The Young Son

The father,
a man,
the alpha of their world,
sweats and toils,
scavenges for twigs,
dry leaves
and some spirit
to light up
their lives...
For the son, angry,
will set in a bit.
The sun will leave his home,
chasing flesh,
in the dark recesses
of his fiery
red mind.

wallpaper.free-photograph.net

Blurry Love

Can’t wipe it clean,

my vision,

to fathom the girth of

the pillars,

the depth in 

those bleary eyes

that watch over me;

I guard ’em too.

But they look distant,

I strain my neck, I can’t see...

The morning mist

smudges my roots

as I fight lethargy,

and a stiff ego,

to look back and capture

the trio shimmer in

the golden yellow

wash of Sodium.

Much before the gold

showered by the sun 

reach a shopaholic town,

it’s Onam.

I leave in haste n waste,

as the blurred 

image of my genes

remind me of karma,

of honesty,

of the simple beauty in love.

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...

The Night Rain

The droplets on
your neck
glow in the dark,
sway with the tunes,
I wipe the trickle
with my lips.

It rained,
in a dream,
on the balcony,
cleansing the tan;
all white and misty
when the morning
rays overwhelmed
the red, scented candle
I left burning,
by our bed, last night.

Pic: Wallpaperest.com

The Bad Son

Like the helpless
roots I crush,
with her gift,
they bleed tears
for the deceased,
my soul...
 
Boiled and strained,
a pale, lifeless
piece of ginger;
it adds spice,
yet the bad son leaves;
a bitter taste, all that's left...

That bad son
I can never be,
but the bad son,
indeed, I really am!

Pic courtesy: One Bad Son, Canadian rock band

The Hatchback of Notre-Dame

As I reached
the climax,
as the cadence of
my sonnet picked up
for the final yards,
I could see the

insignificant cabinet ministers, 
honking and coercing
their hatchbacks to work; 
in sorry solitude, 
moored in sombre delusions, 
secluded from the love
only an early morning
spring sun shares.

Hunched over a

wheel of less fortune,

towards Notre-Dame,

from Tuglak's ruins,

towards false promises...

The forgotten

ugly bastards

of a Millenium City.

Pic: s13.zetaboards.com

Legacy Doodles

There is a time
when time itself  
stands still. 
Long enough 
for us to kneel 
and draw doodles 
on the loose sand 
while out for a tan.  

On a beach 
we paint our legacy, 
build skyscrapers, 
a few dreams; 
and let time, after its siesta, 
blow its storm to prove again 
that it's ashes to ashes, 
dust to dust!

Pic: Wikipedia

Ode to Insomnia

No, awake I was,
I strained to hear
ye breath in the darkness,
awake I remain...

Into the sleep patterns
I knock n enter,
I mock n leave,
For sleep is death,
death of love,
I fear death...

Pic: wallpapers4u.net

Winter Rides!

The cold blade

that cuts in haste,

through existence,

is hardly noticed

in the rush,

in the obsession;

as I move in circles,

concentric.

Its radius is my will,

but... but,

the start,

and the finish

reek of selfishness;

the point, it’s home.

Working up the cadence and pace on a chilly
morning ride to Gurgaon on my Cannondale

 

Red Riding

The drop of red

I was drawn to,

between your brows,

while in haste,

through the morning haze.

Ye play hide n seek,

while I just

ride n seek.

Right beside fields,

where dust from yesterday

barely get time to settle,

for they build, obsessed,

concrete storeys for women,

muscle stories for men!

The Green Signal

Let the creepers climb,

freely, up the walls,

and kill the gloss,

the made up beauty,

powdered light brown,

decked in rouge n blush,

and some fine talc,

the Taj Mahal white.

Damn the surreal estates,

cover it with moss,

till the signals turn green,

till we glow bright and right.

Then we will make love,

breathing hard

the fresh n scented

alien air.

credit: mydigitalfc.com

Office!

The fading,

smudged end of

a reality I found hanging

above me marks the

start of a reality check

that awaits me.

This hell is bright...

but tricky, sticky,

a quagmire of excel sheets;

where the morning dew mixes

with numbers and dust,

to brew the brown slashes

of bitter slush on my face...

they call it coffee here!

Photo copyright: www.freestockimages.org

Dying Young!

Falling young

for the wealth, immortality,

exuberance n arrogance

of dying young.

For I’d beat time,

freeze it at the moment

I bent will n Iron

–oh, I could mend bartenders too.

I’d outrun rejection,

and the cancer

that would kill the

killer of men I am.

I’d live on,

laughing at the giver of life

I could never become,

what have I become, WHAT?

Pic: bbc.co.uk

The Monsoon Tune

The drops,

transcends in haste through

the once great divide,

to form strings divine

from the Gods to men,

strummed by a southern breeze.

There you go,

a morning concert,

the great Indian guitar

plays a monsoon tune.

 

Pic: msn.com

Pain, Painter!

It shivers, the frame,

which locks within

its rigidity, a reality…

It once was a dream,

born out of a notion,

a hunch, a regret maybe,

just after the young painter

saw blood dripping

from the shaft

she pulled out

from his heart,

made of cold alloy,

forged in hell,

and aptly named love!

The Eyes

There isn’t a story

left to write...

But for those eyes,

and the lores

hiding behind those lashes.

Scores and scores of scrolls

unfurl as I loosen

your knot;

you let my trepid

lips doodle on your fret;

and notes rise high,

towards the creator’s bow.

I find my story there,

there in your eyes.

Dusty Portrait

These fine lines

on a black canvas:

Spaced by fate and summer,

by heartless strokes

from petrol-driven

blunt brushes made of rubber.

The sensuous, sexual curves

your lips smudge, erase and shift,

again n again,

through breaths from the inferno,

from the deserted soul

that lies beyond

this rude State

I visit to earn my bread.

Pic Source: indiatoday.intoday.in

Mother Eternity

There, far out there,

in the verse where

their eyes meet destiny,

at the edge of the known world.

There, where they walk gingerly,

cutting barriers,

to meet God,

deep inside the expanding

unknown... Their ether, eternity;

and they find bliss!

I, while I walk gently,

crossing a shifting hedge,

to meet mom,

deep into life’s only constant,

her love... My ether, eternity;

and I find bliss!

Cancer!

The beefy armoured

love from the infantry,

took on the sharp edged

mystery from a Samurai’s soul.

They all won, but chivalry died,

cursing with his last breath:

Let there be light,

mushrooms, and cancer.

Now we mortgage life,

for our lust,

for mobility,

for insecurity;

and try to burn away

the corrupt genes,

a war we all lose. 

Where the hell is chivalry?

 

Home Free!

He measures it all in miles,

the commutes,

the revolts,

the rebukes;

the mad rush

for affinity,

for love,

for creating music

for his muse,

for her amused lips.

A pilgrim now,

he finds his home tiny,

miles become mere metres,

but their smiles are
beyond ’em metres,

or ’em rules, grammar;

for their joy n spree are free, 

like the waves
on a lake infinite,
a song in free verse!

Pic by Sreetama Bagchi