Smiles apart

Hay fever kicks him
out of the rented bed
and into a world
of overcast faces.
None smiled, not even
the serene nun.

The smog has killed
their passion for fellow men,
or are they following
The Emperor's eldest son.
Even the sun just frowned today,
n walked, it's a selfish world.

Official Prison

Backs bent to submission
by the bulge of prosperity
surrounding a job in a room
with red-carpeted walls and
a white, life-less ceiling
that guillotines the dreams.

The windows won't let the
world in or the word out;
they are sealed tight by design,
to keep spirits at bay, allowed to dance
only in the rays that the
dusty glass panes let through.

And we look out,
to see purple mist rising from
the rains which give life for many,
while filling the moat around us
prisoners here;
it's official, the sentence.

(Ah! The cell called office cubicle)

Death tone

I dread this change,
the tones, from drum-rolls
announcing life in this city,
it's now a few night birds humming.

Darkness, I fear your smile too,
for you will sneak up on me
from behind to sever the
warm nerves to my heart.
I hate you too... wily, black n slimy,
how easily you got the same drummers
to play music at dawn
'morrow for my pallbearer.

Peek-a-boo life

Arms up, in full guard;
this the peek-a-boo way.
 
Looking through the gorge
between the two, the only
brothers you can depend on;
not to wait for that flinch,
or a twitch to land a jab,
or a hook in good taste.
 
It is just to save the
'kind eyes' from turning black;
only the relentless gloves I see,
already red from many a spots.
 
Pure plain peek-a-boo style,
sans the knock-out drills.

(A lesson for life from boxing: It worked well even for Iron Mike Tyson in the ring before he forgot his coach Cuz’s "fail-proof" tactic and was knocked out, in life! But Peek-a-boo style does keep one away from a lot of complications...)

THE UNCORRUPT

Hope in!

The missing links maketh your day,
filling your hours with hope.
And hope drives the universe.

Father figure
The going was tough, but,
the tough was falling around him,
and they Baptized him Father!

Vain blood
An old man at the frontier;
where are the young n brave?
Oh, they bled Blue to death in vain!

Armful Cancer!
Armed rebellion against cancer!
We can't let you amputate
our mother, ye modern sage...

Hold on
Intriguing, the air is still;
for the whole nation holds its breath,
Democracy is in labour tonight.

A nation built on hope, blood and sweat. The fluttering tri-colour -- a dream of the Father of the Nation and the thousands who laid down their lives and the millions who made sacrifices -- is in danger of becoming a nightmare.
A man from that long-lost “age of national pride” has come forward though, to keep the Indian dream alive. But the young are lost in their own little world of self importance, while the nation bleeds and rots. And another “Saviour” tries to cut our Mother to pieces – Armed rebellion!
I see my brothers and sister doubting Democracy and doubting our constitution, the backbone of our nation. These are dangerous times. It’s time we acted and acted boldly.
JAI HIND!

Morning Raga

She begins her worship

of the holy cradle, her hearth
and the source of manna,
in the only way she knows.

Her limited access-key to the
vocal chambers is enough for her
fresh soul to render flawless emotions
in a flowing, free-versed Raga
that tickles a mother
- smiling with pride and joy.

She leans on her plush throne,
while morning glows in her sunshine song.

(My neighbour’s baby's song I wake up to these days...)

Evening Show

The pixels on the giant screen

dim with each passing frame,
the flick is ending, time for a fare
through black & white lanes, again.

Evening show tickets with me;
I burned the extra cals,
to reach the box seat
reserved for veterans and
the local political analysts.
This neighbourhood theatre is crowded,
screenings round the clock;
action and a few stunts in the morn,
love stories follow post noon and
hope n family flicks at primetime.

The show goes on even as the
actors fade before the horizon.
White dots appear on the dark screen,
a sign of life, but ushering death for a change.
This cue to leave and the white paint
from government lights mark my return route.

Fort Bastard

The fortress crumbles,

under her own fat, neglected bling.

I see her green, black n red
veins protrude out in an evil twirl,
varicose has gripped the pillars
which once held up the lofty
buyers-world in a spell, the seller's market.
They now crumble as rust eats into
the downed shutters of the courts
which once inspired awe, then lust.

Now a haunt where old men sit
and smoke away dreams;
the rush, only from pyre fumes
climbing up the decayed escalators,
to the sunroof that splashes an eerie Neon
onto the alleys of a dying bastard.

Spencer Plaza in Chennai is fighting a losing battle, it’s obvious. A fight for survival as its world slowly shifts to the road across.

The plaza's oval central sun-lit lobby, where one side reminds us of the first Spencer building, which was built during the time of the Britishers

Armour of God

His armour, forged with the

wisdom of God, written by man,
bestseller down the years,
a gift from a mother.
Battle ready, his power, the will
to trample snakes and lions,
the moment he covers his prone
flesh and soul with a
promise, a Psalm for the
mortal warrior, but unlike Achilles.

Carrying a buckler, made in love
by his woman back home;
shield from an ore from the mines of Luke,
the voice, his holy guide
lighting a right path across
Edom and many more of 'em battle fields.

