Dawn of retirement

They worked like machines through ages

To build their lives and future of their kids

Now, old to be dynamic,

Yet, for authorities, they are not old enough

To seek the leisure and peace of retirement

May be they are living in fool’s paradise

As politicians never retire until heaven calls them

 What will these hapless people do?

Alone in their final days

Nobody around to look after

Left to face the freeze in the winter

With no heat aids to support

No money for holidays

Pawns of hedging pension funds

Generations spoiled with benefits

Cut aside from the values of Victorian age

The system of looking after the old aged

All within the family

In the name of independence

Leaving home at early age

Leaving the burden on government

To look after an ageing population

Who is to blame?

The middle aged can’t even rest

As pensions mocks at their face

As a question mark over their future

With no choices to opt

Destined to work longer

In the name of higher life expectancy

Some of them can’t even see the dawn of retirement

Recession is a silly excuse

To cover the holes of faulty economic policies

There is money to support wars abroad

But, there is no money for the beleaguered

Now they can work more

With a dream about a dawn

Sitting in the couch, reading a paper

Going out with friends to the pub

To beach to feel the sunshine

Without the stress from bosses

Without the worry about paychecks

With pension, the mr. safeguard on side

Without depending on anyone else

But, that dawn of retirement is moving farther

Somebody has to stop it sooner!

 This poem is a form of support for those people who deserve early retirement!When the legs and hands become weak, we should let them rest and live the life without worries! Extending the retirement age is an escapism! Images: Thanks to respected copyright holders!

silence of the soul

Silence of the soul

Aftermath a long journey

Leaves behind countless questions

Unanswered

Yet, everyone ask beloved

What happened?

Without knowing what to say

To console them

To overcome the pain of irrecoverable loss

The tears of the loved ones

Raise questions towards heaven

Hoping that it will be heard

Why did you do it?

We all were here for you

We were part of your happiness

We celebrated it as ours

But when you had a sorrow

You thought, you were alone

Now, we are helpless

We have to survive through this life

With a regret that we couldn’t heal your sorrow

We wish, you had kept some moments

To share your problem with us

We would have found a solution

Now, we can only shower our love for you

With our prayers for you

Lost flowers

Flowers decorate our gardens

Alleys, abandoned lands

On the ten glorious days starting with Atham

It’s the jewel on the courtyards of our homes

I remember the buzz in the mornings

To pluck the mist filled flowers

To create floral layouts of joy

Striving to create something different

Every day, with whatever flowers available

I’ve seen kids visiting homes

Collecting flowers with exuberance

Now , they get it from market

Preserved flowers at exorbitant prices

Grown and cared just for us somewhere else

Far away from our culture and our lives

This makes me wonder!

Where did we bury our flowering plants?

To stop it from blooming in our little spaces

It takes a few minutes to water

But, its more easy to buy colorful flowers

These aren’t our flowers which decorated our lives

There are more residential associations than residents itself

Yet nobody got time to raise flowers for the kids

When they got time to organize all kind of silly events

Acres of farmlands are laying barren

Yet nobody wish to grow flowers for ourselves

We have outsourced that right to our neighboring states

Youth have time to squeeze money from people on streets

In the name of non-existent arts associations for onam celebrations

Yeah, they don’t have time to raise silly flowers bearing our culture

People have time to queue up infront of liquor outlets

They have creativity to create layouts with empty bottles of liquor

But, raising flowers is waste of time, as it gives fragrance

So fresh and exotic than the much priced rums, brandies, beers and more

We create new limca records for floral arrangements every year
To show how much we care about our onam
An event of glits and glamour for flowers for media 

But, I wish they could see use the colors and flowers of our lives

The big floral layouts on the street, sprouted by the active youth

It was part of our lives, now it’s on the wane

As salt filled , artificial colored layouts smiles at us

I wonder, even they have abandoned our flowers

When these tv channels shower our eyes with the floral extravaganza

Even they forgot our roots and our flowers

They can sell ads for showing prices of flowers

Just like, they do with any other sensational news

Government pays huge bills to organize events

To show the world our onam celebrations

But even they don’t realize we celebrate onam at the mercy of others

Our king is welcomed with dead flowers from afar

It speaks the language of another culture to him

What if he stops visiting us one day?

Disillusioned with his welcome!

Anybody care!

Sorry, we are busy, shopping flowers at trade fairs!

images: thanks to rightful owners!

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Latecomer

Running briskly

With perspiring senses

Wildly beating heart

Checking the watch every other moment

To see how much time lost already

To calculate possible reaching time

To raise the speed
And to prepare for an abrupt entrance

There is a big price to pay

For getting late

A risk

Unworthy

As you stand to lose out

The savory moments upfront

Amongst the settled audience

Engaged fluidly up to the occasion

Then the door cracks up

Breaking the silence of even the noise

Making heads to turn around for a glimpse

To see the distracting latecomer

With countless eyes sprinkling spotlights

Walking past the aisle

Becomes nervy like on a ramp

Nodding the sorry with the eyes

And the bowing head

Whispering the excuse

From the shell of a sorry figure

Without any idea about the scenario

That persisted there

A messy catch up work remains

To be done, to get on level terms

With all those present there

With short enquiries for briefings

Fighting against the time  

To make up for the lost time

Before gelling into the zone

With the ease in breathe 

Scary, if there is scolding

Embarrassing

Funny, if there is mocking

Light hearted banter for folks

There is always an awkward moment

Awaiting the late comer

Images: Thanks to rightful owners

The Fiddle Player

On the corner of a bustling city centre

He stood,

Another tough day to conquer

At the mercy of strangers

Walking past the street

He played his fiddle

Emitting the heavenly aura

With the sweetness of his music

Some people stood there to listen

Some sat on the benches and engaged

In the rhythm of his solemn creativity

He played song after song

Changing the mood with each beat

A talented musician plying his art

On the street, to earn bread

Some acknowledged his efforts

And threw some pence in his fiddle cover

He wasn’t looking at the money

He just played the music

Until he got tired

I hope, one day his luck may turn golden

As his music has a soul of honesty and hope

May be, one well-wisher will give him a big break

To play his fiddle amidst the symphony than on street

There are so many talented musicians who play their music on streets just for pennies.They play simple but heartening music, without any show offs.  Images : Thanks to rightful owners