There are Several Letters in that Letter!

Writing informal letters is a cakewalk for most people- and I say so from a certain perspective. In most cases, the subject-matter of we write to our relatives, friends or peers , and not the flow or the language, matters. (As long as the message is conveyed, you're fine!) If you stick to this canon, you're doing good. Carry on. (You just might be able to rectify some of your mistakes! See if you can.)

Now when it comes to the literary sector of people, you might just have to be a teeny weeny bit careful. Ensure that the recipient understands your letter- and for this reason, be lucid and succinct.
Don't pack in too many words; make your writing conversational.
Or to put it simply: 'The language comes to you. Allow it to make its way towards you. Don't pounce on it and devour it."

Letter writing today doesn't carry too much weight-age. What if you were to dissuade me from that belief in the form of a letter?
About me : I am passionate about books and reading. I am unmoved by direct approaches, which say, 'XYZ is to be done because XYZ has to be done.' What really reaches me is underlying significance, as it makes me appreciate the author and believe him to be several notches above most other writers.

Using the given data, let's see if you can make me post a para in approval of the fact that letter writing is relevant in modern day, in a few weeks, using your own letter writing skills.

I'm waiting on littleoed@gmail.com!
Get going!!

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Still

A landscape of feathers The smoothest natural canvas, For Nature's painter- Alighting while parading its beauty Before retreating Into a well-worn easel. Soot-black, rust-grey, brown like tinsel, Folding up and pulling down the covers Over grace, beauty and space, Compounded with distance, Rendering known unknowns, beautiful art. Now mingled with unknown knowns, Streaks of color paint the marauded canvas Differently. Camouflage seems eminent, Unimportance, inadvertent. The marvels Of the aerial world, beget stupor as They transform into the pedestrian In the realm which is terrestrial. The miracle of flight now a bane, As for food they must forage With feet, not fly with feathers. I don't want to startle them. It is silence that beckons them to the ground. Startlement stirs them upwards, into the skies, Simpering, whimpering, not soaring and diving- Trespassers on a land where they are weak, Vulnerable- they know they can't win. Aviation is a weapon futile against...

The Tree Says 'Hi'

The tree says Hi! My balcony was briefly an arboretum. Windswept leaves splayed over the floor Like champion specimens -parts of a fine species- Careening into a welcoming sanctum That is otherwise empty- save for clothes on stands Or people on feet. When this tree paid its timely visit Luckily, there was nothing, no-one. It probably seized A rare chance- when it was out of anchor, fit and fine, In form- and the tiled floor bare. No sign of occupation. It bore its way past the metal rails that serve to Prevent our falls, but here cushioned the tree's. It rested its somber branches easily on the rail, Which is mighty strong and sturdy, as I can now discern. It snooped its slender branches threateningly over A cauldron of leaves. Green cauldron, green sorcerer. When I woke, there it was, unshakeable, unmovable. Oh, it was mobile alright. It'd have moved of its own will. It was merely enjoying its soiree in a forbidden land, Like we all do. But it just stared at me, with compo...

Clandestine

Sometimes we wait too long, To speak our minds. We let lingering truths linger, We let sporadic clocks, chime.. We allow patient seams to fritter away Like a sparrow does with the timber of the tune That she was shrouded by; shrill words tearing Ears, each word she utters, careful, today. While the first day it was a free reign, until Some unctuous winds carried to her, criticism. Just the same way as copper utensils in a house Of steel, are anyone's delight, until bronzed, With wear and use, both are the victims Of sundry needs and glances. Just the same way, some things, Are stowed away in careful pockets Because they have borne a lot of perusing When kept in the open. Like love. Like hurt. Like envy. Like silence. Trust and truth are two things I can list, That are given, that are l'habitude. I tell the truth because it is, it exists, It is what I perceive, it is what I've lived.. And I keep your trust, because I've learnt That it'll help you keep mine, it wil...

The Happy Wanderer

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