The StoryTeller’s Wish.

Better late than never, haha, Happy New Year everyone. Whew… no NewYear celebrations for me because of work and death in the family that occurred a week back (there are 40 days of mourning after a death inboth Islamic and Indian local traditions).
Said that… I also did not had access to a full computer. I was using my PDA for Instant Messages and E-Mails. Thanks to the office administrator Jennifer in the hotel I am staying, I now have unrestricted access to a computer in the executive center in the hotel.  I probably won’t abuse this privilege. Though I used it to chat to a wonderful mother of a wonderful person this morning for about couple of hours. I hope everyone had a good new year celebration. I first thought I will wait till I get my laptop back before I post any poems. But as I’ve had nothing much to do other than watching the Monk marathon yesterday, I thought I will post a poem.

I have talked about this poem when I posted a poem called “The Lady Of The Woods”. This is a look into a road I myself passed. Then, when I was in the middle of it all, I was angry, frustrated and sad for many,many things. Now I look back and laugh at many things. The last year that went away was a bad one a real bad one. There were turning points when I took wrong turns. Well… may be 20 years down I will laugh at those wrong turns.

Enjoy the poem. I don’t know when I will be able to sit and read many poems and comment on your sites. Work is really tightening its grip on my neck now. I will try my best my friends, family and my darling.

The Story Teller’s Wish.

The little heart in innocence always dreams,
Imaginations in a fancy world, always feeds,
The colors to paint the perfect images,
Each one a frame in a never ending movie.

Recess in school during rainy days imprisoned,
And left kids in school room in boredom,
The chubby little fighter, who for attention craved,
From his observations and imaginations spoke,
Stories none else ever dreamt about,
The other young ones gathered around in curiosity,
Away from wet corridors and boredom,
Some into the storyteller’s imaginations fell deep,
Some where just curious onlookers,
Many just to avoid the fighter’s beatings.

One day he was Gulliver in Lilliput,
His magic challenged Mandrake in Xanadu,
Killed many pirates as the next Phantom,
Flown around in heights and speed of Superman,
So the story teller upon everyone kept his tight grip.

Years passed, the fighter got kicked out,
From school after school for his violence,
But even the worst enemies stopped and listened,
Some even encouraged the story teller in him.

School days were over and then came the college days,
Filled with girls and friends the storyteller thrived,
Hi punch on the nose and ears became legend,
Though after eighth grade he punched none.

From superheroes the storyteller evolved,
From real life events he weaved stories,
About life he lived and about life he heard,
Through the stories he learned the craft of lying,
In the best ways in which he convinced,
For every pleasure of youth, from love to lust,
From games to money and from laughs to tears.

The college days passed and the storyteller moved,
World apart from his listeners, who in their own way went,
His stories changed from lies to realities,
From his own success and failures he weaved,
Stories about the life seen, heard and felt,
Most of them only his soliloquy heard.

The essence of many he versified,
Depressing many but for escape of his conscience,
From realities that burned every inch of his unloved soul,
Where alone he wandered through lands unknown,
When in the middle of the crowd he screamed but unheard,
Where the storyteller became the story.

In his mid-life he looked back,
And wanted to write one more story,
Not with quill and ink or type into any machines,
But into the heart of the one that loves,
About the love of him that came from his soul,
No lines were ever written as his love was lost,
Somewhere in the dark shadows of his own past,
Now one last time he prepares to punch the nose and ears,
Of the shadows of his past that lingered,
And move on with the never ending search for that loving heart,
To write those unwritten lines of his own love,
Taking every bit of his own essence,
Giving every bit of his life and love, unconditionally,
A passion, a dream and a wish of that chubby little storyteller.