Meenas PoemsMercury is at the summit, 47.3 C
felt as if placed in a kiln,
Sydney burns 7/January/2018.
The temperature dips,
below -22 C.Toronto freezes
28/December/2017.
The cold snap in Toronto,
the sweltering heat in Sydney
announce with significance,
the vagaries of Nature,
an outcome of man’s greed.
It is time to recall.
Twenty-five years of life
in a segmented hall,
the remaining twenty years
in the car, has been
the way of life of whom?
curious to know,
call the protagonist as Meera.
Sharing is an understanding,
Meera went through without jolts.
She is trapped, encounters hardships
all with a smile of sadness.
The next twenty years she is in the moving car
initially an adventure, but as the body and the mind
grows old, it is a task unable to endure.
Meera becomes a butt of taunt and tease
she bears with enormous stoicism
These have made her firm and strong
much to the chagrin of her detractors.
defy and denounce myself.
Am I alone?
I contemplate.
Once I decide,
I act on the spot.
Have I committed?
Is it appropriate?
if gone awry,
How mserable I will feel?
The dilemma nags me,
I am troubled.
It turns out a stellar performance.I rejoice.
The concerns are unnecessary
Yet I undergo the plight .
The exchange of garlands,
the change of rings,
go to make man and wife.
The sacred fire is lighted,
the couple go round thrice
with hands joined in a red sash.
The Purohits, chant the slokas,
invokes the divine to bless. the married.
In the altar,
the man takes the oath
on the Bible,
The woman repeats.
The Bishop solemenises
the choir sings.”Hail, to thee, Oh Lord”.
So does every faith,
affirms before Gods,the bride and the bridegroom
vow to remain together
all through the life.
How many continue ?
Hymns, fire, Bible and evidences
are forgotten. Separation
untangles the knots.
The dresses hang out in the garden.
Intermittent showers make them wet.
Left them as they are damp.
The rain pours non stop.
I watch them from my courtyard,
water drips from them.
Fearing heavy down pour I collect them.
Dry them in the closed veranda.
I lock my backyard to find the Sun shining.
My efforts turn vain.
Does it happen to me alone?
I deliberate.
The year commences with showers.
The downpour is through the day.
Could be a symbolic premonition,
the year will be one of plethora.
Resourceful and prosperous
it is going to be.
A great year ahead!
Hope sustains us.
The year bundles.
how fast it has been?
I wonder.
2017, as it departs,
makes way to the next one,
might be in a few hours
in the regions, I live.
Birth is an ordeal, an effort
to both mother and child.
A cry records the entrance.
The labour of 2017 identified
in the privileges and deficiencies,
achievements and failures
wrap with a grace.
2018, with a cherubic smile,
greets us to another period,
one of hopes, that of glory,
while expectations soar.
This is an anthem, a requisition
to my friends, strive to make
peace and contentment
rule the world. Think not of
contests and fights.
Smile, the world will be yours.
An outbreak of red,
a sight unfolding,
where the hibiscus
turns riotous.
Scores of flowers
crimson blossoms,
the lengthy stigma
dense with pollens.
The misty dawn
not bright,
yet not grey,
allows the sun to play.
The leafy stalks bow,
inadequate to bear the fecundity,
as if in obeisance to the earth,
professes a modesty untold.
Learn from this virtual glory
Man is no match to Nature,
either in benevolence
or in perseverance.
Had to spend fifteen days
in my native village
being so after two decades.
The hamlet is as modest as ever
with festivals and weddings.
The stay twenty years back is significant
for the good or the bad
both in the style of living and food.
The milk vendor, Palani, rings the bell.
Supplies milk at dawn.
when boiled turns watery
retains the colour lacks taste.
Twenty years older,Palani
delivers creamy milk at the door,
these fifteen days.
The milk is delicious. A sip is fulfilling,
extends an aroma distinct to the Kanagayem cows.
The vegetables look green and wholesome.
Brinjals, spinach and gourds glimmer.
Love to eat the curries.
Earlier they were withered and contorted, l
ifeless, tasted insipid.
I felt hungry often those days,
while I am contented at present.
The vendor, the grocer, the place
and I are not different, but older.
Any scheme in the background?
Few numbers short of a hundred,
the barest minimum to go.
I answer with fear.
The last leg makes me nervous,
know not the reason
find myself not too confident.
I enocunter with trepidation.
My hands quiver.
I slid them into my pockets.
I have crossed 99 mark.
One more to achieve. I hear the
heartbeats. The final.
I come out with the correct answer.
It is a win. Reached hundred.
My eyes well with tears of joy.
Meenas Poems 