The Churned Butter!
Churning the yogurt to separate the butter,
With hand held robe attached with a plunger,
Or hold the plunger between two palms and twist,
The affinity between water and the fat breaks,
Fat molecules escape as a great victory to gather,
Start to float on the surface of the curd, whiter,
Fluffy as the cotton candy, has to be pressed,
To remove the water, the lumps of butter churned,
The fragrance is better than any butter in the shelves,
Dip the fritters or steamed cakes into it to savor,
The memory of younger days blooms as young shower,
We may have more than enough to buy and taste,
But the first taste of anything, that sticks to the mind.
Churning the societal curd to extract the cream of people,
Some countries still use the plunger toil hard to get little,
The others use the mechanized system to mass produce,
what others do in the pots in every house hold,
economy of a country depends upon the administration,
how we administer our own brains and resources,
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poem by Veeraiyah Subbulakshmi
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A spirit and them.
She was cute, energetic and young,
possessed by the spirit and she sang,
The same old movie song that her dead lover liked,
Every new moon day she become irked,
Sparkling eyes of her twinkled in the starless nights,
Talked like a man and ate like a man,
She used to sing the famous Tamil song,
‘On the banks of the lake,
A lady walks,
Lady Peahen, please stop,
Let us talk and walk together'
While the head of the nuns,
Who was a good, evil spirit chaser,
Was busy with the holy cross and holy water,
Our friend continued to sing and clatter,
and the nun forced her to hold the holy cross,
And sprinkled the holy water on her head,
The girl never stopped singing and smiling,
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poem by Veeraiyah Subbulakshmi
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Coffee and the poor economies of the world.
Respect the sweat of human,
Irrespective of color, creed and religion,
One third of tap water is used to brew the coffee,
Procured two to five dollars per kilo in whole sale,
Starbucks sell two pound a cup in the stalls in UK,
Have spacious restaurants in our regions
converting UK pounds to our pitiful denomination,
Americana, Cappuccino, Mocha and Espresso,
Fancy name attached with degree of roasting,
Fermentation, with milk, without milk and bubbles,
Come to our countries, freshly roasted filter coffee,
Available on the road sides for five rupees a cup,
Cup size of less than 50 ml, just to moisten the throat,
Even the Cups of developed nations, fivefold our size,
Still it is only 25 rupees, equivalent to fifty cents,
We are the poor people; give us the fair price,
Coffee is the third liquid, after petroleum, on the market,
Out of one kilo coffee powder,100 cups can be brewed,
R&D, Oil rigs, Oil platforms, expensive engineers and workmen,
Billions of dollar investment, still one liter petrol costs 140 pence,
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poem by Veeraiyah Subbulakshmi
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Cleaning Rituals Of Clever Men
Even before the discovery of wash lets,
from the land of rising sun in the east,
Even before the invention of washrooms,
from the land of congested petty nations,
Even before the construction of squatting,
holes and the adjacent storage compartments,
There were people who discharged in the buckets,
in the palace of Buckingham.
Workers collected one pound for a bucket,
Masters sprayed the new perfume distilled.
Ladies of London had taken their clothes,
to wash in the streams and rivers,
across the town a century ago,
that the people,
from the kampung of Indonesia do
until today.
Village ladies from India,
take the sombhu early morning,
to empty their bowels before sun rise.
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poem by Veeraiyah Subbulakshmi
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Polluted rivers around the world!
When the melting at the mountainous hearts,
Pass through the streams of tributaries a lot,
Merge at that elevation for the rivers to form,
Though have the comfortable bed and the banks,
Still it likes to run from the origin to the mouth,
Where the fine sediments are left in deltas,
The million year's journey is halted with pollutants,
Nitrogen in the Mississippi, acids in the King's,
Benzene in the Songhua, waste of civilizations,
In the rivers of Citarum, Yamuna, Buriganga,
Ganges, Marilao and yellow. Who has taught,
To throw the waste into the water system,
As long as the rubbish heavy and can't float,
It can comfortably settle and rest,
At the beds for thousand years,
Secrets of evolution hidden under the water,
But no secrets can be hidden forever,
When pollutants affect the health of livings,
Waste Management is another field of study,
That does not teach to dump the sewer into the steam,
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poem by Veeraiyah Subbulakshmi
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Imported Goods At Our Ports And Us
Major two ports, through which we import,
All necessary fuels and nutrients to burn and support,
Gaseous exchange done at one, an element and a compound,
When puffing and sniffing, hundreds of poison prelude,
Confusion at the air bags and the capillaries surrounded.
