Christmas Song Dec 25th 2013

 

Christmas Song Dec 25th 2013

===========================

Let the Christmas candles glow

With the Core of Love’s copious flow,

Marking this day, with the might of mercy.

Let not the wild wind of hatred

Blow off the glowing candles,

As hurricanes,with notes discordant.

The edge of the candles’ glow is ever prone

Towards the endearing look of the Lord,            

That penetrates and percolates peace,

Into both the melting and impervious souls.

To look into His eyes is to rediscover ourselves,

With a profound passion for love and peace,

That would make our hearts glow and melt

As a twinkling galaxy of Christmas candles.

                                                            P.Chandrasekaran.

Not in Harmony.

      Not in Harmony.

The earth is not wanting rains at all times.

But the dodging darker clouds keep jilting

Many a pocket of the earth, playing truant.

Sterile parts of the earth succumb to the

Capricious parade of the Casanova clouds.

While the white patches of clouds turn saintly,

The darker ones don a devil-may care attitude.

Either it rains cats and dogs, casually claiming

A catastrophic character, or play a hide and seek,

Trouncing the thirsty soil with a miser’s mischief.

There is no natural divorce between the earth and clouds.

Nor is there a chemistry or wavelength between the two.

The frigid parts of the earth and the frenetic clouds

Sustain their fragile equations in a fixed form and fold.

When man denies water, it becomes an issue;

When nature’s maddening mood swings shut the water gates,  

Silence prevails, as if it were  time for shrouds and wreaths.

                                                            P.Chandrasekarn.

In the Name of Conscience.

  In the Name of Conscience.

------------------------------------------

Conscience is the archive

Of each one’s guilt and qualms,

Sins and confessions secretly saved.

Some log in, on a regular basis.

A few make erratic clicks.

For many, it is a recycle bin,

Never worth visiting.

Sanity is the deodorant for sanitizing

The corridors of an unclean conscience.

To be tagged in the timeline of conscience,

One needs moral and spiritual courage.

Those who keep deleting ,

Their thoughts and deeds rotten,

To manipulate an ideal inbox,

Make their life an over loaded litter bin,

That mortifies others’ routine,

With viruses invading the social network.

The true conscience keepers are those

Who recycle not the wrong for the right.

                                                    P.Chandrasekaran.

Oh My Money Money !.

                       Oh My Money Money !.

Money is life’s monitor;

Currency is the comforter of the heart’s rhythms.

Life’s journey on the ever escalating

Denominations of currency is fond of newer peaks,

Both in black and white.

No! never racial, religious or communal;

But diabolically all- inclusive,

Money like a sorcerer, traps life into

A trauma of sedation and servitude.

Many make it and some earn it;

But quite a few call it quits, for want of will,

While a robin hood fancy robs it too, from others’ bill.

‘Cash or cheque, stash it all’ tendency prevails.

For currency is a fabulous frenzy,

Feeding one’s whims with the power to rule.

The higher the heap, the heartier it becomes .

The makers of money have a package for the future,

With date and value of maturity ever extending.

Those who earn it, make its proceeds,

Valid only until their date of expiry.

Quitting the game is a bet for debt and penury.

Not all who rob the vulnerable, end up in jail.

The thrill of their game at times,

Drives automated teller machines to an autistic spell.

When the swindlers play a scientific game,

All that we know is ,the money is robbed.

But no one has a cue as to, who has robbed it

And where has it all gone.

The truth of the matter is, the money is with those,

To whom the world belongs tomorrow,

With its tentacles multiplying institutionally,

Here, there and every where,

Routing, roaming and roaring with invisible might,

Like a robotic terminator with rage unleashed,

With its human face lost long ago,

In e-banking and electronic cash- dispensing portals.

                                                                              P.Chandrasekaran.

         

If Gandhi Speaks out Now,

       If  Gandhi Speaks out Now,
   -----------------------------------------

      I loved and fought;
      Loved truth and fought violence and aggression.
      Loved my country and its people;
      Fought their frenzy of religion and fanatic feud.
      Loved, thinking high and living simple;
      Fought falsehood in thought and deed.
      I loved freedom and fought for it;
      I loved my dreams of independence and safety
      Of men and women alike;
      I fought slavery of the soul by the self and society;
      When my nation became free,
      I knew not to rejoice or regret;
      For,passions were on a parade of hatred,
      And peace was mortgaged again to mortifying modes.
      I thought my men would soon learn to rule and get governed.
      But now I need to relearn what to love,
      And what to fight for and against.
      It looks now, as if my men pulled out my clothes,
      And left me in my loins,to lift their lifestyles,
      In my name and in the name of my clothes.
      The colonials were not at least this much corrupt.
      They treated me with more respect than my men
      Who keep my statues as resting spots for birds,
      And visit my tomb twice a year to translate
      Their self promoting programmes in short spells; 
      Today I love my country more than ever
      And have to fight my men to let the world know,
      That I left my clothes for my loins, 
      To let my nation turn rich and not help a few fowls, 
      To rob my countrymen in the name of me and my clothes. 
               =============0===============
                                                       P.Chandrasekaran. 
      
