Wednesday, June 30, 2010


Writing a verse is like
Discovering an old, dusty cupbaord
Shut for ages
Pushed away in callous neglect
To a dark corner of a cluttered store

One fine leisurely afternoon
In a sudden mood for spring cleaning
I chance upon it
Amazed, (I had almost forgotten it was there!)
I look for the keys
Finding none, I try pull it open
The boards creak and groan
But the door is so tight
It won't budge an inch
I bang hard
I struggle
It oscillates
Under pressure
As though about to shatter
In shards scatter
Suddenly the wasted hinges give way
The door hangs out, precariously sway

I look in curious
Its so dark inside
I rummage blindly
What do I find?
A jigsaw puzzle?
A cross word?
Words, syllables, letters,
Thoughts, feelings, emotions,
Lyrics, songs, dreams, desires
Some satiated
Some unfulfilled
Some perhaps heard
A few smothered
Hidden for so long
I push and pull for sometime
A little cautiously
Savagely at times
I coax not too hard
Just a slight urge
Yet compel as well
An upsurge
Wells up
Lo! Like a splurge
They tumble down freely
Unguarded, unbridled
Like happy pebbles
They tremble
In earthy glee
A happy spree
Soon an avalanche
Slides down
The cascade spreads over
In candid cadence
On pure, pristine pages

I find myself in every
Stroke, curve, alphabet
Even in the lines in between
The gaps unfilled
Deliberately kept
Just like that
In joy of raveling
What is explicit not
I am there in every bit
Morsel and piece
I am lingering
Longing to be sought
Find me out
Read me
Speak to me
Hear me ...........
I may tiptoe
Into your heart

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