Fixed deposited tar certainly produces interests,
The budded swelling may bloom into cancerous flowers,
Nectar from these may make us cough persistent,
When we do the ‘work', we may gasp for air,
These gasping and wheezing may chase away the partner.
Offspring born are unhealthy, as the sperm is deformed,
With the head and tail and the uterus becomes a dungeon,
Not a proper place for fetal growth and the vengeance,
Of insufficiency shown in the deviant behavior when born,
The unpolluted port will circulate the fluid of good fuel.
Another port does the work of absorption of ingested materials,
anything excess is not good, strain the pump and the filters,
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poem by Veeraiyah Subbulakshmi
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A book.
Shelves of books with variant topics:
Medicine, Engineering and comics,
Languages, Management and Marketing,
Tourism, Text books and Computing,
House hold, Carpentry and plumbing,
Trucks, Driving and operating.
Must choose one to taste,
Read regularly to last,
A full term of life and love,
Nourish it with the dose of care,
Can buy it from the stores,
That sells New, second hand and old,
When the new book is bought,
The smell itself fresh and great,
To remember for the life throughout,
Keep it as a Holy book and enjoy,
When the used books are purchased,
Rarely used books, never opened,
A few half read and half left,
A few stained and battered,
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poem by Veeraiyah Subbulakshmi
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Are We Mute To Say No To War?
Wake up from the slumber,
The people in the lumber,
Nations with scramblers,
Nations with simple tumblers.
Tell them no need comfort,
Tell them no need placate,
Tell them you live simple life,
Tell them, you not vote them out.
Fear in the ruler's hearts,
Not the enemy's might,
The might of their own people sort,
That can trample and kill them apart.
Tell your politicians that you want nothing,
Convey your leaders that they are safe,
Not threaten the politicians with your fingers,
For them to sign the war agreement.
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poem by Veeraiyah Subbulakshmi
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The Day You Started To Walk
Baby, When you were eight months old,
you were thin and enterprising,
liked to know about everything,
that were kept at heights and locked,
you crawled for a month all around,
and picked up anything from the ground,
so we made our home 'baby safe'
you did like to crawl up the stairs,
first head in front and then turned,
tried to crawl back in the stairs,
so I taught you,
to climb up step by step,
when I checked you, you reached the top,
with much ease and valiant,
made noise from the top to carry you down.
Do you remember the day,
that you started to walk?
I still remember you standing up,
At first it was very tough for you,
to carry your own weight on your feet,
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poem by Veeraiyah Subbulakshmi
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Stop Acting! We Have Issues To Address!
More than hundred million of our people,
Live in luxury. The luxury you can't find in any castle,
Of a European country, as the labor law is strict there,
Here in my father's land India, abused are our workers,
Who can work nonstop for the peanut salaries and old clothes,
Modern day slaves bend their heads to the floor,
Most of them not protected against ills and injuries,
Mansions and factories filled with cheap laborers,
Where the dogs are well fed, cared and have a clean place,
To call it their home, but the children of our brothers,
Have waited silently for a new dawn for many years,
During the visit of our ministers, our roads are spotless,
During inspection days, everything is kept in order to impress,
During the arrival of foreign dignitaries, the dramas enacted,
To show the prosperity of the poverty stricken political ideology,
When climb down the steps of the red carpeted,
Pathway of the airplane staircases, everyone with a nose,
Can smell the decaying of the uncollected rubbish,
Few kilometers away, the sides of the modern and old roads occupied,
By the homeless, who have nothing to say it their own,
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poem by Veeraiyah Subbulakshmi
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