A Box Seat

But it was my bed
for the greying part of
the night; when the birds
all of 'em flew from high
to still higher branches.

Foraging for meat,
fighting for cultures,
the truth and worth
unknown to the fools,
who sang first and swore later.

A front row, earth the couch,
for me after riding down
a glossy techno lane
to quench the thirsty hawks
- my friends at home.

Back to the airy nest - my bed;
the whistling longshoremen,
warmth from an oceanographer
and pegs from six tempered strings
soften me to a lull so brief.

Hound Sight

Loved by the sly
four-legged female,
would-be wife to a dog,
later mother to his sorry litter.

Nights, my wounds are licked
and they flare open. Her poison,
saliva and the salted Marina air,
burns right through to the bone.

Her family, the hungry pack of domesticated
wolves in a concrete jungle;
chase for my blood,
my legs saved me that night.

And this day, she
came home with love,
and left with a pound in her mouth,
severed right from my chest.

Digital Henge!

Different mixes, yet colour's
the same old light red,
golden even; as we climbed
separately to a higher plane.
Me, at an open-air lounge,
pocketing chips with strikes.
While they, my friends, hit
the highway for half-cooked protein.

Minds meet, levelled after sharing sips,
waking up to the truth, slowly;
at the back seat of the car,
brought during the good old days.

And the young tramp, the monster
with fire even in his yawns;
gets a mirror, the mature gent
pointing out the open gash
from an angry burst there,
a false sense of superiority here,
and a fading sense of humility,
but still with that fool's gold - ethics...

... Or so he thought,
it ain't gold, but only
men posses it; good men
like the two drunkards tonight.

A circle is drawn, blueprints
for a Digital Henge to replace stone.
Where honour forms the pillars;
one, two, the count should grow
and mortals will carry light,
flowers and idealist offerings
- simple words with love,
a virtual space to celebrate life.

Then the legacy from pioneering
a medium which stops
the greedy man from landscaping
a backyard desert in the tropics...

... Which also stops the snarling
editor from cutting trees, talent
and the cub's well-written stories.
Making world perfect or so
the vision - the duo, drowned in
whisky, amour on beanbags;
holding arms and fading off...

... With technicolor dreams
'bout waking up to a new world,
right where we were born,
among familiar shades of blue.

Dry Spell

Once, now so long;
when you, in many
of 'em sepia frames,
just answered to the
silent wail. That psychic
bond, strengthened
by a platonic chord of
blood and cells.

The dream, nourished by
nitrates from a son and
phosphates from a mother.
Creating a fertile plain
to sow and reap, the reward
- a peaceful night,
after fighting demons
on a prison island.

Now, the eternally long days,
when even tantrums,
bush-fires and tears
fail to awaken your breasts,
to the needs of the
crying orphan.
The well is deep but dry,
drought's hit the promise land.

Divine Click

Us! The touch etched
in our hearts, and captured
in shining silver.
That moment,
not virtual, can't be digital,
as it is we; romantics!

A wish - coming together,
just us again in sync;
just two, the pulse
searching, craving love,
in a warm hug;
followed by the click.

Camera and our hearts,
make the divine choir;
as you held me firm
with a smile.
Shy, very happy and...
Very much home in your arms.

(A birthday gift for a real 'loved' one)

Plain Rotten

Worse, a recess and back to worse;
six months, three and last week;
now the pointer shows rot, a lot;
seems stunted the growth.

Waves from hell, less frequent, still swell
to burn and force answers.
The swine, a double agent, breaks;
giving out a creative cry,
while crawling through
the slimy grey within
a thinning curly prison.
Don't you glorify this silly chore...

... To paint a scape,
cute, sweet this day,
depressing in a week.
Knock knock! Those grand illusions
at noon with high fever.
A victim; beguiled by the
women in red, men in whites
and his psyche, a regal black!

Vice Visor

Morning and a broken mask,
the agonist in pain.
Yet the persona stays,
ready for sin
- of the flesh and
that modern man's
Achilles heel
- the extended night n life;
and welcome prayers when
the red skies get lighter,
while the bile gets darker
in anger; then hangover.

The organised recluse,
goes by the book -
a worn out heap
of newsprint, held together
by poetry, ego, phone sex...
And incarnated siblings,
variables ranging from
the foxy and cruel
to the proxy and novel;
a sweet 'un and the real
- a mirror image - the blood bonds!
The visor's repaired; time to swipe.

