Meenas Poems
Music flows like an unruffled wavePains are so many,
They may seem uncanny
To talk about them,
Is worth a penny.
The head wails and reels
While it suddenly feels
A shooting and splitting ache,
Through the routine deals.
The eyes prick and burn
In the fiery terrible sun,
As it experiences a bloody irritation,
Enduring a stress laden reddish run.
The nose locks,
In the biting wintry stocks,
As it catches an infection,
Causing a severe terrific nasal block.
The neck sprains,
In a tough ordeal drain,
Going through a stiff position
Proceeding with an unbearable strain.
The heart slows on
As the pulse falls down,
While it fails to pump blood ,
Leading to a total break down.
The intestines mourn
With a deficit born
Succumbing to a pernicious virus
Caving into a hazardous zone.
The hands fumble
In a shameful tumble,
As they stabilize a paralytic move,
Wishing for a therapeutic preamble.
The legs sob and weep,
As they stumble steep,
With a stifling difficult pain,
Tracing into intermittent peep.
The incessant intolerable aches,
Throughout the systematic stakes,
Cause an impromptu intricate strain
That torments and devastates all makes.
The mind in itself
Carries a heavy load,
That no air bus,
Nor Super fast trains,
Or the gigantic ships,
Take along with them,
On the air,
Across the country,
Over the seas.
The mind in itself,
Holds a package,
That no flights give out,
No railway lines promise,
Or Shipping companies put forth,
Offering a promotional fare,
Charting a discount tour,
Inviting a luxurious cruise.
The mind in itself,,
Levies a bondage,
As it has a soft luggage,
Of happy thoughts,.
Of delighted workings,
Also drag a hard side luggage,
Of evil thinking,
Of devilish strategies,
Balancing each other .
The mind in itself .
Appears like a melting pot,
Blending and fusing races,
As it rejoices and rebuilds,
On one side,
It fumes and froths .
On the other,
As the pot boils with fumes,
The mind triggers with force.
The mind in itself,
Can make a heaven of hell,
As the famous bard puts it,
It also can make,
Virtue into vice,
Beauty into ugly,
Sanity into insanity
Cause its capacity,
Is worth an infinity.
Tweeting all the way,
Down its causeway,
The little sparrow,
Sits on my window.
I go about my way,
Addressing my routine pay,
While the sparrow,
Flutters at the window,
I attend to the call,
Of a distinct claim tall,
As the sparrow,
Chirps from my window.
I move around the house,
Taking time to browse,
When the sparrow,
Perches above the window.
I finish up my chores,
Then close all my doors,
At once the sparrow,
Whistles across the window.
I take a short nap,
From the rigorous lap,
Inching the sparrow,
Cackles from the window.
Only now I barely see
This tiny lovely wee,
Longingly the sparrow,
Bids adieu from the window
Compiling the run,
Of smiths on a roll.
Listing in a scroll.
Starting with dazzling goldsmiths,
Crossing the shiny silversmiths,
Down to the durable copper smiths .
A conjugation of all fine smiths.
Renewing 
with decorative pewtersmith,
Reaching the strong ironsmiths,
Finally to the basic blacksmiths.
A congregation of all metalsmiths
Locking up with wordsmiths ,
Hanging on to tunesmiths,
Hovering over playsmiths,
A jumble of all abstract smiths
The suffix smiths ,
Carry on a kith
Of specialized craft,
And ornamental draft.
Suffix Smith is a forerunner,
To the modern prefix doctor,
It is an archaic creative,
Befitting the new derivative.
All smiths make things fine,
To earn and gain,
A skilful profession,
Which demands neat execution.
Do we find many more smiths?
Since the tabulation is a myth,
As I missed the most practical smiths,
That of gunsmith and locksmith
The night was sombre and still,
It was a dark and dreary fill.
No stars to twinkle and thrill,
Bereft of special delight and frill.
The house was in a deep silence,
Everyone was asleep by preference,
There was no possible reference,
But there existed a plausible observance .
Disquieting the sullen eloquence,
A shrill ring triggered from a distance,
Awakening the household in deference,
Jolting everyone to incoherence.
Fumbling I make it to the phone,
Tumbling I respond in a subdued tone,
To a shrill voice strange and unknown,
While the caller dropped the receiver down.
Cursing the unfamiliar voice,
I go back without a choice,
To my bed with no rejoice,
Seeking a fresh and delicate 
invoice.
Not for crowning,
Numbers are for Maths,
Not for tax,
Numbers are for identity,
Not for entity,
Certain numbers beckon the flock
But eight sucks,
As many dread its pluck,
Because it brings bad luck,
Oh! it is a mere superstitious buck.