  

The Screen Prototypes.

The Screen Prototypes.

Life is a Television Watch.

Life’s routine revolves  around

A remote switch, stuck magnetically,

To an audio visual system programming,

Carrying shows of several genres,

On screens, small and big, at the money’s byte.

Choice of programmes   goes by fixed  schedules.

Childhood hovers around days of the Pogo

And the Tom and Jerry merry row.

Showers of the Cartoon shows steer joyous hours.

Adolescence  is  on a discovery drive,

Clicking the remote in simian style,

From channel to channel through the self- prone tunnel.

Aggressive programmes augment its frenzy.

Teenage, in a tantalized trend, touts the body bets,

In a romantic round, on its self- choreographed sets.

Channels of music and fashion show, make a major flow.

Adulthood augers well for austere slots.

Compered events on screen, are compared at a regular pace;

Verdicts on issues through debates, set the domestic ball in motion .

Ageing, like an automated teller machine,

Dispenses  with serials, light and grave, in a series,

Like currency of different denominations for the clicked figure.

In the event of system failure, news and spiritual channels fill the bill.

From the crib to the grave, the events of life, 

Pass on like preset episodes on a colour monitor,

Boosting and booing one’s pattern of living.

                                           P.Chandrasekaran.

Enough is Enough.

           Enough  is  Enough.

Fancy is enough,

To  inspire a flow;

Flow is enough,

To tap the words;

Words are enough,

To hold one’s thoughts;

Thought s are enough,

To speak out one’s mind;

Mind is enough,

To make heaven or hell;

Heaven is enough,

To generate love;

And hell is enough,

To provoke hatred;

Love or hatred is enough,

To kindle one’s fancy.

All this is enough, to ensure the cycle.

The cycle is enough, to certify survival.

                                                P.Chandrasekaran.

Oh, My Independence!.

                    Oh, My Independence!.

A Commonwealth I am.

When my ‘Colonial Cousins’ left me free,

The bells tolled at midnight,

Sounding the volume of my independence.

I am Six decades plus old, now.

But I have my peace only on parole.

My kids here seem to walk low,

With a bag load of books binding

Their tender arms from behind.

The education of my children, stays enslaved,

To texts,tests and exams,touted by politics.

Their life is shackled in witch-hunting

For jobs,with degrees of various hues,

Earned or received through merit and might.

The marriage of my wards is yet another story,

Whipped up by passions of the communal glory.

The rich-poor divide is an exploding chasm,

Battering and banging my sinews and spasm .

I am rocked, when my ruling men statistically say,

That my people do survive, on a paltry sum a day.

My land is far more secular than others', I know;

The hate seeds sprout here, with a booming blow.

The exit of colonialism has eased my birth throes;

The excess of Corruption has worsened my woes .

Twice a year,my sons and daughters hoist my flag;  

Their salute and anthem, augment my pride's tag.

Great would I grow, if all my children are free to share,

Views and values,across the counters of the world Fair.  

  ====================0=====================

                                                                               P.Chandrasekaran.

Something That Matters.

   Something That Matters.

=====================

Life is full of matter.

Feeling emotion and sentiment,

Instinct, intuition, intellect and wisdom,

Are mere tributaries running their

Invisible scales of measurement.

The soil knows the body more than the soul.

Utility is the yardstick, qualifying life.

Life’s abstract contributions are supplementary.

The language of the body matters most.

Soothing words are sidelined by structural support.

Being physically close and useful  means, being needed;

But being physically close as a burden, looks unenviable;

Running out one’s utility, ruins the style of matter;

If ageing sickens the environment,

Life’s matter asks for being laid to rest.

Life is after all more matter than spirit.

                                            P.Chandrasekaran.

An Elegy on Vaalee,The Lyricist

     An Elegy on Vaalee

The throb of Tamil film music beat well

On your trendy thoughts’ literary spell.

It looked as though you lived to write;

Born endowed, with a creative might.

Ridding your roots orthodox, you moved,

To the broader skies, booing your brood.

On the poetic pan of an Ariya-Dravida mix,

Your lines put the parochial notions in a fix.

