Meenas PoemsThe morning calls so often
makes me jittery
with eyes half open
get up hastily
stretch the hands lazily
pick up with a reluctance
speak with no indulgence
whoever it might be
having lost the glee
the sleep early in the morning
and a wake up with a yawning
keeps me in cheer the whole day
lost now by this untimely call.
untimeliness in any way
provokes a fury all day.
The phone rings continuously
know not from when really
goes on without a break
not enough to shake
I sit there like a stone
as if without a bone
Why did I not answer?
I am not very sure
This happens not once
takes place with a bounce
Why do I act so quixotic?
Could I be a mystic?
I do dream a lot
and mostly get caught
I live in a reverie of my own
nothing to do with mysticism in tone.
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I get a phone call every morn from a far away land across the seas I eagerly wait for the call moving nowhere as the caller speaks so loving and beautiful
Answering each of my questions with a grin and giggle his voice goes up and down like a song holding a frequency attuned to the replies.
He talks with an attitude mature listening keenly to my words responding appropriately to them with a melodious tone and cheer.
He could well understand my language never once he put a question forward I could make out very little of his answers which came out with a spontaneity straight.
Curious to know who it would be you would have by now started to deliberate let me reveal his identity in a way that you could comprehend and admire.
The caller being none other than my cute toddler just one and half years old learning to speak talks he in a language of his own which I, half a century and more, fail to decipher.
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The morning was pleasant
With the newspapers in one hand
and with a phone on the other hand
woke up to the world’s call
of news from all parts to read
of information from the family to heed.
The time for breakfast was moving on
with nothing in way of preparation.
ran to the kitchen dry
to work on a dish of deep fry
which came out with a fine taste
sat down to eat it with no haste
winding up with a cup of hot tea
Meenas Poems 