Meenas PoemsThe theme of a meet,
Revolves round greet,
Which evolves a beat
Of a loving treat.
The concept of a meet,
Includes a feat,
Which enhances a fleet,
Of a friendly tweet.
The purpose of a meet,
Involves a heat,
Which emanates a zeal,
Of a thoughtful heal.
The promotion of a meet,
Points to a seat,
Indulging in a gregarious confluence,
Of a thriving effluence.
Meets are for a reunion,
They are not for a rebellion,
Meets are for rejuvenation
That focus on an absolute restoration.
Living in a world of digression,
Amidst a community of diffusion,
Along with the events of intervention,
Creates a terrible frustration.
Facing such enormous discriminations,
Coping with such tedious implications,
Leaves a tired complacency,
Implying a definite emergency.
Indulging in a simple adjustment,
Involving a considerable refinement,
Levies a strange competency,
Manifesting a fine decency.
The art of reconciliation,
Is but a difficult classification,
Yet to honour its qualitative existence,
Is naturally a grand acceptance.
Walked out of a crowded train,
Into a still more populated strain,
Edging through the sea of humanity,
Negotiating along the busy insanity,
Made way to the less treaded path ,
Which meandered into a narrow lane,
That led to a sprawling land space,
Much away from the dense base,
Where huge trees bow with grace,
Where lovely hedges greet with love,
Where pretty flowers dance with joy,
While there triggers a sense of peace,
Rejuvenated by a whiff of fresh air.
Imagination has its charm,
As it is the seed of many forms,
Poesy is its spontaneous flow,
Drama is its lively show,
Prose is the easiest in the row,
The mind in itself draws,
A fine stroke of clause,
Relating to an
unseeming thought,
Yet attached to a fancy bought
That of a Space police.
The coinage sounds startling,
But makes a study interesting ,
Framed by a six-year-old,
Whose enumeration is like gold,
Keeping the listener in fold.
Week in and week out,
He talks about,
The patrolling in space,
Which leads to a race,
Of catching the robbers.
It sets me to wonder,
It makes me ponder,
Is not the space away from,
Greed, cheat and lust?
Nay ,not at all , grandma ,
Cries my” Little Nanda.”
Certainly, creativity has the rarest glow.
Rolling back the days,
Back into the old class
Rejoicing the mischievous plays
Gives a ceremonious flash.
Down I go to the class room
Visualising the kids enter
With a curious gloom,
Waiting for a quick exit.
Sauntering into the playground,
I see a merry-go-round,
Which held us altogether
In an intimate tether.
Standing on the portals,
Glancing through the totals,
Renders a feeling pleasant,
Registers a thought decent.
My heart goes to you,
Since my thoughts are from you
I am bound to you my dear,
For what I am in the near.
My home is a structure concrete,
Full of vibrations discreet,
Bubbling with lively sprite,
Lying in an exclusive bright.
It looks like a dumb building
But holds within it dainty feeling,
Each door gives out a clue,
Each window opens out to the blue.
It appears as a sullen house,
But has a majestic pose,
As each brick sings a refrain,
While each stone chants a bargain.
It seems a little old,
But emanates a spirit bold,
As each plant waves merrily,
While each tree dances happily.
Quietness is its essence,
Grand is its magnificence,
Inimitable is its form,
Enchanting is its charm.
My home ,sweet home,
I cherish you all the same,
I wish all the more.
To be with you further more.
Looking up towards the sky,
We see a shining spy,
Glistening like a fry,
Squeezing the eyes in a pry,
We get a glimpse of a try,
Which may be an elusive lie,
But very much a tangible wry,
Through a scorched thicket dry
Over a credential sigh,
Acquiring with a hope alive,
The treasured olive
Which is far beyond,
Very much beyond ,
The normal rejoin.
The peep into the beyond,
Is a distinct seeking,
Which is really cracking,
Which is truly unnerving,
But mostly ruminating.
A sail into the far off,
Is a search daring ,
That is mainly rocking,
That is merely entwining,
But wholly navigating.
A flight over the high sky,
Is a venture exciting,
Which is firmly tiring.
Which is closely eluding,
But reliably introspective.
So a peep into the beyond,
Also a sail into the far off,
More so a flight over the high sky,
Ever so an invincible try,
Always is an enigmatic round off.
All times Man made weapons,
The bow and arrow of yore,
The spear and shield of the medieval,
The tanks and bombs of the modern,
Forge on an enmity,
Mostly for power,
More so for greed,
Little for competition,
Casting a bloodshed,
Creating untold misery,
Making unsound frenzy,
Causing death,
The panic thus unleashed,
Lets one cry,
Lets one sob,
Lets one query,
What is all this for?
Creativity should be applauded.
With definite encumbrance,
Should it focus on welfare,
Well and good,
If it is towards destruction,
Never and not at all.
As there are many things beyond,
Power, wealth and competition.
There are other quiet things,
Not much thought of,
But most honourable,
They are Love and tranquillity.
The assigned task is done
The result is still not known,
The fret undergone,
Preserves a sluggish tone.
Have emptied the whole energy,
Have put the entire effort,
Have slogged to attain a synergy,
So expect a full fledged support
What would be the development.
How will it be rendered?
Will it be a fulfillment?
Is it not a perplexing perception?
Meenas Poems 