poem

మా వారి కవితలు

A Soul in exile

God did not make us all the same way

Because each of us preferred a unique role to play

He reminds us through all the Nine months every day

In a place where you alone can hear him say

A place which is the consequence of your bygone play

A place to reap and acquire a new branded body to play

You regret over and over again for your departed play.

You beg GOD to forgive and to throw you out of the dungeon,

Promising and pledging thousand times for another fair play.

You know not where you are until a person beats you up till you cry,

You really wonder in your concealed outfit, when all people around you

Jovially laugh at your cry.

You come out crying with no idea of your place, no knowledge of your past

Alas, you forget everything once you come out

Of the nine months of your self -imprisonment 

You slowly become familiar with the tender touch of your new mother

 Who in turn introduce your father and put you in his tough and rough hands

You know not why they are so happy, every now and then you too laugh,

 when you are wide awake or fast asleep.

You thank GOD a number of times, who made them unaware of your past.

God arranged them as your most obedient servants until the last breathe of their distinct play.

God alone knows what is in store for them you create in your new play.  

How you repay for their unstinted, untried and unconditional services rendered to you in their life's play

You have been brought up acceptably, admirably and marvelously in the society with their infallible and ever growing love for you, day in and day

out in the parental  role they play

As embedded roles as parents they involved, continually so deeply so thoroughly so painstakingly to fulfill all your aspirations, desires, fantasies and finally they justify for their assigned role play.

And, on one fine day you make them realize by your unexpected, unwarranted acts that they are just repaying you in this life for their own past deeds.

 

K.Rama Rao

                                                                                         HOD, M & H, CBIT

 

A show of Attitude

"I me and myself" and nothing beyond

Singing your own melody,

Strumming your own song,

Stringing tunes of self adulation

Humming along,

A medley of you glorification,

Where you for you belong.

You blow your own trumpet

Loud and clear through a mile

Assuming other than that,

Nothing, no one will hear..

Drowning other songs,

That surround you,

To you, no music, but yours is true.

With expectant authority, you wait for applause,

Un willing to accept or admit any flaws.

What you compose, you call symphony

What I hear, I call cacophony,

Listening to your music with my ears,

You will be surprised at what you hear.

It's such a pity that you are so off-key

A pity that you can't hear or see

                                                                                      K.Rama Rao

                                                                                       HOD, M & H