Zooming in on Fireflies

A few minutes past six,

​as light dims on

the Monday chores,

they appear,

on my right,

beyond a pale green

pre-summer canopy.

Six lamps. Or is it more?

Oh, the inadequacy of vision!

They, the fireflies,

hang in the air, a straight string;

dot on the line of sight my

seat provides,

through random banters

and toward specifics in history,

for the politics of posterity.

-- Leslie
​ 

The Dilated Song

Wish I could slow down

the song I play,

buying dilated time.

Its tempo reigned in,

but it's timbre intact,

for I dare not change the tune.

Will it help the dreams 

linger on in a trance,

a tad longer,

a minute or two,

a second or an hour,

a day or eternity.

The song heralds eternity,

and it plays in a loop.

Alas, time, its vagaries,

is linear, is a knife.

It rips open the winter jacket,

but it cuts cakes too...

-- Leslie

Love, A Reflection

In a world without mirrors,

sans judgement,

and harsh glares,

I would spend

the vanity left in me

to cry, then reflect...

I become my mirror.

And, in the images

flashing by,

droplets of cold sweat

provide gloss

as well as the shivers.

Then, three hours past midnight

I touch her,

she kisses me,

and we see

our reflections merge,

within hand-held Amoled frames.

... In a world without mirrors,

three hours past midnight!

-- Leslie 

Winter Longing

Lost for words, are we?

No. It's just that 

no brew could drown longing,

the one in winter...

​It is but a whiff of winter, sure,

yet the longing grows for

the warm rays of a sun

as seasoned as the coffee 

made by the first Italian barista,

or as potent as the sun

outside the smoking room

of an Indian cafe.

But it rained outside too,

and when it did once,

and when the leaves turned

greener with envy,

it indeed was a reminder

winters don't last,

but its longing does,

and it freezes it below nought.

-- Leslie

​Poetic Reality

If it's​ a slap one seeks,

look no further...

Pick a mundane pen,

write poems under the sun,

wrap it in soiled,

oil soaked crumpled newspapers,

preferably with stale news;

take it up a flight of stairs.

​And ​when,​ ​only when it's past midnight,

light it up...

Hold it up longer,

enough to burn the fingers

which held the pen,

and also held meaning

​a ​mere few seconds back.

Leave it there, let it burn.

Morning, read from the ashes​.​

​C​ry... Pry open the poetry chest,

search again,

soul searching, hole searching,

and write:

Some verses for posterity,

some for the next paper

to wrap the day's love and effort​.​

-- Leslie

The Milky Way

The flashes are daily now, 

the forgotten Astrophysics lessons,

-- meant for the stars,

grounded for substance --

visits me in the mornings...

When, earlier,

I would only see chaos

dancing at the traffic lights

next to my window,

the dance for a living.

Now, I deal with bubbles,

brewing in the warmth 

of my words,

thoughts and deeds,

a fine white brew

meant to be gulped down,

but sipped, always, like whiskey.

That's a galaxy, it's the Milky Way,

and it's where science ends,

and my art begins.

​-- Leslie

Flowering Epitaphs​

​If there were a few plaques

placed in random order

next to my flower pots,

would that make them

party to the larger injustice

the blooms ​highlight?

Life, indeed, is a collection

of epitaphs​ in stale air​,

some lost in the attic,

some to the vagaries of

destructive rebuilding,

and many among flowers...

... In random order,

the ​notions gather grime,

​my dog chases squirrels around them.

His present, mine too,

​and the world stays

shrouded in smog.

-- Leslie

The World in a Cupcake

I seek dreams in the embers,

the stragglers which linger on,

after the flame was doused

by the will of the girl.

It is life she

holds aloft tonight

-- a blueberry cupcake,

and our world.

A very different 

winter moon sings too,

shedding arrogance and indifference.

The hymns, no the chimes,

the songs of destiny,

leave me gasping for verses,

to breathe into her poem

that would reignite the flame.

The embers smile,

they know exactly why...

They need her breath 

of fresh air, 

but are yet to fathom her words.

Two winters into her book,

I am yet to metre 

its depth either.

-- Leslie

The Whining River

In ​torrential ​spate 

it realised​ ​​the bunds,

​the boundaries​,​ 

were not ​set by its will.

​They belong to the contractor

who poured the concrete​, 

a quick mix, 

a quicker fix,​

​marked the limits,

killed ​its flow,

and tamed ​its will​,

bounty, reverence notwithstanding.​

Well, I'll be damned,

but aren't we all dam​m​ed!

​And, amidst the cacophony

of an eerily silent night,

we hear ourselves​

​whine like the winding river...

​-- Leslie​

How to Age a Poem

​A few lines,

which, in its existence,

is older than the writer,

the bard, 

who scribbled the words

when he was in his 40s.

Now, how will a child

grow older than her father?

If the verses were written

with an half empty rum bottle

kept dangling near 

the pen that is showing its age;

and if it is read over wine,

a young, angry, red bottle,

the cheapest possible blend,

cheaper than the recited words....

Then, it grows old, the poem;

the writer gets younger,

and we all heave in

the brown, polluted,

yet sensuous air... 

So, shall we?​

-- Leslie 

Salvation in a Tea Cup

The game ended prematurely.

Sigh!

The tease from the empty cup

was over in seconds, 

even before I could 

burp out the verses;

it lasted barely two lines...

The first, a dedication,

to the evening,

the second, to the last drops

of the brew,

stuck to the edges 

waiting for salvation,

the kind we all deserve.

The stains remain,

on the evening sky,

and the coaster carrying

baggage from John Lennon!

-- 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

Seek n Hide

​In my actual space I, 

carrying a flashlight, virtually,

stumble in darkness,

feel the edge of a work desk

for direction,

cut my hand on its

chiseled existence,

and call it poetry and justice.

It must be the apocalypse,

for it remains hidden,

the desk,

its writing instruments,

and its intent...

But, in time, maybe tomorrow,

when it starts to rain,

I may author the Bible.

I seek a virtue amongst

the long shadows on my desk, 

the sarcastic ink bottle

I hardly use,

and within the pile of

forgotten music notes,

I search for songs and sin

to find light, write the Psalms.

-- Leslie 

The Wrinkled

On my terrace,
when I sidestep a crater,
and walk to the west edge,
I know I let hypocrisy survive,
run its course,
and feel blissfully immortal.

Who craves the sun more?
So I walk;
they needed a leader,
and you, dear friend,
needed a freemason to pour
grout on the cracked, wrinkled floor.

Floor?
It is the roof,
the one destined to leak,
drip, drop,
and a river cried by
a poet of very little means.​

-- Leslie 

Light Banter With The Bulb

​In between a siesta

and a night slated for grammar,

I find a canyon

to banish the scripted emails, 

as punishment.

Many remain in obscurity there,

others return after sunset,

and remind the dwellers

of Nazareth,

words are immortal.

The subject lines who made it,

and ​the woefully inadequate boy,

dance on a wooden stage,

the rickety scaffolding,

creaking under the 

weight of expectation.

It is night now,

the light bulb says mockingly,

singing ​a ​glowing tribute to normalcy,

but ​a ​long shadow lurks

just beyond his narrow mind,

bolted like my front door.

It keeps the couriers out,

food slips in; 

thoughts and vision hardly do,

the essential commodities, desolately so.

-- Leslie Xavier