                             2

You learnt to live from instructive quotes,

Emerging from your contemporary’s notes.

Heroes and heroines of several decades,

Sang your words through  lip sync grades.

Lyrically a Ranger, with your radical rhyme,

You freed romance, from its controlled clime.

You knew the commoner by his pulse and beat;

Your ideas propelled his dreams,without retreat.

                              3

‘Let us praise those who share what they get’

You said, making the socialist mode, well set.

‘Will the breeze refuse to enter the doors of a hut?’

You asked,making the mouths the greedy rich,shut . 

‘Will the moon hate to throw its light for the poor?’

You raged, raising your voice with empathy sure.

You outlined values for a kid to become a leader

And said, good children were a country’s ladder

                                   4

‘When the sky sheds tears, the earth will smile’ you said;

The earth sheds tears now, watching you smilingly dead .

Your loss will make the creative clan profoundly grieve;

But your lyrics will live here  long, their hopes to retrieve.

                                                    Prof.P.Chandrasekaran.

The Punctuated Female.

''You have ever been the capital letter,

 Beginning my sentence.

 I have been allowed letters small,

 For an in-between fill up of ideas.

 You will bring a full stop to my words,half said.

 But you will enjoy the pleasure and privilege

 Of several commas and semi colons.

 You will always bracket me as a parenthesis;

 Whereas,you will manoeuvre to stay quoted,

 Within inverted commas and bold letters,

 As the truest maxim of life,being said louder than

 The well spoken words from my choked voice.

 While my life is a riddle of question marks,

 You live under blazing exclamations such as

 Hurrah! Bravo! and Oh!What a man!.

 Am I here to helplessly supplement

 Second level  punctuation marks

 To your body language and  bragging life style ?

 Look! You have once again made me

 Question the fate of my unfair lot,

 Putting me again in a punctuated spot.''

                                                    P.Chandrasekaran.

 

The Hearty Fact.

   The Hearty  Fact.

 When anger turns a party-pooper,

 The happier moments of life,

 Melt down like uneaten ice creams,

 Under the heat of a raging volcano.

 The normal beat of the heart is a treat,

 As well set rhythm, keeping spirits upbeat.

 When tempers are lost on a trouncing trend,

 The rhythms’ rift, rocks as rifle shots.

 Peace is always a pecking order,

 Like a peacock’s  choice of its  full feather show.

Why trek your path, when you have an asphalt lane?

A self- imposed ruckus within, speaks of a mood insane ;

Wrath and fury ramify into a state of hate;

There is a lot here, to light up and laminate.

Society offers the taste of a sweet sandwich

A state of poise keeps the routine sans a hitch.

To be a spoilsport is never a selling game

It creates a scene of chagrin  and  shame .

The grace of getting together, gains  natural pace

Without a maker to keep the heart’s beat at its race.

                                                      P.Chandrasekaran.

Bury The Hatchet.

      Bury The Hatchet.

==================

Deep grows, love's chasm;

When steep goes its spasm.
To woo and then to rue,

Ruins one without a clue.

The mismatches of life are a midway hump,

Making the romantic wheel break and bump.

A half- made medley  of  mortar, rough and rife,

Never keeps the base fit, to beat  the  daily strife.

‘True love never breaks’ may be a tantalizing maxim.

‘No love withstands serial pressures’, is a fact so grim.

Looking for rhyme and reason among the haunting ghosts,

Leaves one pining for patch up dreams and trendy toasts.

When boiling tempers move to a mad, breaking point,

The broken crumbs of a wafer biscuit course fail to flaunt.

If being together, breathes the art of living for each other,

Living together looks up ever, as a proud peacock’s feather.

There is a lot here for each one, to forget and forgive,

Than to remember  the rust, for the ego’s  itching drive.

Each day, fresh  rhythms of soothing lifestyle will bloom,

As  the hatchets are buried for the light of the full moon.

                                                                     P.Chandrasekaran.

  

The Unattached.

       The Unattached.

I came here as I had to;

Neither with a passion nor with a programme.

My days and nights did not care for me;

Nor did I bother about how I moved about ,

What I saw before and beside, leave alone,

What followed me from  behind.           

At times, I hopped like a toad, passed like a cloud,

Crossing my path from left to right, or right to left,

With sudden diversions bringing shock waves.

I know I always travelled into zones, that do not belong

Anywhere here, where, my body moved  about  with alien steps.

Living within oneself never makes  sense to those,

Who foresee their living environment, looking for cues and clues,

That would make it solely belong to them .

When one belongs to oneself, the world is too much for them.

For those to whom the world means more than all,

It is seized, cut to shape, making ground for power games,

Without space for others, to make a claim for a share.