Kokeshi!

A Fresh bloom-spread,
over a plush glow.
Her new dress?
No! The print
a darker tan of red;
he turns to look again.

Waves shallow n soft,
a morning spray as Sunday sets.
Her new mane?
No! The stream reflects,
sure a deeper twirl,
he had to look again.

Mist, white and light;
lukewarm - the breath.
The smoke in chains?
No! A whitish halo
from a fighting lung.
Kokeshi, the christened doll.

(Kokeshi, a Japanese doll... She caught my eye in the newsroom...)

Due Adultery!

Spotlight on! The morning sun
shines on her divinity,
as the child bearing hips
appeal in harmonic motion.
A white cloak hides her glow
yet reveals her bow,
years add the grace,
as two naughty eyes,
gyrate to a hypnotic tune.
Hooked? A circular
classical ritual follows,
for the art of playing the game
that bringeth a new life,
sustaining Adam's clan.

Entranced, my morning
liturgy left unfinished,
as paths change
to keep focus on her
shimmering flares and
for a friendly smile;
then a brunch,
with sips from The Copa.
But the dame, lost in her
musical notes,
fails to mark the pale pony with
his tails up, the Pheron
sweating with feverish eyes.
And pheromones mix into thin air!

Her bind, a social contract,
the chain golden; her beauty enslaved.
La Belle vanished behind
her urbanised, successful man;
a sorry specimen, lucky to enjoy
her warmth and bites,
till death do them apart,
or till the due adulterer's wand,
the latter I wish,
to break an ancient code,
the seventh command
that locks out love...
All just to taste her dew.
Snap; ye moral fool!

(The beautiful lady in white at the park. My morning walk is getting colourful by the day...)

Race Retainer!

Two chairs right beside
the centre of a Gothic cross;
laid down centuries back;
renovated, seems a few years.

Yoke, the law of nature,
at the flowered aisle
inside the wide fuselage
of this weekly flight to salvation.

High the pitch, feedback
as the wired mouths
get tuned to hum and usher
in a new life for the couple.

Love unites their desires,
vows join their lives;
an act to sustain the race,
or is it a race to quench the thirst...

... The dried lips of a traveller
caught in the shifting dunes,
tired of the mindless mirage,
finally kiss the spring of life.

(I reached way late at church today. Service over, only a few decorators remained and they were dressing up the place for a wedding. A big day for the couple involved . I sat and watched the men go about their work and did my bit...)

The Unfinished Song!

Four days and a bit;
over, the role of a
keen passive observer.
Amused by the glint of
recognition from beauties
in proximity;
and others - them cute,
unknown smiles.

This day, heartfelt comments
just flowed, patting the warrior,
a soft-spoken
boy from her land.
Oh, he smiled as I told
my tale with her.
Please do sit and recite,
the offered chair.

But my wish,
it remains unfulfilled;
a chance to feel that smile,
which caught me at the stands,
and pulled me to her lap,
where I lay
to write that song,
but unfinished! The angel flew.

And so will he,
lucky this young one,
he destined to be
so near that glow,
her hands of gold.
While I curse
my mortal arms,
take 'em and give me flight.

A fancy, nay a dream,
to touch her eyes,
and share a thought,
through the plain n honest
language of hearts,
and then to let her words
fill the blanks
of that unfinished song.

Orphan Age! Orphanage?

The meeting call on
a “fine afternoon”;
free of human and
inhuman Chennai traffic;
as the elite celebrate
a tradition with a new year.
Sugarcane and a pot full
of goodies for some,
food for thought for others.
It was time for beer!

And the men talk of
spoilt seconds with snobs.
Why waste time here?
For a heart, and yeah...
An eye for comrades lost in migration!
A flight towards set goals for some,
confused priorities for others;
as tummies bloat - with grains,
solid and fermented.
It was time for antibiotics!

And sleep... Lovers keep distance
and also keep me awake;
life flickering by the flared up
desires from bared breasts
as hearts open... My life!
Then a time for homeless birds,
perched atop a Casa; dinner
with spoons, knives, forks and jokes
as families keep foreigners away.
Orphan Age; or an Orphanage!

Jaded Sabbath!

