Meenas PoemsThe faith, I profess,
not on others,
but, on myself
makes me powerful.
I do my work
perform on my own
I do not seek support
stay likewise.
My talks are not personal
They show no one.
I speak of weather and related.
I am at ease.
I am called a reserved.
declared a quiet person
an unfamiliar figure.
stay unrecognised.
That much I can write about me.
I am an ordinary human,
not bound by any anxiety.
I go on.
The varieties I find
overwhelm in a unity.
Sounds an oxymoron.
The wind is a breeze
and a storm on occasions
a familiar occurrence.
The sun radiates intense
and measured in regions
a recognisable phenomenon.
The river runs smooth
and floods in seasons
a prevalent feature.
The sea engulfs
and recedes at intervals,
is but, a dominant character
The distinction is logical
implied to a range,
Man creates a furore
soars up and crouches down,
a manic disorder.
It is a subjugation
one of a blood link
a strange relation implied
not anyway a wonder.
It is a commitment
apart from the filial
seem a curious paradox
The ambiguity in relationship
as it is to the perceptions
goes on deep in the ribs
possibly, simulating the real.
A look through the lens
finds various propositions
engages not the eye,
befits accurate in the searches.
The unforeseen expositions
show l the east expected convictions
those of which are subjective
and cause a repulsion straight.
The filial relation takes a right about turn
emerges as an outcome of dislike
where the blood is not red anymore
is blue-black contaminated by greed and lust.
Lets, not the blistering sunlight escape,
a community, known for its culinary ability,
starts a process. A diligent one.
It comprises all under the sun
that of mangoes, brinjals,
gourds, onions and rice
Sliced brinjals and gourds
cooked with tamarind, and salt
find themselves in the fierce sun, no sooner.
Miserable ones!
The mangoes have their skin stripped,
Immersed overnight, they are left to dry,
It is rigorous and disciplined
The shredded, onions are blended with the batter
of urad dhal, chilly paste, seasoned with spices and salt
made into small balls are left in the sun.
Soaked grain is grounded to a refinement
supplemented with salt. Poured into moulds
An indigenous procedure carried on
through generations. They are the forerunners
of the modern packaged food.
No preservatives. added.
Early in the morning
a transition as regarded
the darkness veils
the sun lingers.
I walk towards my flowers
see them languish in fatigue
the thirst drives them to penetrate
fail as the resource has depleted
I look at them with compassion
they recognise my helplessness
as I am but one among them
who stares at the bright sky
for plentiful rain.
One, two, three, four
the fowl come out from the coop
shaded crimson, olive, blue and yellow.
They cackle and chuckle,
scream at the top of their voice
cause a furore all too quick.
Soar high and swoop low, attack the maid.
Nudge the sleepy cook.Skip and dance
with the gardener.
They burrow the soil, feed on the worms
chase the bees, charge the squirrels
infuse life in every sphere.
A raven sweeps down clasps the crimson coloured
A stealthy cat pounces on the azure blue.
while a hound devours the olive feathered,
the golden is unscathed.
Days pass, the golden paint fades
the chicken looks royal
as he regains his white colour.
He nags, drives everyone mad.
Whistles loud. A naughty one he turns.
Meanders through the front and backyards.
Not long to be privileged
he contracts an infection.
Departs in his sleep saddening all.
It is the life journey
the man and his wife
one enhancing
the other integrating
a juxtaposition with a competence.
The man is laid back
sweet and charming
has an eye for art, while
the other watches
his spouse. Attentive not to
offer compliments.
She is dashing
talks less and means what
she says. An artist
at heart, she moves forwards
in spite of is chastisement.
Their life is not one of glory
neither one of riches nor of splendour.
It is that of grace- molecule
in the monetary direction, but,
a compliance with no misdeed.
My mother is dead.
She lies in the cot
eyes half closed,
mouth little open.
It looks she wants to talk
before she could articulate
the hands of death
hold her throat tight
the voice dies.
Red is my colour
one of brilliance
intense it is in considerations
of joy, energy and fun.
Red refers to danger
a symbolic representation
a symptom, a warning
a caution well ahead.
Red represents anger
that of a wild passion
a desolation on the anvil
resultant of irritability.
Many more allusions
of the colour follow
which demoralize
and discolour the concentration.
Red is an influence of beauty
I adore with a fascination
adds up to the wellbeing
akin to allurement.
A fish swims,
that is but natural.
A dog’s tail is bent,
nothing unusual.
A fox is cunning,
not a surprise.
Man is a compound of these,
a real-time manifestation.
Meenas Poems 