Author: meenas17

 Having been away from the main
 very much into the festivities
 through weddings. to be precise.
 One or two of them work well. A score
turns me inside out,

I bunk a few, attend the rest
gazing at people, who seem
busy, walking, eating and
talking. it is fun to watch
a folly anyway when experienced,

My roving eyes circulate
without a focus, Gaiety
dominates, Colourful attires.
bejeweled necks cut and cross
the venue forming a zig zag curve.

The week passes such a way, 
 idling I spend the hours, neither
 I am an exception, as I follow
the herd to the point, draped in
 Kanjeevaram saree.

My four feet high pedestal fan
a mixture of blue and white
with buttons red, green, yellow
and black

twenty -five years of age
looks pretty clean, wiped
every day, serviced every year,

hitherto ran smoothly
with a humming noise
fussed midway

with a bustling noise
 growing audible
 as the hour advances.

Oiling would arrest
the incohesive sound
 I think.

only to find the loudness
 turning most pronounced.

Annoyed, I push t
he so long faithful fan
to a corner.

Resignation dawns
Well, if that be the case
of a 25-year-old fan

Where do I stand?

–

The mother in me surpasses
 every other portfolio.

 My boys come to my mind
 be at home or elsewhere.

They may need this, I conjure
 put efforts to bring them,

Before they ask I do most
fall short when I go out of money.

They were not too many
a handful did creep in

 enough to bring the roof down
 with shouts, screams, and exchanges.

I did resign those times
 with a heaviness.

Misty eyes marked the day

they fluttered with  unmeasurable  velocity

Tainted with blood , my
bitten lips quiver.

Brushing aside both with a smile
I resolve  to keep away from them.

Again, it is the mother in me,
 subtly surfaces.

Placing me in my original track
I forget the count as  how many times
I am back

Little did I know what people talk behind me
Little  did I care about their remarks,

That being a few years ago, I am in my mid age.
It is different all the more as I struggle to catch up  years

Each and every thing matters, some appear as a taunt,
the rest  seem to be scathing.

Being unable to move forward I stay confined to a place
 away from  scorn and jitters.

That being a retreat offering   a solace,
enabling me to prolong unfazed.

The attempts of mine are towards visualizing, 

making, matching so that they will go 

with the event, something memorable 

 related to the occasion.

Say, if it be a birthday, working out to make

 a befitting gift.

.
 Like that I go, especially, when  they are my own.
Of course as Picasso says,, I borrow, 

steal, improvise. Let me put it thus,
Something which is there, something which is not there

–

The strain I endure
the pain I undergo
stands out at every event
regretting at the moment
 forgetting a little after

.
 I  indulge  with enthusiasm
 scrutinizing every detail
 conceptualizing the incidental
 matching, adding, attributing
 a mania or a phobia, can I call? grips me
 with a tight fist, I stay imprisoned

A team of craftsmen
work with me in my pursuit
to create, to bring to reality
my dreams, I give them the outline.

 I can visualize but drawing
is not my forte, they do  with skill
send pictures, I fine tune them
marking the corrections,
patiently they redo, an online
interaction  goes for a week
They understand, I compromise
 finally we accomplish it.

 ” Here we go”.  we scream with glee
  I have not seem them nor they have

  all being worked  with applications.
  It is tension filled fun – a creation

–

Parading through my unkempt garden,
 hooting and playing  with joy
 the family with the mother on lead
 pecks and picks the worms on the way
 while the father dances atop the attic
 spreading out its colourful feathers
cooing with love, a signal  to the wife
 bidding her to come near.

Proximity, to human, animals  as well as  birds
one of man and wife, being universal,
 whatever be the age, as seen
and heard in the peacock’s  call
I am fortunate  to perceive
a  picturesque presentation
more or less a  scenically
gorgeous visual that unfolds
every morning,

The intimacy, subtle and chaste
creates a beatitude, hard
to express.  

The mind is unable to hold
 the numerous  queries

 it fails to contain
the quips and taunts

buckles when confronted
 with dubious allegations.

 It seems I am  full, too full.
with a sigh  and a cry

I confront them
with a wry smile,

moving  with a heaviness
enough to throttle.

Picking an anthology of poems
I read  with interest as the
notes  comprising of references
add charm to the memories
pump in joy and happiness,

Tucked in between the pages,
I  see a photograph of a young
girl in her teens, smiling bright
eyes emitting joy,  fair and slender
she appears an epitome
of youth.

Tossing the photo  over and over
 I look at myself, survey from top to toe
 a silver haired woman,  eyes
 expressing  fatigue,  still fair but rounded
 gaunt, haggard, cheeks drooping.
 an in between  old and middle.

Placing the book back,
 I relook the photograph,
detecting a similarity.  the smile
running through the curved
thin lips.

Neither  an optimist
nor a pessimist
 I take life as it leads.
It is my story in short

Having  obtained a fraction
of what I should have,
I live  happily, at least
outwardly.

To others, whoever it might be
 I am deemed to be a receptacle
 one that receives  with a smile
 never pours out in fury,

Contextual each incident is  at large,
 pushing me out from  the focus
 I gulp even the hardest
with grace and poise  

–