The eerie dull glow,
a sudden change in tone
shouts out; for attention.
A divine attempt to pull
a cruel joke,
a show of reality,
to a man who was only there
to feel the glow.

No glow, just a cold,
metallic shade,
jaded silver; remember the
rotting fish at Kochi beach?
The murals playing mind games,
bringing forth strokes
of realism into a
romantic outing two days old.

Lost in the shifting lights
as covers get blown
to smithereens by
salted winds from the sea.
The way out, passing a man...
Aaah... With no legs,
a starving old lady,
and the homeless...

No charity left to share,
when you're confused,
angry and hungry.
This Your world,
or is it Your Sunday joke?
Sabbath is it?
As the drag began
riding a new found love.

(The landscape was dull and depressing... Church brought out a different colour this day)

Eclipse Bloom

She’s near, I feel
the tickle, her smile,
the breath on my chin,
as she whispers,
in an ancient tongue,
the flaming song.

I sang along in free verse,
with dew, a trickle down my cheek,
the kiss I felt in the rush;
I was missed, heart crossed,
the tired spirit’s haiku notes
were cherished? Am I dreaming?

I fly, under the shy
man in the sky this day.
Hiding behind his lovers wail,
Eclipsed? Nay he drinks
wine from his girl's bosom,
and smiles naughty coming out.

His glowing aphrodisiac
- the glorious rays show
the way out from a partially
eclipsed heart, towards love.
The path of gold,
where my senses warm...

... To her bloom, she’s here.
Long the journey,
but, oh... she a fairy,
here and here do stay...
Stay for more - the songs,
and love here and there.

(Solar Eclipse, a once in a lifetime occasion, occurred today. Where was I? I was there alright. But was floating or rather flying too. She! She gave me wings...)

Naturalised Security

Search for her,
for that touch, softness;
signs for not being in the
wild yet; not yet.

The insecure kid ran,
awake to a setting sun, for her;
whose breasts made him
the man who can bleed.

The insecure man,
lost in a water world
of sarcasm, did turn;
but to nowhere?

In the days of second chances,
he had a womb.
Now, in nights of corrigenda,
he cries and runs, a static flight.

That summer his tears,
wiped by the Donna
in the room across,
she was cooking stew.

This winter he called,
answered by an angel
in the cellular grid across town,
she was brewing love.

The caress, a naturalised sibling;
a sign - the cliched half full glass.
He's in a new city, not in the
wild yet; not yet.

Hit & Limp case

A resolute vow,
of playing the soft lover,
through cheeky words
the day they met.
Four long months since
the first dance in the wet;
and then the wait,
for the joyride now.
Fun! Till a test of luck,
lasting mere seconds;
but the stress-fatigue,
looks set to last the life...

-------------------------

Miles many yet to float,
down the snaking,
placid river of tar;
under a winter sun
- mild for this land,
yet harsh enough to
burn every inch of
my throttle hand.

Sedate drift downstream,
the order of the day,
till the rapid stretch;
urged by her soft voice and
the quest for the sunset port;
rushing me into a trance.
The trees blur as I
pushed her for the first time.

Then, a sudden shift in beat;
and a call; made not by choice,
but the hand of the unknown;
or perhaps the hymns by the
good souls at Hope church;
as I stood yards away
from a wail; the spot where
blackness crossed my path.

He, scenting his bitch,
tip-toed towards fast love;
hesitant till a final dart, across;
after his nosy psyche caught
her pheromones in the air and...
... It was late, for me,
an helpless bang, the shudder,
and a left shift; the moment's over.

Silence, with a slight shiver,
shattered by the lament,
of a life broken by a bolt unknown.
A cruel twist to his tale of love;
ah... the sin in it all,
the selfish bastard me,
not easing the gas,
banking on some percentage law.

But a sharp burn
the swell near the tibia,
- my sentence quick,
for the rush of blood,
as the howl maddens,
and eyes stare;
I mount for the run after the hit:
Limping; my leg and her fork.

(It was just sheer luck, or maybe divine intervention which kept me from falling and possibly getting crippled after running over a dog at nearly 90km/hr while riding from Kochi to Chennai. The dog lost its legs, sad! I sprained mine, lucky! While the bike stood firm with minor sprains of its own, as thoughts of God and prayers rushed into the grey matter between my two ears.)

