Ode to the Monday Rain

Today, if I were to rush,

it would only be till

the window...

To strain for berries, 

and then to catch 

the tones I missed

in the song that's on loop

since morning.

After all, it is Monday, 

a Sabbath for poets.

Monday rains are shy,

selfless creatures of creation;

they talk in whispers,

sing in sighs; 

leave us with introverts two,

a background score 

that loses to the blues

in our playlists;

the mist, gentle and subdued, 

who stays backstage. Always.

If the cold drops were smokers,

or had warm breath like

the kids of Democracy,

they could leave

symbols on my pane.

Footnotes on the music,

their sense, the belonging,

and who bears the bill

for their concert;

I see an empty hall.

-- Leslie Xavier

A Lyrical Reality

If I were to fall short

of words today,

and fail,

will there be a second chance

to sing, try once more, 

the song my daughter loves...?

No...

I hear the song

played in a loop,

a random algorithm,

which shows me the futility

in what I desire.

I yearn to memorize lines,

but they are too laden

with leaves ready for the fall,

too heavy...

Instead I store passwords,
mindless, meaningless protection.

If I were to fall short,
that fate walked in because
the lines I should cherish,

were the ones I sold;

to those who are tone deaf,

mute, and mostly arrogant.

Who are they, though?

Why are they playing 

the songs

my daughter loves!

-- Leslie Xavier

A Rainy Day

There,

above those tall, old trees,

and beyond reckoning,

you will find resolution,

answers to those equations 

with aspirations of grandeur.

​The myth sings,

there is a cloud over there, 

born with you, for you.

It keeps your due,

some dew, a poem

and a bit more rain drops.

Those drops you will need,

you would crave,

and chase in uneven spurts,

with ironed out emotions,

for you are seeking solace 

to wash it all off when it matters least.

My cloud hovers there, I see,
and it rains here this morning.

-- Leslie Xavier

Ode to the Dancing Tree

​If it sways

in tune with the wind,
I would call it a tree

with conviction...

Toward the music in the storm,

the rhythm in the dust

it kicks up,

our powdered egos.

Oh, indeed what we need

is conviction, a bit of honesty.

The world craves such follies,

to save itself from radios,

and speeches of bearded supremos,

Sundays, weekdays, every day,

while we seek corners where 

there is music, and also some silence.

The trees have stopped their dance,

the wind is but a tired labourer

trudging home,

after a toil for relevance.

It is monsoon, 

but these seasons hardly matter.

Yet we long for the rush,

some melody, and some stillness.​

-- Leslie Xavier

​​Songs From My Backyard

Some stayed back,

​oh well, they ​remain grounded,

unambitious​,​ ​yet happy

among fallen mango leaves

in my backyard,

circa 1994...

Oh, how the memory fails​,​

rots,

becomes compost for trees

like those long buried leaves.

​The tunes​, though,​ play true​,​ fresh;

sweat in the humid sun, alive;

​and ​make ​my daughter sway

​while leaves fall still in denial.

Am I in denial too,

or is it just the lyrical irony

​in ​poems who forgot they're songs,

and chose ​earth,​

​and an eternal flux defending

ethical dilemmas and carnal absolutes.

-- Leslie Xavier