Meenas PoemsThe peacock went up the hill in search of prey.
The peahen was preparing a broth in a pot of clay.
The peacock came dancing through the gateway.
Swinging this side and that side as if in a sway.
The peahen looked at the dance.
Excited it fell into a trance.
Waking up cast a glance.
Lo! the broth was burnt beyond chance.
With children I am crazy.
I play with them brusquely..
I dance with them happily.
I jump with them wantonly.
I talk to
them sweetly.
I sleep with them lovingly.
Forgetting my age and size
I become one with them honestly.
The mighty ocean roaring sonorously
looks like a giant snoring vigorously.
The huge waves going high and low
appear like a hillock rising up and low.
The gentle ripples touching the shore
pose a picture of a mother’s loving shower.
The fierce tides dashing against the sand
bring to the mind the teacher’s strict reprimand.
White conches and colourful pebbles lying all over
provide a lustrous glow to the long stretch in a pass over.
The lovely moon and the twinkling stars shining
perch a canopy over the mighty ocean gurgling
loudly in a monotonous tone akin to bad singing. .
Death is a pang say many.
It is but sad to experience.
All men are born to die one day.
It is but true to comprehend.
Death is a great leveller in a finality.
It is but exact to relate.
The mighty, the rich, the poor go the same way.
It is but hard to believe.
Death gives freedom with absolute majority..
It is but relevant to die.
A passionate love it would sound
very much away from the usual ground.
Not similar to the much expected round
as it falls out of the familiar track in the bound.
Never does it imply a hound
as it passes on easily into the surround.
It does not makes the heart pound
nevertheless it relieves the heart from an astound.
It is a passion that abounds
with learning and wisdom profound.
.Reading is my love with a beautiful crown
that leads me to places newly found. 
An ant was going here an there.
It was going round everywhere.
It did not stop for a second anywhere.
It was busy, too busy.
It was joined by another two.
All went ahead in a queue.
Wherein? I did not have a clue.
They were busy, too busy.
The three went towards a hole.
They caught hold of a bread roll.
They tried to pull it in whole.
They were busy, too busy.
They tried and tried.
They pulled and pulled.
They got it in full and fled.
They were busy, too busy.
The little one was crying.
Was it for milk or anything else ?
Kept me wondering.
His cry slowly become a sob.
Was it for milk or anything else?
made me worrying.
It gradually gave way to a whimper.
Was it for milk or anything else?
I started thinking.
The whimper became a whining
Was it for milk or anything else?
The apprehension kept me on tip toe
as the mother walked in softly in a tip toe.
The baby’s whine became a smile in no time
The sun is grinning
as much as it could.
It is chuckling
all by itself in private.
It is laughing
with an empty guffaw in public.
It looks as though
it is jeering and mocking
at all of us under its canopy
reeling in the sweltering heat.
sweating unholy.
The days past bring memories nostalgic. 
Turning back is always symbolic.
The days of walk and run present a scenery
of speed and briskness resembling a reverie.
The years of learning and gaining knowledge
depict a planned lifestyle easy to acknowledge.
The period of raising a family and earning
puts forth a system that requires a lot of sharing.
The last days of retirement and solitude
proposes peace and tranquillity that melts down as attitude.
The garbage lies in the yard in heaps.
Carry bags of polythene make up the heap.
Unmindful of the eyesore people go about
throwing more rubbish undestr
oyable on the heap.
There emanates a foul smell from the garbage.
Mosquitoes and insects breed in millions in the garbage
infecting the people around with ghastly illness.
by attacking them along with their entourage.
However much offensive they prove
the collection seems to grow without any reprove.
The people pay no attention to civic rules.
They like to live on amidst the stench in an approve.
Meenas Poems 