Meenas PoemsI wonder,
How life goes about all day?
Invigorating a few most times,
Intimidating most at times,
Provoking a struggle all times,
I wonder,
I keep on wondering,
I would wonder till I die.
Well, Death is another wonder,
Snatching 
the young at times,
Leaving the old many times,
Saddening all, all the times,
I wonder,
I keep on wondering,
I would wonder till I die.
He has developed a stigma strong to out beat,
Of getting disarranged and panicky,
By issuing quick commands and hurried tweets,
Then retreating to a long soliloquy.
It seems to be a motivation negative,
He walks up and down in a mood restless,
Infuriating every others in terms derogative
Indulging himself in a created chaos nevertheless.
It has been so, for forty long years,
Losing equanimity at the sight of guests,
Proposing an uneasiness loaded with fears,
Twined up to end looking for the best.
He, has been, all along reposing no confidence on others,
Professes to carry a heavy responsibility all alone,
Scrutinises in detail all from the covers,
But absolutely turns no stone.
Four decades of such precipitated movements,
Brings from the only onlooker a numbed reaction,
She goes about the way with her own temperament,
Conducting the whole episode in a colourful jubilation.
Tiny dew drops shine like diamonds ,
They oscillate over the fragile green grass,
Shimmering in the glistening sunrise,
A beauty not to miss every morn.
Little buds peep out from the nodules,
They are in red, rose and blue,
Dancing in the morning breeze,
A beauty not to miss every morn.
Small children walk up the road to school,
They chuckle and chatter as they move,
Exchanging friendly gestures and pep talk,
A beauty not to miss every morn.
The glory of the day lies not in calls,
The charm of the hour is not based on tries,
The contentment rests on impressive sights,
That take us to infinite heights.
The beauty of the morn is not to be missed,
It has to be repeatedly cherished,
The dew drops, bud and child are personifications,
Of transcendental truth and exuberant bliss.
It was an art piece,
Elaborate in designs ,
Finely attuned,
Lovely shaped,
Meticulously carved,
Elegantly polished,
Immaculately conceived,
It was an anthem to me,
But a 
piece of wood to my friend.
An unknown reptile creeps into the backyard,
It is red ,blue and yellow with bold marks,
It slithers on like a flaming rod,
Glittering unholy in the dark.
It has slipped into the yard isolating from its tribe,
Signalling to a teeming populous in the garden,
Gleefully slitting the roots of the flowering plants in a jibe,
Joyfully sucking the juicy liquid like a rodent.
They are none other than a sort of gardener’s pest,
Thriving in fives and hundreds after the rainy seasons,
Languishing slowly in the torrid sun’s zest,
Straying into the yards in quest of hibernation.
Jauntily proposing a colourful exterior,
They vehemently destroy the blossoming foliage,
Greedily wreck the delightful interior,
Perfidiously gobble the green leafage.
To get rid of them is elaborately laborious,
It is painful to see the devastation,
Still more horrible to kill the notorious,
More so to infringe the earth with pesticide horrendous.
How to save my garden,I know not?
My heart throbs and my eyes well,
Seeking seriously for a way out,
The very thought rummage my mind to a shell.
Running through the winding way,
Negotiating through the jerky turns all the way,
Neglecting the ups and downs in the fray,
I dashed head over heels in an exhaustive sway,
To find my treasure lost in the deep bay,
Did you get it ? you say,
I shake my head implying a “nay”,
What did you lose ? you bray,
My mind, my mind ,I crave.
Is winning laurels an achievement?
Yes, it is a rightful assumption,
Is becoming sixty years an attainment?
No,it is a misconceived conception.
Celebrating the sixtieth birthday is a fashion,
Holding feasts and revelry in honour of the day.
Attributing it to the stars and zodiac signs is the reason
Spending hundred thousands in one single day.
Well ,that is each one’s wish is the defense,
Right ,is it not there a limit?
I stand out from the crowd which is an offence,
Yet,I will never admit.
To me, aging is a natural process,
Everyone born undergoes,
To me ,it does not bear any success,
It is only a natural recourse.
Oh! it was a big celebration people acclaim,
Oh! there was a huge gathering,all proclaim
Oh! the food was delicious the crowd claims,
Oh! what a colossal waste, 
I exclaim!
Have you seen a man with a jabbering tongue?
Nay, you have not seen him so long,
Well,I would give a wordy glimpse of him in my song.
Call him what you will,
I prefer to name him Bill,
As it is easy to fill
Bill, talks incessantly in bits and pieces,
I prefer to term it broken releases,
As in them expression ceases.
Bill speaks about God and philosophy
I prefer to dub it as a torturing apostrophe,
As they tend to initiate a brain catastrophe.
Bill rallies about sports too,
I prefer to seal it as a bore too,
As it carries no activity too.
Bill rakes slanders often,
I prefer to check it in tens,
As it spreads ignominy in ton.
Bill is nosy about his kith and kin,
I prefer to draft him as an empty din.
As his prying could be thrown into
a trash bin.
Lastly, Bill forgets about himself,
I prefer to attribute it to his bare upper shelf,
As he appears like a spineless man to myself.
,
The days of youth are fun,
As we are always in the run,
Once we are up on a tree,
We sing aloud in a total free.
The days of adulthood are little less fun,
As we have to move about in a slower run,
Once we are in the mid tree,
We deliberate on things not totally free.
The days of mid age are least fun,
As we have to check out our run,
Once we are on the lower tree,
We work on the responsibilities almost unfree.
The days of old age are never a fun,
As we have to stop our run,
Once we are beneath the tree,
We count the days when we would be set free.
Meenas Poems 