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 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 Lost Rain

​These scents don't tickle,

I miss my sense of smell​,​

​numb to petrichor​,​ 

​I miss its taunt, its poetry.

Spoilt ​by ​​a big city in a slum​,

I hardly hear the Purple Rain.​

I watch the ​shower, still,

gauge the drops,

feel the whiff,

let the mist ​kiss my soul,

and my memoirs remind me

what it meant to ​dance in the rain.

It is but life,

laced in moisture,

from tears, both...

of those who are parched,

and those who are drenched in love.

Behold the duality... 

... In the scent of the rain,

in its scant disregard

of propriety​:​

A lout for many,

west and east coast,

​while I hear a faint, lost song.

-- Leslie Xavier