Meenas PoemsA smile is a smile to me,
it is an expression of happiness,
It looks so to me,
See beyond it,say many
There would be a tinge of joy,
There would be a trace of melancholy,
it would bear an outline of anger,
it would conceal a violent temper,
it would camouflage ignorance,
it would also hide a vengeance,
If that is so, I feel,
the smile is no longer a smile.
It is just a huge stone,
It is only a shapeless stone,
It looks expressionless and prosaic,
It has a long story behind it.
It has a history unknown to many.
The faceless stone has been for centuries,
It has seen generations of men,
It has heard them talk incessantly,
It has noticed them pass uninterruptedly,
It has recorded confidential matters silently.
The stone had been lying there for ages,
It had not been cared for by one and all,
Disregarding it as lifeless stone,
Incidents took place around it.
Yet, it lies there unperturbed from time immemorial.
You could easily set aside it as a stone.
Addressing it as a pig-headed bone,
Laughing at it with disdain and contempt,
But do remember if it is turned upside,
It has a whole lot to relate that would put you to misery.
It was a birthday party,
It looked like any other party,
The child was the main party,
She did not know about the party.
The child was a frail one year old,
She was in her mother’s hold,
Looking at all with a fear untold,
She felt cramped in the hubbub cold,
Poor child! she trembled in the fold.
The gathering was excited most,
Games were for them almost,
The couples danced vibrantly to the toast,
Leaving a feeling of distaste utmost,
Oh! the poor child was ignored foremost.
The cake was cut with much fanfare,
Happy Birthday ranted high in the air.
The balloons were burst in the fare,
Raising a loud noise beyond the dare,
Oh! the poor child looked like a timid hare.
Was not the party for the child? I enquire,
Nay! it is for the adults, I hear,
Should not the children participate? I jeer,
Never! It is a boisterous revelry, very clear,
Oh! the poor child started crying in fear.
Schools are production houses akin to industries
They are into manufacturing process with diligence,
Children are spun into yarn without any thick and thin,
Then woven into weft and warp without any fault,
Finally they find their light more or less like a cloth
Schools are into intense competition,
Learning by rote is the only assumption,
Reading becomes a mere automatic application,
Writing takes the form of just copying,
Comprehension is nowhere to be found.
Children perform under pressure,
Losing their childhood in the course,
Scores usurp the central place,
Assimilation takes the back seat,
It is a mechanical mess up.
Tests and exams are predominant,
High grades are the goal of the parents,
Streams of examinations besiege the young mind,
Abandoning them into a cess pool of valuation,
Dooming them to a world of professionalism.
Each child has a liking of its own,
Each one can live his life only once,
Robbing them of their play and leisure,
Compelling them to forsake their ambition,
Is a dreaded sin than any other.
Schools with excessive achievements,
Steal the show and grab the status,
Their demands make us fall back,
The education imparted is no way fabulous,
Yet we find a long queue waiting in their gates.
Two and a half-year old has to take a test,
Parents have to attend interviews,
Those who are supposed to be in the cradle,
Come out to face the stern teachers,
The sweet smile converts itself to a loud cry.
Oh! what a cruelty the children undergo,
Where are you Blue cross and Red cross?
Taking care of animals is humanitarian,
How do you miss the plight of the toddlers?
Could you not do anything to save them?
The little one asked “What is old age?”
It is an age which tries to free from all bondage,
An age, which gets distracted from all outage,
An age, which communicates through a silent language.
As the day closes into dusk
As peace leads to an exhilaration always,
Youth enters the old
age with a grace,
Strings of grey hair are seen in a trace.
I 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.
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.
Mind you it is another day,
Not different from any day,
Mind you it is a usual wake up,
Not very different from other get ups.
Mind you it is going about the normal way,
Buying grocery at the sub way,
Holding a while in the mad traffic,
Exhausting the energy quick.
Mind you it is another page of your life,
Quickly turned reflecting the hurried strife,
It is a fresh leaf out in the lease,
Cautiously straightened for a release.
Mind you age rolls out in brisk speed,
Withering the face to a wrinkled seed,
Customs break the beauty to an antique calm,
Sagging muscles detonate the exuding charm.
Mind you life flows on like a river,
Years move on in a quiver,
Bringing cheer and sadness together,
Well, that is how another day gathers.
The wrong side of fifties is taking its toll,
Once a gentle walk is now a tottering fall
Once a strong determination is now a frailty,
Once a powerful memory is now a forgetful folly,
Once a force to reckon is now a powerless weakling,
Once a reservoir of ideas is now an empty lurking,
Once a cynosure of all eyes is now an eyesore,
Once an affable synergy is now a tough bore,
Years role out in spectacular speed,
Stealing the lovely charm indeed !
Meenas Poems 