Meenas PoemsThe moon peeps through my window
as I set the head on my pillow
I stare at her devouring her beauty
she returns it with a glare pretty
the whiteness is pure without a blemish
it was a flawless hue all whitish
I lie down contemplating quietly
the moon shines lavishly
I refrain from closing the window
for fear of losing the picturesque glow
how long I was like that I do not know
could be till sleep overwhelmed me in slow.
It is a thanksgiving day
thanks to the Lord
who made them all
that of the Sun, Moon
and rain in turns
without them none could thrive
even a grass cannot survive
not talking cheap of the green blades
as they the best tolerant do fade
when these three elements fail
the farmer pays obeisance to Sun
January being the month of harvest
the clan go into a festive mood
with joy and mirth all around
singing the praise of God
paying tributes to Him
with offerings sweet and tasty
all done with a focused dedication
there is an overwhelming devotion
packed with gratitude and satisfaction
a lovely rhapsodical enrapture on the anvil.
It is a half crescent.
It looks nascent.
It tends to be stringent.
It has a status regent.
It grows with pleasure.
It wanes in measure.
It succumbs to pressure.
In a lethargic leisure.
Indeed it is a covetous treasure.
Every fortnight it grows in size.
Every other fortnight it demurely lies.
Its expansion has a phenomenal rise.
Its contraction has defeated ties.
Irresistbly it has a fascinating prize.
It shines in the night.
Emitting a cool light.
Expressing no flight.
Empowering a rational plight.
Indeed it delivers a lovely sight.
Does it not exhibit an analogue?
Does it not record a dialogue?
Does it not appear as a prologue?
Does it not sound like an epilogue?
Curiously it is not in thetreasure, leisure, ressure, pleasure, sight, catalogue.
Meenas Poems 