Are n’t  they  too much  for the world that they crave to own?

Living within myself, nothing belongs to me save myself;

Though I know not what I see and how I move about,

I will leave  from here when I have to,

To somewhere that  I will not belong to;

For I know that I am ever, the unattached.

                                                           P.Chandrasekaran.

The Seasons.

                  The Seasons.       

                          1             

Nothing can irk life more than biting cold.

It puts the  routine’s route  much on hold.

Colder receptions hurt harder than chilling snow.

Benumbed bodies battle for a movement;

Frozen thoughts cripple cerebral circuits;

Nights turn pythons, swallowing  rat like days.

The slumbering Sun stifles diurnal targets.

Darkness reigns three fourth of twenty four seven.

Snow storms and hurricanes  steal the show.

The non- stop viral invasion  warps all hopes.

The inhospitable days and nights  impound

Body and mind for a beastly battering round . 

                             2

Waiting in sweltering  heat  for warmer  inlets,

With thoughts whipping as cat of nine tails,

There is nothing to give; nothing to share;

Endearing evenings get  stiffly jammed

Between  burning days and bullying nights.

The tropics envy the colder regions for their breather

During  their sunny days of surprising sojourns.

Heat is Hell with no preceding alarm bell ;

The sun burnt skin needs identity more than care.

Let not Nature’s prejudices  make parity bare.

For Summer’s voice is full of a seasoned snare.

The victim’s want for warmth is weakened by wrath

When the wind blows hot and the waves steam,

Life’s  leading precepts are  caught mid stream.
                           3

There is a lot here, to bestow upon others.

A lot to own as well as to share.

Nothing to bemoan or berate, in a process.

Prosperity is no myth to mystify the mind.

It  spurts  and grows in a leap,

Like spreading and penetrating light,

That takes  darkness deftly out of sight,

Cheering  up those, seeing things right.

Those who see the soil as a source of wealth

And not as a beckoning burial ground ,

Spring up as greener pastures, garnering  hope

To steer  mankind with strength of  joy.

Living means, being followed on a path

With a warranty for weigh bridges

Assuring right gains at the right time.                             

                       4

Fate makes the final moments fall

However  one’s goalposts grow tall .

The falling things fall with a felicitous thud.

The supporting soil stakes its claims.

Colours change as things fall in a free flow.

It is not that leaves alone change colours.

The smile on a falling face is full of winning grace.

The changing sense of smile is a fit of fine finale.

Life in pains or gains, the fall is a form of gratitude

For pleasures enjoyed and the pressures relieved.

The Fall is a fruitful, firming up fair play

That makes all things fall for a sure stay.

The earth’s seasons are made up of a solid four

That keep life’s happenings hail wail and more.

                                                                P.Chandraaekaran.

           

A Farmer's Suicide Note.

       A Farmer’s Suicide Note.

The cracks in my land widened,

Shrinking my hopes of survival.

The deepening dryness on a daily rate,

Heightened my fears of the future,

As if a knife was piercing through my gullet.

Let down more by debts, than by the monsoon,

Unnerved more by my protectors’ pretences

Than by the door- closing water holders,

How long could my saliva quench my thirst?

When the empty plates mocked at my defeat

To produce and prosper, my culture crumbled.

I mustered strength to silence my breath;

I found the road to the morgue smoother

Than the strenuous pathway to my fallow field.

Not that I failed to cultivate and cull out a life.

But these days killing is easier than tilling.

Those who claimed that I should own my life

Lose their voice to question my right to retrieve

A soul left in the lurch in tomb like caverns,

Crying for help, with SOS mails discarded.

I had to choose between the hailing Hades

And the crippled Cauvery and I made it perfect.

Is not a suicide  worthier than soulless living?

                                                                   P.Chandrasekaran.

Keep The Seven Out.

Keep The Seven Out.

Strip!

The soul needs it in succession.

The pomp of Pride is just a lump of glory;

Plug it out as  the burden of power.

Greed is a vamp vetting your void.

Divest yourself of desire as the load of Greed,

To replenish deliverance, earned in time.

Envy is ever an evil enchantress;

Evict it once for all as an encroachment,

To endear the environment at one’s beck and call.

Wrath is a replica of rage and rudeness;

A mind freed from ruining wrath,

Raises radiant hopes to last for a lifetime.

Lust is a mindless minstrel with libertine lyrics;

Debunk his dreams with  daring thoughts.

Sloth is a sickening bodyguard stuck to your sedation;

Terminate Sloth as a termite of the wood.

Gluttony eats away your life at your expense.

Keep him at bay for a kinetic spray,

And cross all hurdles that stumble your sway.

