Whispering Pebbles

All those pebbles,
they whistle my name​ in hushed tones.

It is I
who threw them
into our backyard pond,
breaking its silence,
its ​monochrome serenity,
and rippling its sane emotions.
The still water,​ a ponderer’s haven,
a pool to reflect,
became a ​storm
​posing questions behind my home.

Brick and mortar,
laid over the pebbles​ in earnest,
​forcing them to groan
under the load​ of a house
laden with life’s residual gifts.
But they still...

Oh, they still​ have the will
​to whisper my name.

-- Leslie

Window Seat​ Blues

The ​rolled up glass,
my whimsical barrier

for a shrinking playpen.

Will it keep a childhood immortal?

And keep out the dust 

from an unkempt Indian highway .

We see reality rush,

in haste, a future, 

destiny and her wheat shoots.

The passing fields 

demand to be sowed, reaped

and then burnt to dirt.

It combusts fast though,

the minutes,

and the fuel in our car.

The radio comes alive,

let us run, baby run;

toward nowhere, yet everywhere.

Toward everything

but this trepid window,

for just behind it lurks our future.

-- Leslie

​​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

Where Pigeons Play Kho Kho

I watch the 

pigeons play kho kho;

a dreary day, hot,

they face headwinds, life!

I cry, helpless,

where the hell have 

I kept 'em keys 

to the locker?

Yeah, there where 

I've imprisoned my will to run!

Ah, the strides,

towards crashing waves,

always towards home

for a ripe mango,

to the art, words

and all things golden

— from the friendly sunset

to the angry yolk in 

the half-cooked egg,

served with milk, 

on humid Monday mornings

before I rush for fights.

Hardly do I play now,

I stare at open windows,

at the leaves who dance,

young and hearty,

while pigeons play;

yes, I've forgotten kho kho!

Picture courtesy: Sreetama Bagchi (instagram: @sreetamabagchi)

The Good Ol' Trail

Well, the dust settles
over the li'l trail
from home to manhood.
I look back,
the dreams smile at me.
The man beams,
the child cries,
yet again, and again... 

For I write with my
feelings;
love with my
soul;
and fight with my
heart!

pic: wikipedia.org

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...

That Boy in the Rain

Those three storeys,
shadowless today,
project the layers in the
story of that boy in the rain...

A man walks into the
square reserved for morning prayers,
midday chaos and evening jest;
to splash water on his soul,
to forget love,
to tear open his shirt, feel love...

From the heavens;
from the girl of yore; from you;
from the blonde across the table;
over candle-lit dinners;
or at a beach empty.
But, man he can't love!

He can only kneel,
in pain now,
his will slashed in war.
He watches, in dread,
as the boy fades into the mist
rising from a basketball court.

With that, poof, his memories mix,
into a dull grey Molotov cocktail,
then flow into the polluted gut
of a city of rushed dreams.

While two boys live, swinging, 
their moment drenched in lust,
a thirst for life, yes lust;
their clocks tick-toeing towards truth,
towards the end of innocence,
where they’ll begin to die!

Instagram: Pixeles_

Drop Zone

I spam you with my sighs,

when my only wish was

to overwhelm your senses

with this rain drop I saved

early morn from the tip of

the youngest leaf of the mango tree;

it still stands tall

near my childhood window.

Are you proud of me old man?

Or do you sigh too,

the "hmmms", for I am 

not a kid, not anymore!

The object of my full attention this morning, at the backyard of my
Kochi home (Pic by my brother Leo Xavier)

Sound of Silence

It's hard, harder for I have
to sift right through the
junk-filled sewers
that maketh my memory.
Some memoir I will manage,
stink rising with every sigh.

Every step I take, I fail,
in that search for silence;
for stealth to approach my
foes to make 'em all
feel the pain I endured when I broke
my nose n bones, but the will remained.

That will, I plea every day,
with the morning rays,
to aid me, to find the steps,
the small silent ones,
I took as a kid, smiling;
but my heart is heavy now...

... So big in girth now
that even my baby steps disturb peace;
it's louder than the buzzing fan
or my panting lungs,
both try to pacify in vain
the cells that burn, they burn.

It's High Time!

That green cover was
just perfect, 
for it leaves my mom glad,
her son has a roof.
My shifting, swaying roof
is loyal to me though,
with random leaks,
it lets me revel in the 
blessing from the heavens,
opening me to truths,
the ones I truly belong to,
the ones which cleanse me...

It can keep me in a
happy warp for hours,
watching a ship sail out yonder,
or those two boats which always 
struggle to take school kids to
tuitions and then home.
This, the time when
sunsets never charmed me,
its romance never touched me,
as I was gay with the waves
and the digital snaps of ships
I will go home n copy on paper.

Then again this shower
did make me shiver
n run home for a blanket,
a cup of tea too,
which was always kept warm
for I was loved.
But the days vanish,
into thin air, the western winds blow it,
along with the clouds, to the hills.
Beyond my reach,
yes, I dread the climb and
the heights I will reach.

For I'm a man, destined to fall;
the higher I am, the bloodier my death.

Credit: Wikipedia

Tone deaf!

These familiar roads
make me fear n brace,
the lanes are marked 
in white footprints
of infants and school kids...
I ride without lane discipline.

A warm night, the wind from the
seven seas comes funnelled 
between the dreams of
sleeping, hard-working men;
into the vents of my helmet,
they bring a song...

I've forgotten its lyrics;
I left behind all the tones
for a grammar school
and now a drummers role sans music.
Just left to herald the darkness I’ll find,
a little beyond the next right.

Rain Check

"Yes, yes! Right here mama,
I ain't out in the rain!"

The skies opened
to re-christen the birthday boy,
cleansing his veins and lanes
off grime and some crimes;
flushing his soul and sewers
off original and some duplicate sins.

But all I heard, between the quick
baby steps on concrete, was her voice,
which once made sure I played by
the rules written in the mist, in bold italics,
by the waving index finger
I held walking to school.

But I can't lie, can I?
This grey carries my sin,
sprinkled in between
the fresh shoots you planted
while I waited by the window
for my paper boats to dock.

"Yes, yes! Right here mama,
never in the rain, I play with fire now!"

Rain!

And as I look out of my flat window here enjoying its sudden appearance, I hear my mother call. Many times!

Of course she is nowhere near me to call out my name and check whether I am inside the house or busy floating paper boats in the rain.

This used to be a regular call when I was a kid growing up in Kochi where rain is part of life just like the sun.

As a kid, though I was less naughty than I am now, one of my ideas of fun was rain and the inexpensive, low carbon-footprint activities surrounding it -- like sliding in the mud, making water skis with coconut tree branches, netting tadpoles and tiny fish in the small pond at our backyard, and of course miniature boats.

At times even my grown up aunts (mom's sisters) used to join me. Till my mama intervenes, calling out my name, asking me where I am and reminding me that I am not supposed to be outside.

The call stayed with me.

Later, even now as a 30-year-old, whenever I am left in peace to listen to the rain I hear my mother and her voice of concern and caution.

"Leslie, where are u my son, don't go out in the rain."

And I heard her voice today.

But rain is not my worry now mama. It is fire that I have to deal with every day.

I wish the days were as simple as the ones involving monsoon showers and paper boats. But at least I have my mama's voice with me and her beacon guides me to brief yet fulfilling visits to the simplicity of existence I once enjoyed.