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

The World in a Cupcake

I seek dreams in the embers,

the stragglers which linger on,

after the flame was doused

by the will of the girl.

It is life she

holds aloft tonight

-- a blueberry cupcake,

and our world.

A very different 

winter moon sings too,

shedding arrogance and indifference.

The hymns, no the chimes,

the songs of destiny,

leave me gasping for verses,

to breathe into her poem

that would reignite the flame.

The embers smile,

they know exactly why...

They need her breath 

of fresh air, 

but are yet to fathom her words.

Two winters into her book,

I am yet to metre 

its depth either.

-- Leslie

The Whining River

In ​torrential ​spate 

it realised​ ​​the bunds,

​the boundaries​,​ 

were not ​set by its will.

​They belong to the contractor

who poured the concrete​, 

a quick mix, 

a quicker fix,​

​marked the limits,

killed ​its flow,

and tamed ​its will​,

bounty, reverence notwithstanding.​

Well, I'll be damned,

but aren't we all dam​m​ed!

​And, amidst the cacophony

of an eerily silent night,

we hear ourselves​

​whine like the winding river...

​-- Leslie​

A Sleepy Destination

The sheer thanklessness

of a winter night

gives us the right bearings,

and light,

to embark on a journey, 

any journey,

even the ten paces required 

to reach sleep.

Oh, indeed!

It is but sleep we crave for,

plan in earnest,

and pay for,

with the dreams,

the kind we all see,

and then fail to live,

come winter, or summer.

-- Leslie 

Ode to the Midnight Shadow

​If the shadow,

the one dancing outside

my window,

dares to move yonder,

across the road,

he will get arrested...

For sleepwalking, 

says the cop who snores on duty.

He reminds us of light,

of vision, or the lack of it.

He gyrates,

in and out of reality checks.

While we, hither, sit back,

stretch our egos,

talk with our fingers,

salvage conscience with a retweet.

-- Leslie

How to Age a Poem

​A few lines,

which, in its existence,

is older than the writer,

the bard, 

who scribbled the words

when he was in his 40s.

Now, how will a child

grow older than her father?

If the verses were written

with an half empty rum bottle

kept dangling near 

the pen that is showing its age;

and if it is read over wine,

a young, angry, red bottle,

the cheapest possible blend,

cheaper than the recited words....

Then, it grows old, the poem;

the writer gets younger,

and we all heave in

the brown, polluted,

yet sensuous air... 

So, shall we?​

-- Leslie