Fake Happiness!
We are all gifted to have our scrolls,
That say how we have to live and roll,
On the streets of urban jungles with no flowers,
Women paint their face with vibrant colors,
Men have the starched ties, hung to their necks,
Modern cultures, trends and technological seasons,
Human change their appearance with no reason,
Target is set to push one to the limits of exasperation,
Shrouded are our eyes, when we bargain our lives for isolation,
A few are happy to play with themselves,
A few are drowsy with the games of party,
Floating in the air with over working hearts,
Weekends are spent to end the woe of muscles,
What life it is, when one, not know their neighbors,
What life it is, when one blindfold and lead others,
Believe me that real happiness is there in your family,
Where we don't have to cry and sleep silently,
The spouse and the children are more important,
Than the ‘work', enjoy them when we are alive,
Relatives and friends are like pickles,
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poem by Veeraiyah Subbulakshmi
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I want to live pain free life! !
Pain is an issue everywhere,
It cradles everyone without fair,
Day or night, it has no preference,
Anytime, anywhere, when someone is in pain,
Something touches the nerve, we feel the pain,
Anything presses the nerve, we feel the pain,
Pain too has the degree of acute and chronic,
can the pain be relieved without pills and tonic?
who would take away this pain,
Even if we cried aloud in vain?
Pain makes us to be handicapped,
As our posture is changed and altered,
Sometimes we hold our stomach,
Protrude our tongues and feel tired,
We have the pain of insufficiency,
Hunger, thirsty and fatigue are their names.
God given pain is alleviated with pills that opiate,
Suppressed pain takes multiple arrows to poke and pierce,
Address the cause of the pain and remove it,
We may live pain free for rest of our life.
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poem by Veeraiyah Subbulakshmi
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Climb To Claim!
modern human at the markets,
want to get everything quicker,
the wrapped up delicious imported fruits,
look clean with no holes as the local apples,
the oranges gone through bathing process,
to be exported, the juicy fruits of,
rambuttan, Durians, Mangoes and bananas,
mostly organic and visited by their friends,
the pest and plucked by human, painfully bitten,
ask the kid where she gets the mango from,
she may say 'from the stores', not knowing hardship,
Let every kid learn the truth,
nothing comes easier on their plates.
I had climbed the trees of various textures,
When I was young, I was close to the nature,
Whenever I went back home for holidays,
Pesticides not around to declare mayday,
For insects, mollusk and escaped crustaceans,
Train like millipede with red and black hues,
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poem by Veeraiyah Subbulakshmi
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Growing children!
He is playing with himself, just running around,
When his mothers is busy with shampoo and the heads,
His father is engrossed in coloring each strand of hair,
The saloon is noisy with the music of a woman mewing,
Blowers, dryers and air condition send the decibels as roars,
The smell of ammonia and scents of soaps betrothed,
Where the owner's little boy was conceived in a room,
Though he is five, he is as small as three,
The Mother has to wash the hair of people to feed,
The Father has to dye and blow to earn a living,
Both pairs of eyes are at the entrance,
To look for the arrival of the next customers,
That little is growing in the saloon attached,
With a room functions as living and bed room,
He is inquisitive of each and every object,
Touches the switches with no fear of threat,
Hides under the table to remove the rubber suckers,
Wears the boots of the mother as a fun seeker
Walks around the chairs as roller coaster,
Puts the hair clips to the dull banners,
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poem by Veeraiyah Subbulakshmi
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The making of...
Trust me; I am a good man, but always like to wink,
With a heart of solid gun, hard to break and bend,
I love my children; Keep them close to my heart,
I love them, I adore them and I work for them.
Tell my drinking buddies, goodness of their studies,
Mostly they talk about politics, Philosophies and ended as tortoise,
Hiding their head in the stupor shell, eyes looking at the offing,
Of course, I love my wife,
She is pretty good and better at the rifle,
She could look through the darkness,
Of my guarded mind and deliberates me,
What I thought and what I had done,
Her nose is worse than the canine,
Could smell the details of my khakis,
Shirt, singlet and even the wallet,
Trust me I love her so much,
To the bottom of that gun,
I actually do not know, ,
What that makes me to fling,
Truly, breaking hearts,
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poem by Veeraiyah Subbulakshmi
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Puberty.
