Meenas PoemsA lover of classical Carnatic music.
An avid reader, passionate writer, into stocks and investments for livelihood
The wind blows forever
the moon basks in its glory
so does the sun shines
while the ocean roars
the river sings
as the streams flow
the mountains stand majestic
with the hillocks graceful
nature is wonderful
happy and joyful
the only eyesore
be man’s neglect
he spits and spews
draws and drives
chews and churns
his greed knows no bounds
yet he does with vigour
being the sole beneficiary
.
I am a witness
as if in oneness
I sit in quietness
just a mere witness.
I am a spectator
as if in an incubator
I watch from a perambulator
just a silent spectator.
Why am I so?
I do not know
as I notice in a row
derelictions in a flow.
If all be like me
nothing would there be
all would flee
inaction causes no glee.
Let the rest of you
leaving me out of view
rise up and speak out the due
destroy the evil in true
It is a trick
more or less a gimmick
she is a friend to all
always there in a call
that was before long
now she is away for long
does not respond at all
nor does she answers a call
she has turned a mystery
her good nature has become a history
she dodges and drives through
never in place all through
I seek and search with fervour
could find her where so ever
I give up and sit back
she came today in a slack
she was with me for a few minutes
disappeared from my hold in a minute
hopped and jumped to a place little away
showed up for a few minutes in a stay
then ran away for the day
could you recognise who she is in a way?
she is none other than rain
she has teased my brain 
The passion for writing
is like a kite
above and up it flies
never does it shies
my enthusiasm rises
it multiplies in thrice
then mounts up in four folds
the thirst I could not hold
I write like a mad
pen poems of sad
poetise joy
talk with coy
know not my structure
nor my grammar
either the syntax
without an index
that is me through and through
a soul into the blue
The smell of the soil
drove me to my patio
could see the wonderful
the clouds turned black
the breeze became cool
the sky looked dark
it was a different day
cool and pleasant
stood there fo long
until rains came
drop by drop they fell
picked up momentum
rained mildly
then heavily
It is a commitment.
without any indictment
little did I know
I would be pulled into the flow
I was not in the arena at all
somehow I was dragged by a call
I innocently fell into the trap
caught in between unable to flap
struggled hard to come out
in an ambush all throughout
fulfilled with competence
this could be an inference
Pottu or bhindi in the face
is not a mere trace
it is a staunch belief
a custom with relief
among the Hindus in all
mostly women follow the call
men do at times place it on the forehead
the kumkum shines modestly in red
a tradition of Hindu religion for long
has diffused to the minimum as if it is wrong
as modern women opt for something light
just a dot or a pinpoint very slight
almost not visible to the naked eye
why so? I ask myself in tries
Christians wear a cross around the neck
Muslims wear purdahs mostly black
not shy away from their customs to a cost
Hinduism is an ancient faith
tells us of the values infinite in straight
vow to adhere to the system in all ways
an enhancement to the religion always.
The house in itself
stands divided
most of the shelves
seem to be undivided
The apparent remains together
almost resembles a pattern
the virtual differs altogether
follows a lightless lantern.
The mind makes a hell
out of the beautiful
it builds a heaven in a tell
with a practice rueful.
So go the ironies and metaphors
with paradoxes and oxymorons
the house with all tragedies to refer
becomes a place of moan.
Nice to read.
Nice to write.
Nice to play.
Nice to eat.
Nice to cry.
Nice to laugh.
Nice to walk.
Nice to sleep.
Am I being frivolous?
Well, that is what we do in tremendous
might be a difference
some do them more
some do them less
depends on the individual
that be the way to live
with other ablutions
and most other tabulations.
There prevails a contempt.
There lies a scorn.
There exists a distraughtness
There are so many apprehensions
The life goes on without expectations
moves on with a lengthiness
difficulty whatever has to be borne
as the life is beyond a pre-empt.
Meenas Poems 