Meenas PoemsCalling it peanuts
gives a tone of jeer
It is nuts
also reflects the sneer.
Why this attribution ?
Makes me wonder
feeling it is not a distribution
that keeps them asunder.
It is then why I reflect
nothing gets deflected
As I go on thinking this
I get too many denials in the list.
To keep my mind off
I have to resort to a break
in the form of a sleep off
maintained in the track. 
Pretensions get the better of life.
Pretexts go along with the strife.
Well, that is generally life.
Apprehensions rob the best part of life.
Anxiety dissects the major part of strife.
Well, that is invariably life.
Distinctions crawl amidst the delicate life.
Desire annihilates the valiant strife.
Well, that is incidentally life.
Ingratitude plucks the lovely part of life.
Inertia destroys the strenuous strife.
Well, that is inimitably life.
Jealousy eats up the major part of life.
Jeering kills the sincere strife.
Well, that is significantly life.
Vengeance corrupts the entire life.
Vicious condemns the velocity of strife.
Well, that is inadvertently life.
Years roll up to complete the cycle of life.
Yearnings move up to conclude the endless strife.
Well, that brings to the fag-end of life.
A bout of anger empowered her
It nearly paralysed her.
The nerves rolled up violently.
Delirium seized her vigorously.
Damn it! she shouted as loud as she could.
She swears and curses as much as she could.
She stutters and mumbles as long as I could.
She staggers out as slow as she could.
She sees a circle of fire around her.
It is burning high encircling her.
It is not the real fire that holds her.
It is the heaving and sighing that kills her.
Yet, she is not reigning aplomb and high
She is struggling to make ends meet with a try.
She lives away from gossip and schemes almost shy.
Her manifestations and gestures perch her above sky.
Is it wrong to live with pride? she quoth.
Is it a sin to detach from the crowd? she loathes.
Is it treason to survive within means? she froths.
Nay not, my child, live as righteously as you could, I console.
The world finds happiness in jeering the noble.
It mocks at the efforts of the able.
How are we going to label?
The provocations make us unstable.
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.
Meenas Poems 