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

The Winter Morning Rain

The dark ​corridor,

​which connects the ​bed near sunset

and the well​-​lit Christmas tree​ ​at Sunrise,

​is my library.​

​The half-read books ​reek of arrogance,

​today they ​exude the scent of rain,

winter rain,

​whose drops tease​ ​me

at the window,

​urge me ​to play musical chairs...

If only I was my daughter,

​or I were my father,​

I would oblige​.

I am neither old, nor young,

just perfect to be

trapped amongst dusty books,

uncertain at sunset,

jittery about sunrise.

-- Leslie

Summer Morning

The cold blanket

of haze
I saw in your eyes

has cleared,

replaced by a bright spark,

summer they call it...

But I christen it lust;

I love it

for the bright lights

make you bold;

relentless, stubborn,

annoyingly bold.

Pic credit: newsx.com

Heartwarming Winter!

Good morning,
fog and frost...
A bit I struggle,
the hazy dreams,
then snuggle,
hide my face from
the cold stares of
a winter morning sun.

There, I find warmth
in the heart
that sings my lullaby
these nights so long.

Winter Rides!

The cold blade

that cuts in haste,

through existence,

is hardly noticed

in the rush,

in the obsession;

as I move in circles,

concentric.

Its radius is my will,

but... but,

the start,

and the finish

reek of selfishness;

the point, it’s home.

Working up the cadence and pace on a chilly
morning ride to Gurgaon on my Cannondale

 

The Dying Winter

The clearing fog...

The receding moisture

from your eyes;

the sun, occasional,

playing a heavenly hide n seek.

The small drops of passion...

Dew in the morn,

sweat at high noon,

whiskey at twilight,

and sleepless at midnight.

The Devilry!

I open the pressure hatch,
          let myself out,
into the murky, Sodium coloured world
          –their midnight,
my hour to trek back, I did time,
          to the beach,
finding warmth in the cold waves,
          and a colder moon.

I dread the darkness in sunlight,
          I must be him;
I see bright lights in darkness,
          I am him, the Devil.

The Crumpled Dollar

It's winter,
in Rhodesia, in my life
where summer was short
and well rehearsed
to last till that second,
the stage-time,
set by you, your calculus,
and its variables.

You,
ye, only you,
the conductor at my opera;
the director of my dreams;
the dictator;
an autocrat,
who crushed my will,
the murderer I slept with.

I search,
find hope in the smiles
of the hard-worker,
who gives receipts for the
crumpled dollars I pay him.
Oh Zimbabwe,
look... my crumpled heart;
laugh now, please laugh!

The Christian

I looked down,

so did they;

and saw this lone Christian,

bearing a cross,

in the broken line

under the pillars

that support families

in the NCR.

He got a winter break,

while his master,

a man of faith,

was having his free breakfast.

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!