch,
a gift, in a silver platter
by daddy dear to the
bastard, brought up
by pay-roll husbands,
canned milk and man toys.

I could only touch, just;
the manicured grass
and skim a few lines out
of it to feed my manhood.
For I have to leave, to scavenge.
Aye aye, boss I'm hungry!

Monday, October 18, 2010

Marilyn and I!

The Caress! I felt her dreamy eyes,
a twinkle in the blue wash
at the French window near my heart.
She the one, a Norma Jeane,
framed in her virgin flight,
smiling behind the gloss of
stainless glass. Goodnight,
her whisper a lavender whiff.

Norma! I hushed onto the
mist from her breath on the pane,
before I touched her finger
for a fleeting pulse; life's brewing dear.
Yeah, she let me blot wine
from her parted lips,
naughty; red from love,
black-and-white by birth.

Twelve! her soul opened
in my dream, in a skewed
sequence, one each through
the dozen ports of bliss my
host, the rolling stone,
gifted beside a warm bed
in his penthouse world
of cars, books and pals.

Marilyn! Indeed I cried;
for she faded as the shallow
quick sighs of Cupid turned deep;
a slumber near the queen, whose
knights left her squinting at the
selective lights of a silver world;
and prone to the sedative pains
of that mansion between dunes.

(An Ode to Norma Jeane; a tribute to Marilyn Monroe! Special thanks to my pal Sid for letting me peek into those twelve, strategically placed, time portals.)

Thursday, October 07, 2010

Mist call

The pistons jest past
the rustic walls and
the old gate which
leads the hungry beyond the
red stones of the Mughals,
and to the red meat and chefs.

The drive turns the
vultures of the hot day
into vampires, who mix
blood with water, before
the chilled gulps, thinning
the flayed nerves further...

... Till that sleepy merchant on the

east wall start shedding light
into the happy hours; the soles stutter,
a slip here and a sway there,
and a surprise! A glide
through mist, an early winter call.

(A typical night out in Delhi after the rigours and figures of Commonwealth reporting)

Wednesday, October 06, 2010

Voluntary Flicker!

Ever-crescent her smile,
with a voice which quenches
thirst in measured drops.
She, the gentle one, lighting
the busy alley with a candle;
the voluntary flicker, a couple of yards
from the pigeon holes
where just numbers roost.

(Her smile was what caught my eye - a wary one, this volunteer, stuck in between work and pushy journalists at a Commonwealth Games venue . She manages both though, in her own pace, her own world - a world I only watched from afar...)