The Fallen Champa Tree

I turned slyly away from 

a fallen friend,

the mellow red comrade 

whose philosophy I watered once.

She pleaded... Not guilty;

it was the storm.

I walked away, and now,

in the night it haunts me,

an eerie song.

I toss and turn.

Sprawled on her side,

helpless, bleeding perhaps,

while I rushed 

toward the unkempt side,

the place where I depart

from empathy,

and opt for a juggle,

a skip across time and space,

balancing the lefts and rights

of breathing a lie, living a truth.

A fairy tale rings the bell,

where a proud man

fell to his knees

and then the author helped

him become a fable

for little kids

to learn from.

Lesson One: Never walk away

when aspiration bites the dust.

But, oh but, I am in a perpetual fall.

The Epilogue

She stands tall again,

an arm missing

but the soul green, 

evergreen...

Have you seen the soul,

I prod my shadow

as he turns away again,

hiding his face,

fading into the anonymity

offered by a setting sun.

-- Leslie Xavier

​​The Immunity ​Lie

If it rains tomorrow,

will there be reopening 

of schools,

and paper boats

to sail across shallow puddles?

But​,​ it is too early​,​ 

the summer burns,

and we are left with mangoes

mangled priorities,

a wee bit of sanity, 

parched rivers brim with tears

and a strange virus.

Let it rain​ though​,

for it washes away the

salt on our wounded pride​.​

​W​e still seek vaccine,

solace, air to breathe,

and a new parliament,

​​​as immunity ​becomes a ​lie...

The school bell too is a myth,

it rings no more​

in this cacophony...​

​And we sway to 

shrill ringtones and eerie sirens.

-- Leslie Xavier

Eliot and I

He was ambushed,
questioned, in a dark room,
where is your Waste Land?
Around you, he sighed.

... Near me, I discover,
while I try to gauge
the length of a long shadow
cast by my office desk lamp --
dark, hiding my Waste Land,
lighting up theirs! 

​Teacher, teacher…

The old man

on the wall,

he grins,

he grins at the

young man 

on the cross.

Teachers, both,

displayed on a trophy wall

of a school

meant for life.

But a school built

for barter, banter,

and grey matter takes over

the small matter —

a young mind.

I left teaching,

in haste,

avoiding the crucifix,

a little beyond

a church tower that

rings school bells.

Naked Resolve

The strength in 

his resolve

remains true to its purpose;

it makes music.

Exposed to the 

morning scorn and humidity,

he walks tall,

and naked.

The monsoon's been good,

it floods the lanes

with dreams,

and turns land to

sea,

sea of humanity,

sea of hope...

He was always a 

sailor,

but away from his boat.

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

A Poet's Audacity

Hey you,
are you mad?

... The audacity of him

to think he could,

in a matter of seconds,

turn life as it is

into words,

scribble it onto

the pad given to him

by life itself.

Pic: poetryfoundation.org

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

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

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

Inhuman Love!

Introduce yourself,
the best of you,
I was asked,

Sure sir...
I'm a boy,
I love to play.

I am a man,
I love to watch
the boys play.

But beware,
I am inhuman,
and that's how I love.

The Mirrors

In another train,

not so long back,

I never had the need

to turn and watch the

shaky mirrors behind,

which hid my virtual image

beneath the many faces

commuting to work,

to play, to love.

Then, I could only look ahead,

or to the left,

through the iron bars,

and watch the stallion,

with me on its saddle,

gallop alongside the

diesel-powered coaches,

beside the endocrine-driven

life and its dreams;

jumping over small brooks,

crossing meadows, little fences,

and concrete roads;

trails I never took in my life;

the lanes,

now forgotten...

See, now I travel

many a metres

under the precise,

geometrically symmetric

maxims of a teacher

in pristine white coat,

in a lab where

muscle fibres are,

first torn apart,

then stitched back,

to make Kevlar out of

human flesh...

I am forced to look back now,

onto the mirrors

behind me,

they shudder in fear,

are rickety in dread,

for my eyes are cold,

angry, in fire...

As I can’t heal my world,

nor can I stop

them all from dying,

nor can I stop the livingfrom crying!

It's forgotten!

Oh I forgot,

just like I forget to sleep,

these days of spring...

When the birds sing, make love.

See, I don't read life,

or its books;

when I find a paperback,

I tear its cover,

build a wobbly ship,

and float it down the drain

that takes out the sins

of my commute,

to the depths of this

city I call home.

Then, my heart betrays me,

halfway through that peeled

bestseller...

Yes, I forgot how to write.

The Steps

In that cramped space

I call my living room,

the fridge in the blue corner,

she stares at my sidekick,

and grins, mocks me

when I pull it short;

to avoid the charges

she will press,

taking me to court,

for domestic violence!

But, that kick was not

for your cold heart,

I was just tracing the steps,

they named it,

you call it, Bassai Sho.

The steps I took,

when I was toddling

my way to school, to life,

to lies, and the many flings

that made me a man.

The Sale

Summer sale on for winter wear, 
I just can't wait for that
retail salesman and his
market theory that always wins.

At sultry Chennai, it's a jest, 
but I'm hell bent on
buying that glossy jacket
to sweat n cook in it...

As it's winter here for me, in May, 
middle of the great Indian summer; 
where is my soda lemonade?
That boy drank it all, years back!

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.

Crisscross

I cross this strait,
once a day now.
Once upon... a life time ago;
it seemed like life, twice over,
the rush to find my space,
but the calling 
was never heard,
now or even then.

Morning, it was then,
the push for a young heart;
it is in repeat now,
but just half a tread at a time
for this another man in me,
noon it is now.

None to watch my back,
the burn spreads there;
sweat trickle and tickle
down the neck till it
becomes an itch
that drives me further,
a li'l farther, down that path
of no return...
Where I will lose the 
original sin in me to age;
and the will in me 
to the measured
words of an editor,
out of control, out at large!

White coat, dark court!

Heal me doctor
for I've sinned,
but just in my deeds.
Yet “banished,” said he!

The hunched over professional,
bespectacled, white-coated
and smiling, walks out on me.
His evening busy; hands warmed
with soft leather gloves,
he strolls to a garden in bloom.
His bed is comfy too
while a cold hospital cot awaits me.

“Banished,” he said again,
for you dared to try singles.
Indians can only play doubles,
ask your Paes or Bhupathi!

Yeah, they've won Grand Slams,
but I have no choice
for I am forced to stick
to just serve and volley!

Thank you doctor,
I shall begin my day
in darkness now;
the floodlights are dead
at the fenced singles court
and they refuse to repair it.