Heat Healthy

The warmth from the lap
of an unknown mother,
kept me awake as
stories flashed by in colour.
 
She, known for feeding
her sons with resolve
from the full, burning breasts;
I met her this day,
after four long years of
hide and no seek!
 
The game which I started,
with the morning gust,
that hit me with all its might,
uprooting my veins, for months at times.
 
But today... I orphaned myself inside an
AC cab waiting outside a train station!

The day-time train trip through Tamil Nadu in a non AC compartment: A burning experience, but no time to complain because I was alive amongst the "real" people of this country. Check out my observations during the journey - 

http://les-bicyclediaries.blogspot.com/2011/05/trained-observer.html 

Chrome Plated Dreams

The tips of my fingers resonate

this morn, with the music
from her silence, which keeps
me in a cell with no windows.
Only small peepholes,
the eight bright ones offered
by Chrome; they ain't sport
today though, no painkillers.

My eyes follow the plot still,
pipe dreams a few open;
while my shackles are loosened
enough to let me scroll
from one vision to another,
in search of that glare from reality.

Sweat Equity

The meat of the moment;

reality, the heat of life,
was lost among the humming
birds of a concrete tree,
who huff and puff
to vent their cold frustrations
on the prone men
hunched o'er tragic mirrors...

Women too! Forced to
do justice to a devil's contract.

I would rather sweat, shovelling
love near that familiar tree
whose mangoes once trained
me to aim high and higher, sigh!

Good Mourning!

The knock on the door

from a surrogate,
paid a lower wage
for her act of pity
on the man who eats less
and tweets more, lately.

Wake up call answered
with a smile, an apology,
and a promise for amends follows;
the employees are happy...

... I rush back to my
bed of nails, mails waiting.

Blue Fever

Blue, the pools are
full to the brim.
Hangover from four days of
binge on home-made sweet brews
strains the valves;
the plumbing squeaks and bulges.
 
But optical illusions and
a seven-hour old chart
forces me into a train;
while unshed tears,
a rusted, hard and cold bed
ensured I felt every single
beat of my self till the auto ride
to reality. Back to fever!

Ride and Seek!

Gentle twists, a schoolboy’s will
to ease the miniature motor
through the chicane from yesteryears.
A right and a left, in slow motion
the bike was urged as an old
family fortress coughed on the left
while the watch tower loomed,
it still keeps an eye on the
blue-and-white teens mugging up
theorems to cut short their heaven.

An open ground and a palace
left in the dust, yellow memoirs zip past.
Ahoy! The market where dreams
were made, pumped with Iron,
oiled and then dumped,
the end of innocence.

(Yesterday evening’s bike ride from Santa Cruz school to Pattalam ground through the road beside the unused water tank, my old school Britto and the Bishop’s Palace, was indeed part of a normal commute home after an evening stroll at Fort Kochi beach. A 500-metre or so long trip which lasted around 30 seconds; but a life-time of memories this road carries for me and some flashed by, in the same pace as the eight or so Sodium vapour street lamps I left behind during the ride.)

Pain Old Will

The humid presence I felt,

of the man inside,
with a will to stand his ground,
for "lies" - truth for me,
maybe not so for the shepherds
of the flock, lost up
the mount of no return.
Touché! I'm your man...

For I felt my guts today,
though the revelation was painful,
it shook me... minutes,
the dull burn from
the weight of expectations
I carry ever since I was born.

Holi Sift!

Behold! A corridor of certainty,
between two human indiscretion,
called home by a few hundreds;
while others name them
indulgence of men, whose will
rise higher than the dreams of
even those upper-middleclass gent
in the morning trains to VT.

Blue with shifting silver streaks,
the young sun makes his point,
bringing out the real colours
within the Canyon.
It's Holi indeed for the
specs on the garage floor;
it’s their festival. I slept,
searching for the missing links...

... Two drunk friends, infant summer;
and sounds of childhood
- the thump of waves with
spray reaching my home.

Terrier Terrain

Whole of heart; wiry,
busy 'em little ones.

Yours truly, these Terriers,
ready to jump n fetch, heel n roll;
spotted fur-heads - yellow n black;
they sprint for you, a whistle it takes.

Those mushy glides in love,
the slow crawls to work;
flight or fight or the higher life;
barking their way round
the charmed maze here called life.
Loyalty metered to the mile,
deep Italian grunt to match,
it's their world, a busy one.

- Mumbai Fiat Taxis: Now, they are something!

Tearaway!

The drop trickling down

an old rut, hidden under
a thick brush and worn-out
leather; a man at large.
Oh, you've grown up;
ready to sin, ready to win.
 
And this water,
yeah; it's his heart weeping,
for he was still taking a
noon nap after mama's lunch,
when the world did many a Mach. 
The sonic boom afterthought,
shook him back to reality;
tears ain't virtual anymore.

Edit Cage!

Dog days are here to stay;
bones, less marrow, are thrown
into their cracked shot glasses
by masters of a trade, younger than
the oldest profession this biz,
but filthy more it sure is.

Whores ’em are noble,
for they barter flesh, dignity;
while these whip wielders
deal in souls and breed zombies
to edit the bones - snarling, biting
in greed, caged near the source!