I have come your way

Don’t ask me how many times

I have come your way

knocked on your door

peeped into through the windowsill

to see if you would lift your head

I have often sung my heart’s content

chosen words that I thought you would like

set them to harmony and let them out

in my not so soulful voice

just for you to hear

I have often picked a thought

loved it enough and let it grow

ripening it with care

and then sent it to the clouds

to reach to the corner of your heart

yet, friend I must say

they get lost, all my labour of love

in gusts of wind and storms of anger

in your rare indifference and your

happy carelessness, your obsession with self

my notes are trampled by your

single minded pursuit of your dreams

yet I send them in the hope of

a recipient somewhere in the universe

and the sky eggs me on eachday

being himself so vast and profound

he makes time to sit by and listen

and that gives me hope

a lot of hope and yes, a lot of love.

writers who don’t write, Lovers who don’t love

Writing has been like love

she spent a lifetime

dreaming about love

so did she about writing

sometimes in her dreams

they intermixed and danced

like ‘theyyam’ in a trance of thoughts

like love itself where it is a task to find a lover

of heart and kind, as good as you think he should be

so it is with writing to find a page and fill it with thoughts

the dancing pen coursing through and noting ideas, dreams and aspiration

the sweat and blood of living, the pain of conception and the inability to reproduce

of long traumatic gestation that bends the heart with weight

the muse in either is case being vamoose

sandwiched amidst hopes, expectations and soar realities

throbs a dull ache that makes living plausible

whiffs of love, songs of yonder, tales of the worlds beyond

are in waiting

but not too long, not too long.