Ode to the Lost Rain

​These scents don't tickle,

I miss my sense of smell​,​

​numb to petrichor​,​ 

​I miss its taunt, its poetry.

Spoilt ​by ​​a big city in a slum​,

I hardly hear the Purple Rain.​

I watch the ​shower, still,

gauge the drops,

feel the whiff,

let the mist ​kiss my soul,

and my memoirs remind me

what it meant to ​dance in the rain.

It is but life,

laced in moisture,

from tears, both...

of those who are parched,

and those who are drenched in love.

Behold the duality... 

... In the scent of the rain,

in its scant disregard

of propriety​:​

A lout for many,

west and east coast,

​while I hear a faint, lost song.

-- Leslie Xavier

Ode to Lutyens' Dew

The morning dew

lounges in her hammock

at Connaught Place,

it's still winter, a Sunday!

I search for coffee,
but skip breakfast, or did I?

Wow, I did jump a few signals,

to enjoy the smiling traffic

-- a few vintage cars

and dogs of Lutyens' Delhi.

Ode to the monsoon wind

The moist wind,

laden with words

for a memoir,

reaches me through

the long corridor
that begins at Connaught Place,

stretches onto adulthood

at the cubicle end of KG Marg.

One, two, too many

man hours later,

the dusty opaque spectacles

give way for a greener tint.

It's monsoon outside,

winter in here.​

Ode to Jackie!

He turned to me,

and I saw eternity

sparkle from the 

jaded eyes.

My dog, 

he is old now...

He looks up with fear,

his twilight n my shadow 

he loved to growl at,

occasionally smile at, too.

My dog,

he limps now...

The longing remains,

in his eyes,

he wags nervously,

lest I bring love.

My dog,

he loves to be patted, still...

But, I crave his anger,

his young arrogant growl;

he has never bitten my bait,

can never ever, now.

For he is old now,

my dog, Oh god!

Ode to Longing

I long...
I long to
slip and fall,
walking the tear-washed
green carpet,
sprouted overnight,
through many a
long nights, in fact;
too long,
I long...

To fall...
Run home in the rain,
wiping my tears
and muddy pride,
to the hot brew
in a steel bowl,
it's always steamy,
ready for me
on a cloudy day;
the fall...
 
I long...
For I am
too sure-footed to fall
in these insignificant puddles;
have too little time to cry,
too much of anger
to fear the stare
from those eyes
that taught me to love;
to LOVE...