Book of Verse

 

A book pops out of the cupboard where it was hiding for ages. The book is strangely intact. It falls open, as though by its own instinct, to certain pages. They are filled with scribbled words – some in verse, some worse. Memories – each more delightful than the other – are packed between the lines.

Book of Verse

The book appeared
almost sinister
like a ledger,
a little weird,
out of place and awkward
in my cupboard,
propped up on its binder
in the farthest corner,
standing upright there
for years together,
treasured as it were,
and utterly obscure
in the darkest innards
of the cupboard.

Among souvenirs
whose memories had expired,
the journal, a tad peculiar,
and barely dog-eared
was rediscovered
amidst its tattered peers,
falling well open as per
its habit of years
at a leaf much pored over,
with scrawling words
in scatters.

The mind turned pages
back through the ages
of small surprises,
our meeting each other
to forever blather
in rhymes and meters,
every verse ventured
countered with another,
losing track of the junctures
and the conjunctures.

In flashes as I conjured
images of yesteryears,
I gently laid the ledger
propped up on its binder
in the farthest corner
obscure as it were
and utterly treasured
in the deepest innards
of my cupboard.

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