Meenas PoemsThere was a squeak at the door.
It was a bird at the door.
It pecked on the door.
It was a rap. rapping on the door.
The noise, then slowed down to the core.
It looked strange more and more.
The bird stopped tapping at the door.
It moved away from the door.
It then rose up in a soar.
It flew high up in the fore.
It looked familiar more and more.
Not for crowning,
Numbers are for Maths,
Not for tax,
Numbers are for identity,
Not for entity,
Certain numbers beckon the flock
But eight sucks,
As many dread its pluck,
Because it brings bad luck,
Oh! it is a mere superstitious buck.
Number Eight is propitious to Chinese,
As it is in their Cantonese,
A gorgeous appease,
Signifying prosperity and peace,
Carrying with it wisdom and release.
What does eight propound?
It is but another sound,
That is dressed up as a hound,
Extricating a deliberate impound,
That of a curious found.
Imagine the order without eight,
It makes an odd bite,
Leaving a void right,
Interpreting an imbalance straight,
Voicing a bill incorrect.
Oh! It is up to all of us
To consider Eight as an octopus,
And accept it as a plus,
That evolves a gleeful buzz,
Reaping a meritorious crush
.
Crossing the road ,
on a wintry morn,
I hit a passer-by,
Who asked
Is it you?
Getting into a train,
On a sultry day,
I knocked a fellow,
Who asked,
Is it you?
Boarding a flight,
on a starry night,
I stumbled on a crew,
who asked ,
Is it you?
Breathing out of life,
I tread my way,
meeting none,
To ask,
It is you!
Numbers are for counting,
Meenas Poems 