When my grandma told me not to go out of the house,
after the oil lamp was lit at six in the evening,
I went out to see the spirits of the wolves on the loose,
but heard the howling far away while she praying.
Grandma thought I was in the study, doing my work,
I was searching for the devils that scared my grandma.
When I returned to tell her that I found nothing,
She blessed me what an obedient girl, always obeying.
When at ten, I was told that there was a black devil,
comfortably renting a Neem tree beside our dwelling,
after everyone was asleep, I went to the tree at twelve,
to find nothing and I was confused and then not believe,
my elders any more. Told them many times,
I have found no spirits and devils,
in the trees, in the farms and the jungle,
They were too tired to teach me what they were taught,
when they had given up the hope on me,
I planted the seeds of awareness in them.
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poem by Veeraiyah Subbulakshmi
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How To Come Out Of Depression?
The day the lightning struck my brain,
I could still remember the flashes in the mind,
The ground opened up for me to faint,
The thirst constricted the throat to find,
The water to drink and from the eyes,
The excruciating pain in the middle,
Of the head and the left of the chest,
The vivid memories of events that hid,
Replayed, rewound, replayed without rest,
The episode of maniac depression,
Germinated to a small plant,
I looked normal except my mind,
A word could take me to that playground,
Where I was bullied and beaten up,
An incident could draw the curtain,
For me to view the scene, one after another,
Before I entered the tunnel of depression,
I did have the feelings similar to the first event,
Memories danced mercilessly to captivate,
My feeble mind to think about the negative thoughts,
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poem by Veeraiyah Subbulakshmi
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Scavenging Ravens
I am so scared to close my nose,
as I may offend the deplorable souls,
An earthen pot filled with boiling rice,
comfortably sits in the middle of flies,
Everyone's waste is disposed here,
varieties of things in variant grade,
rotten, rotting and sale able plastics,
two human squat there to separate,
what other disposed, have some values,
when ever I walk by the dumpster,
at the sides of these main roads,
I try to walk faster, not to inhale,
the horrible smell of decaying garbage,
the other day I was forced to stop,
the traffic jam created by,
around ten rickshaws and a bullock cart,
I tried to take a deep breath,
and walk past as fast as I could,
Then I saw the bed that was laid,
between the dumpster and the wall,
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poem by Veeraiyah Subbulakshmi
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Consult The Medium For Your Love Problems?
That was the first time she was sitting in front of him,
Hunching as a wet chicken, going to be slaughtered,
He was a man of charm, full of false piety and glooms,
Holding a bell at twelve, praying to the soul, unwritten,
She was a woman possessed by an evil spirit of unknown,
As she had lost weight and appetite for the past two fortnight,
Worried parents consulted the friends of friends,
Relatives of relatives and found this medium to be effective.
Ritual flowers, Iron rails, sand from home, a pocket of cigar,
Particular alcohol and a few hundred dollars for the soul,
That would predict the illness of this desperate woman in black,
The high priests lit up the incense and kindle the coal,
The woman looked at the fire and the man in front of her,
The smoke filled the room and the woman was awake,
Chanting prayers to unknown deities from the grave of,
Chinese, Indian or Malay cemetery, asked the woman,
What her problem was. She told that she did not know,
And the man in Jubbah and scalp cap had to find.
He took the special homemade cigar,
And blew the smoke of cannabis on her face,
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poem by Veeraiyah Subbulakshmi
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Your Family Is Your Responsibility. Be Responsible!
Our village roads are not tarred and concreted,
Red soiled paths leveled and polished by our foot prints,
Our Highways are better, but built by the foreigners,
The town roads are the worst with potholes and hanging wires,
Someone dig the roads for something and leave it,
The people of India walk on the roads as it is,
The way to live the life, in the pitiful style and manner,
Everyone speaks, everyone knows, but no one bothers,
Summer is the time for the nuclear plant of universe to scotch,
At the people of India, who live in huts and slums,
Less than eight feet high to keep the house cool,
Dried Thatched roof allow the rain and light,
People gather the disposed plastics to seal and hide,
Persistent sun rays pierce through the plastic sheets,
Life is not tough for the people who have these abode,
As they have no time to think and cry of their grief,
When the tough life is the real life for them and many,
Tougher they are, to face the challenging destiny,
People on the roads, sea of heads walk with a purpose,
I do not know what that purpose is, but everyone busy,
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poem by Veeraiyah Subbulakshmi
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