Bypass!

Fresh start, the morning ride,
leaving a pal and his
concerned tones with
the warmth of a friendship
- thicker, yes; way firmer than
his bedroom's two-feet wall.

The hum from her heart,
my ride, whole of a third of a litre;
her Cubic Will pushing me on
till the junction where
once I told bedtime stories
to a sibling, forgotten.

Aye, the morning crowd
in the small, sleepy town;
acts crazy and more,
waving to catch my eye.
I dare not look left!
I can't, lest I see her eyes.
What if I do?
I'll stop, can't help...

... And carry her,
singing that old lullaby...

The hum was steady,
and the hypnotic,
asphalt gradient kept me
from breathing a while;
stopped me from turning left,
towards a little love...

... I bypassed a town
and the long lost peace...

(Holiday over, Christmas at home was fun. This time I had a post-holiday incentive too. I rode my new bike from Kochi, my home town, to Chennai. It was an 800-odd km long ride. Lot of sights, stories and yeah, while bypassing a small town en route, this flood of memories...)

Foetal Curl!

The wake up call,

from age-old morning tweets.

Yes, the chirp choir,

not the bird-brains,

in wifi networks.

Earth's mother here, still!

But I ain't ready

to begin my day.

The soft cushions

and December chill,

keep me home, near her;

my mom; she's still in bed.

A good morning gets better,

as twenty nine years of poison

by corrupt electromagnetism,

becomes null and void,

under her grace,

as I snuggle into the foetal curl.

Her perfume from the heavens,

a mix of manna and love.

The lullaby all so familiar,

beat from the heart of gold.

Safe and sound I doze,

back to the womb, this morning.

(by my mother's side)

THE SILVER LINING!

Whitish fluorescence,

it's divine - de lux;

the walls of this pyramid.

Yeah, right here,

near my home.

What? Out of place?

It's right here, outside my doors;

but close to our hearts.

Indeed, far from the land

where Pharaohs built 'em first

- larger than life; them all now

just mere sand dunes.

But here, my home here,

they glow and it's bright,

the steps shimmering,

an incline to the spire

of Santa Cruz, the Basilica sizzles,

this, the Fort Church.

The buzz, my home here,

it's louder than loud

- the festive karma, parties,

wine flows with every smile,

friends, family n tourists,

all welcome, the party's on; forever!

A Christmas town, my home here,

in full spirits, hearts to the brim

with love n small fermented sips,

good old Fort Cochin.

All chaired by the big man,

at the centre where it begins, a gay parade.

To him the minds drift, glances shift,

- the collage of neon

with a risen subdued star - the topping.

Stands tall this Tree of Gifts,

as babies smile, boys jump,

and girls sing a forgotten tune.

Then a little bit of fun,

long-maned boys club, drunk!

Bikes zoom down the boulevard wide,

gliding under the smiling cloud

- a sponsored silver lining

for the 'retro surfer' in us all.

Cochin, my home town, sure knows how to dress up for Christmas. A drive down Fifty Feet Road towards the beach kinda gives you the feeling that you're in an avenue in Las Vegas - all lit up on both sides with stars and a ceiling of silver 'glowing decor'. This 'boulevard with the silver lining' begins at Veli Ground, the place where the Cochin Carnival Rally starts and a couple of kilometres later ends by the beach... Right next to the harbour mouth, near Santa Cruz Basilica - the fairest of 'em all!

Lift of faith

He called out,
to his best man.
Perched high n dry on
his fleeting self-made ride;
the Iron between
a man-made beach
and a concrete bond
- his big bro, the badminton pro.

He smiled, no fear here,
the gentle lift is near.
Certain is his road to bliss
where awaits his glass of milk,
breakfast and holiday songs.
Not the prodigal type,
he did follow the bigger steps,
till the higher stop.

Racquets thrown down,
the senior senor opens
his arms for the loving hug and
a gentle pull with all the might,
a sibling in labour.
Muscles stretched but
who minds? The loner did!
He stopped, smiled and... A trickle...

(It happened this morning at the park. Two kids are going home after their morning revelry at the enclosed playground within the joggers' pathway. The younger one climbs the three-feet Iron grill but finds it too huge a hurdle. Help is at hand though; his big bro, five inch or so taller than the cute one. But he is there; there for his brother...)