Meenas Poems
There was a terrible congestion,
As cars and buses got stuck,
There lay a heavily loaded truck,
Upside down creating an obstruction.
Drivers honked in impatience,
Time was flying in hectic speed,
Vehicles crowded in terrific lead,
There arose a commotion indeed,
Marking an unheard discordance.
If at all there had been a flyover,
Smooth passage would take over,
Delay would not be bothersome all over,
Installing a transit wherever,
Facilitating ease and comfort moreover.
It was a near death,
It was an accident,
While blood gushed out in torrence
Bones ripped off into pieces,
He was dying.
Passers went to and fro,
As he lay uncared on the road,
At last a man ,a man ,really
Took him to the hospital,
Remained unnoticed until he revived..
It was a fresh lease of life,
It was like living again,
Needless to say he thanked the man,
The good man remains unknown,
His deed will talk about him.
Defying Nature is irreverence,
Beware Of nature’s wrath
Destroying Nature is transgression,
Fear Nature’s fury,
Deriding Nature is sacramental,
Keep away from Nature’s anger.
Nature has its own way,
Care and destruction occur in a sway,
Remitting a fondle and a raid,
Extending an embrace and a tirade,
Holding up the righteous and good,
Deleting the indecorous and bad.
Nature has its own way,
Dealing with ailments in a fray,
A leaf dispels upsets in a quickness,
A shrub dismisses pain in a raciness,
A bark disproves strain in a firmness,
Curing all setbacks without a suspense.
Nature has its own way,
Revenging the teasers in a day,
Ravages the land with indignation,
As it enacts a river’s spate,
As it fumes into a volcanic irate
As it devours all
in a stormy agitate
Whispers are noisy too,
When everything is still,
The rustling leaves do whisper,
As the wind blows in a gentle fill,
The flowing streams do whisper,
As the water gushes in thrill,
The peeping Sun does whisper,
As the day dawns in shrill,
The bowing trees do whisper,
As the breeze blows in frill,
The dangling flowers do whisper,
As they dance to the melody in drill,
The little child does whisper,
As it hears the lullaby to a will,
Whispers do keep us bound,
As they go through all rounds.
Meenas Poems 