Number Eight is propitious to Chinese,
As it is in their Cantonese,
A gorgeous appease,
Signifying prosperity and peace,
Carrying with it wisdom and release.
What does eight propound?
It is but another sound,
That is dressed up as a hound,
Extricating a deliberate impound,
That of a curious found.
Imagine the order without eight,
It makes an odd bite,
Leaving a void right,
Interpreting an imbalance straight,
Voicing a bill incorrect.
Oh! It is up to all of us
To consider Eight as an octopus,
And accept it as a plus,
That evolves a gleeful buzz,
Reaping a meritorious crush
.
Revolutions are so many,
Which break the thicket dreary
By committing deeds bloody,
By insinuating speeches fiery,
Resulting in deadly eventuality.
The Yellow metal soberly,
Has turned the stones briskly,
By rising gradually ,
To shoot up suddenly,
In a buzzing move graphically,
To an unassuming level sporadically.
Revolutions have an end,
As they have a set trend,
Which is exhibited in a brand,
Of high vibrancy and demand,
While slowly the tension disbands,
Settling to a subdued strand
Will the same behaviour be seen?
In the golden sheen.
Which emits an opulence clean,
Leading to a grand mean,
Masquerading a royal queen,
Resigning to a modest lean.
Today it races ahead,
Tomorrow it will behead,
But the thirst will spearhead ,
A demanding price spread ,
Soliciting a tumultuous thread,
That of an imposing surge dread
In a land of racial bias,
In a place of economic malaise,
In a sequence of physical violence,
In a circumstance of mental disgrace,
Where the world is in turmoil,
While the nations remain unbalanced,
Where the universe is in a grip of turbulence,
While the countries slip into a devastation,
As the people target each other,
Creating a pandemonium of ill will,
As the men delve deep into animosities,
Opening the box of Pandora,
Letting out a swarm of bees,
Bustling with chagrin and vengeance,
Buzzing in a shrill crackling intensity,
Spreading distress and fear,
Implanting desire and greed,
Implicating evil and misery,
As they involve in a manipulation,
Of cruelty and atrocity,
Evolving a disarming scenario.
An expectation of resurrection,
From the bondage of satanic hold,
Keeps the troubled soil,
In a note of consolation,
Lifting the head towards the sky,
Focusing the eyes on the glide,
Expressing a sombre serenity,,
Espying the gradual descent ,
Of the redeeming Messiah.
Will he save the mass?
Will he discharge justice class?
Will he deliver peace fast?
Will he ? Will he?
Cries the grieving heart,
Wishing 
a transcendence straight.
I recall the golden hours
When I was caressed by you
I retrospect the days,
When I was reprimanded by you
I think about the years,
When I felt close to you
I recollect the period,
When I was scoffed by you
I recapture the events,
When I was blessed by you,
I restructure the anecdotes ,
When I was ejected by you.
I saw the two sides of you,
The good in my younger days,
The bad in my older years.
Let the affection be a dream,
Let the friction be an illusion.
I remember your unfathomable love alone,
I retrace your cherished thoughts alone,
I renew your graceful behests alone.
Which have made me ,
What I am today,
Which has given me the tenacity,
That I carry with pride..
Which has endowed me with acumen,
That aids me in my progress,
It is an inheritance,
That none can deny me.
I hear your firm voice
Bidding me to work hard,
I visualise your stern eyes,
Commanding me to talk less,
I feel your strong presence,
Ordering me to do more.
I see in your astounding execution,
Great skill and talent,
Which you have passed on to me,
Which none could grab or plunder.
Yet , you in course of years,
Fell down from your elite status,
Of comfort and luxury,
Tumbled down from your citadel,
Of fame and name.
While ,I stood watching your ignominy,
Helpless but in profound grief.
.
Ma, What went wrong ?
I failed to ask you,
When you were alive.
I tried many a time,
But I never got a chance,
As you were not yourself,
In your last years,
A mere helpless puppet,
In the hands of many,
Who came not from your tribe,
But from a disaster zone,
Robbed you of your pluck,
Deprived you of your luck,
You knowingly or unknowingly,
Became a weakling,
Both in mind and body,
All at the same time,
Which pushed you to
oblivion,
Never to catch the glory,
Which was yours in prime.
Oh! my dear mother,
Rest you in the grave,
Like a poor lamb,
Helpless and ignorant.
I still remember you mother,
Not as a lamb,
But as a Lady,
Highly talented and competent.
Let me live ,
With that precious memories alone
It was a real fun,
Numbers are for counting,
Meenas Poems 