Pop, pop goes the corn
bursts into a milky corn
marinated with salt and pepper
else with a sugary syrup
the popcorn finds a welcome
kids and adults do crunch
the oldies take it with delight
a savoury snack for one and all
keeps all in a lively call
Tag: Poem
A cousin of mine
goes to the shrine
at the stroke of nine
every day before dine
as he wants to shine
become a gentleman fine
has other wishes in line
that of earn lot of dimes
write a few rhymes
the temple bell chimes
he rushes to the area prime
manages to see the aarathi in time
returns home from the shrine
I have no institutions
I do no improvisations
I have no introductions
nor do I any reductions.
I am an institute by myself
frame rules for myself
try not to break them by self
nor do I impose on others?
That is my outlook personal
might be seen not in books regional
a different thought not seasonal
do I seem rational or irrational?
Institutions begin at home
spread through, not in a roam
grow quietly like a psalm
should blossom with an aplomb.
I see a lily
dancing in the wind
looks so pretty
dazzling white it is
twinkling in the morning dew
the stalk green and thin
seem to bear her with a grin
it is a pride to hold
and a fancy to behold
such be the marvellous beauty
escapes the eyes on duty.
An Indian by birth
always full of mirth
loves languages the best
now mostly at rest
likes to go on an adventure
not one of a physical venture
but that of a mental proposition
very kind in disposition
likes not to waste much
being brought up as such
a closeted person very reserved
her memories are preserved
lives a life very different and secluded
wishes to be out in a way excluded
she lives thus in her own world
that be nothing other than words.
Categories
Appetites Grow.
It is an appetite
ravenous in spite
not only of food
that of anything good
be it a monetary profit
not one of deficit
be it a landed property
not anything derogatory
the thought to hold more
goes with a focus in core
that be of a great desire
at times, looks like an ire
the appetite never satiates
as it grows with appreciates.
Categories
My Music Teacher.
Sing with a full throat
that is all about
suppress not your voice
sing with a free choice
that was my master’s instruction
he opposed always the reduction
insisted on a fearless singing
his words still ring
as I go back to the years
when I used to be in tears
reluctant to attend his class
he never spoke anything rash
left me to engage in a play
slowly he pulled me into his sway
made me listen to the notes first
joined with him to complete the rest
He taught music in that manner
hoped, I would lift his banner
I failed to give him that satisfaction
it is too late now to extend any compensation
as he is dead and gone a decade ago
I have also gone grey in the go.
Categories
The Proposed God-man
A relative of mine
not one of blood
talks high of himself
thinks he is a God-man
predicts the events of the day
speaks of sasthras and discipline
preaches many a time with a diligence
teaches most of the time in a manner crazy
the rituals and practices in direct focus
with an authority not ordinary
actually he knows nothing in general
as he reads not anything in particular
rather knows not to read coherently
commits hundred and one mistakes
while going through the preliminary
leave alone the holy ethics
writes with glaring errors in a range
boasts of his wisdom with a pomp
smile do I seeing him talk with such splendour
a crook he is in every walk with the least tenure.
As a young girl I remember
playing with toys of timber
I had toys of Dad and Mom
named the Dad as Tom
he stood tall and straight
wore not a shirt so bright
dressed in colours somber
looked also very sober.
The mother looked so cherubic
was exuberant and very energetic
her attire was very fanciful
red and yellow checks wonderful
they were my playmates for long
I rushed to them with a song
impregnate with mirth and joy
I trotted to them rather coy
never thought them to be a toy
share with them my dilemma and plight
if I saw the real ones in sight
dashed away in a swift flight
my doll parents listened to me
shared my sorrow and glee
they still remain with me as a treasure
I return to them that being a regular feature
my own parents are dead and gone
my
foster ones would remain even after I am gone.
I
Categories
Desdemona —-Haiku
It is Desdemona
I find in every trauma
of
faithlessness drama
Meenas Poems 