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

The Ear Pull

Then she pulled my left ear,
mother...
The chiding,
it is, I know,​

for leaving you,
for hiding in their city.

The bloodletting
reminds me of home,
of belonging,
of what I’ve grown up to be​,
a slave to the month
—telephone bills and 96 pages.

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 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

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!

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

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.