Author: meenas17

The third of the second month
one  to remember
at least for me
the day when I shared
the yoke of marriage.

Been doing so 
for not one year
 but for forty seven years 
tirelessly  but with a diligence,
going forth and back steadily
with and without complaints.

Major part of my years
distributed between 
toil and foil, expected
and unexpected.
negatives surpass
almost every time.

Negotiating, moving
 escaping, caught in between
 all happen with a striking force
I look back, while my lips quiver
 eyes turn moist, heart feels heavy.
as the forty seventh year dawns.

 My friend’s birthday, 
 friend of long time,
one from childhood.

 While thinking of a way 
to wish one who lives 
thousand miles away.

recall the schooldays 
 when we used to sing 
Happy Birthday.

 The birthday girl
stood on the dais’
wearing a new dress.

 face gleaming with joy
as we sing 
Happy Birthday To You.
———————
May God bless you!

We stand excited 
anxious to receive 
the chocolates.

Good old days!
keep coming back 
 and light up 

the otherwise 
dull life with 
glee and cheer.

It is a diary. 
It is a record.
Not one to be
called a poem.

It is devoid of imagery
Relating is not a poem.
So on and so forth 
 go the definition.

Poetry is a feeling.
 not an exercise, I feel
Spontaneity being the base
 expression of the intrinsic

frames the body
 a lovely play of words
intensifies the senses 
a flower blossoms.

 It is called a poem.  My take 
on versification might sound
absurd, might seem frivolous 
likely to be condemned.

At times I feel
 I am the only one 
in the world
and go about 
as if I am supreme.

At times I behave 
 as if I am at the top
 of the world
and get along 
with head held high.

At times  I think
I know everything
under the sun
 and compare myself
to Solomon The Great.

Most times I am 
 as  naive as one 
can be, a simpleton 
 to the core.

It is true that most of us
 like me  know nothing 
as wisdom is one thing
very much inaccessible.

Three little sparrows 
 fly away from the bush
as I go near,

Tweeting incessantly they
 seem to drive me from 
the place.

I stay a little while
 they grow fidgety 
 harp as loud as they can.

I like to play the game 
remaining  in their vicinity 
to test their patience.

They fly high and low 
flutter and falter
in circumambulation.

I stop my game and 
retreat finding  them
 sailing towards the bush.

They bury their heads  
into the bush. What for?
I watch them from afar.

Hearing  the whimper of the 
little ones, just hatched,
 tender and nascent  

What a sight ! so to say.
The mother and the babes
 nestling and nudging.

Which way Meera turns
she encounters hassles.
Having been stoic
so long, feel she cannot
be so anymore.

“I give up” she cries
a whimper bursts
from the depth
of the heart.

It is turning unbearable
she who preaches
patience and tolerance,
is now at wit’s end.

There has to be an end.
That has to come soon.
Meera waits for that day
with glistening eyes.

 I see people,  Those looking 
happy and gossiping
Wearing outfits 
 bright and shining.

Diamonds sparkle 
around their neck,
they dazzle from the nose,
 emit a shine from the wrist.

Lights go up with a glory
Bustle overwhelms in joy.
Delicious is the lunch.
A great gathering.

 where chatter and banter
 exceed. A sight so impressive
 being one seen after a pause.
It is encouraging  to perceive

such celebrations,  Cheer 
should sustain,  fear 
should decimate,
 an expectation  reasonable.

As destined that which are born
 ought to die, so do the 
 misery and mishap, They 
will die a death, an eventuality 
hard to erase from memory, 

Between the two
I do not know
what to choose.

Looking at both
I am fascinated
like to have them.

Checking my purse
I cannot afford
to buy both.

[i]Which one? Which one?
[/i]

I go on asking, unable
to decide.

I try lots to resolve,
a compromise, makes
me confused.

No, I tell myself
do not let one go
both are beautiful.

This way, i cross myself
dilemma strikes me.
hurts, turns me helpless.

[i]”if at all I have the money”
[/i]

I think aloud, but lo! I cry
[i][ I do not have,/i]

I resolve not buy them.
being poor is not
my fault, anyway.

Going through the day
with its sighs and murmurs
groans and grunts, I slip
into a semi conscious state.

I look as if I am drunk,
my drowsy eyes give out
the wobbling walk reveals
a mistaken stature.

God promise, we as children
used to scream in our days
like wise I swear I am not drunk
I have not seen a liquor bottle.

Yelling I sink. None to hold me
I tumble on the bed. The pillows
receive me with a hug. Holding them
I lose myself , am fast asleep.

A lovely embrace nurses me
back to normal. Where could it be from?
I wonder, it is from within, I know
the will to conquer resurrects me.

The seven colours
 make the rainbow.
 Vibgyor, an abbreviation 
 for violet, indigo, blue,
green, yellow and orange.

The sky in its peripheral  
at times turns coy  like a bride 
whose face turns pink, pale red 
 mean the twilight  
that trickles at dusk.

It  turns fiery 
 like an angry lion
whose eyes emit 
an orangish hue almost
 felt in an hot afternoon.

Yellow being that of gold 
 brings  prosperity 
and wealth, that of t
he  Sun, a bounteous giver,
enrichens  the azure sky.

Where do I see green?
It is in nature , the pastures,
trees, the  mountains
charge the environment 
with an exuberance.

Ocean is blue,
so is the sky, blue 
juxtaposes the extremes
performing a balancing 
ballet, an entertainment.

There walks the lethargic 
indigo, unmindful of those
 that surround. A sleepy
disposition do what you may,
 I live as I wish!

Finally, the sedentary
violet appears, going 
in the reverse, inducing 
an unconsciousness 
where  rest is pivotal.