Life for sure, is Heaven with out the Seven;

As the stripped soul is set out for the safe haven.

                                            P.Chandrasekaran

On Growing Up.

             On Growing Up.

From four to two,

The magic of the limbs makes a face lift,

Freezing the horizontal moves for a vertical hit.

Growing up means,

Easing out parenting in installments;

Giving a countdown call for independence.

Doting on electronic gadgets for favoured support,

One grows with self designed control systems.

Day care manuals and Kindergarten imports,

Prefix the teenage tableau on a far sighted note.

Knowledge at door step, makes competitive bidding,

Speeding up growth of hormones, at jet speed through the net.

Schools as concentration camps, flood the brain for a quicker line.

Growing up faster than normal, is living in haste sans taste;

As tasteless food is worse than medicine,

Growing up, not knowing how one has grown up ,

Like dating without doubting how and who, one dates,

Is nothing but adding massive muck to the body and soul.

Growing in stages, marking one’s pages,

Gets into the grit to run the gauntlet.

To grow as one wills, at the offer of guidance sought, not steered,

Justifies growing up on a genuine flow of time for one’s travelling,

Shaping one’s body and mind, shunning saturation of any kind.

                                                                  P.Chandrasekaran

Issue Diggers.

       Issue Diggers.

As material transmission makes way to progress,

Scoop out a blast from the past, for a stage show;

Some adorable moments of the past

Will  aptly beautify the present.

But exhume not, the past for a blast;

It will let the flag of peace fly half mast.

Truth decomposed, is worse than falsehood.

Fresh faces of truth make contemporary relevance,

Like unclaimed bodies in mortuaries awaiting attention.

The truth of revolt is not an illegitimate child,

To be tutored and sponsored by men in masks,

Whose agenda remains a privileged falsehood.

Collective tension fills the bill of those,

Who yarn stories from what they dig out,

To become Issue diggers for fund and fraud.
And to stay on, in other men’s memory chips, 

No one can belittle history with a mad mimicry of the past,
Lest their own breed should dig their memories out, aghast.  

                                                                         P.Chandrasekaran.

The Usurper.

      The Usurper.

O God !

Can you please grant me a piece of land to live ?

I will live there as a king, with the power to give

Each one, the things they want, as you normally do;

But with favour and prejudice, added to my own hue.

I will rule with pomp and pride, the rich and the poor,

With my born privilege to reign, entrenched for sure.

I will not trouble you to frame your laws for my land;

For I know well how to carry on my ways for my band.

I will build many temples for you as a mark of gratitude;

As you keep showering from above,your generous attitude .

Let me never say‘you crazy God, can you leave me alone

And rest in your radial zone as a statue made up of stone?’

Hope you can read my mind with my range of thought

Having parted with your piece of land, in my lovely lot.

                                                                    P.Chandrasekaran.

All Out !

               All Out!

     
         All out !         
         Advocates out of courts,
         The jailed, out, on bail;
         Parties out of alliance,
         Their members out of ministry;
         People out of senses,
         Their elected men evicted off and on,
         Out of Houses, lower and upper;
         Students out of classes,
         On issues out of soil;
         Babies out of homes, in day care arms;
         Elders out of joint home thrills,
         With their children out of region and country; 
         Fair sex fretting, out of safety net,
         With male hounds all out, madly after it;               
         Professions out of ethical hold,
         Their precepts, viewed out of date;
         Rule of law let out to outlaws, 
         As burglars move in and out,
         When the inmates are out;
         All is out in an open game,
         For a field show of scuffle, fisticuffs and blows,
         When each one's routine, to its all time low goes.
         
                                                    P.Chandrasekaran.

The Oddest Operator.

   The Oddest Operator.

Fan! Whip up passions!

Says a side of the brain.

Ban! Banish emotions!

Says the other.

Likes and dislikes are not mere labels.

They are vehicles for varied locations,

Tools of the brain, to heat and treat

Disorders small and serious,

Rooted to the whims of the bilateral

Systems of the psychic composition.

The human brain like the God Supreme

Makes and unmakes its own makings.

With its synoptic base odd and broad.

                                     P.Chandrasekaran.

The Burgeoning Eclipses.

         The Burgeoning Eclipses.

The earth has moved faster and farther

From the Platonic to the Electronic.

Eclipses stronger than the solar and lunar

Have engulfed the earth every century,

In the form of evolution and revolution.

The heirs of sages were struck down by

A subterfuge of Satanic designs;

Powerful paid brokers of politics
Have regularly revolved around religion,

Besides encircling politics with their
Preambles and precepts of perversity.

Sports and games stand sabotaged by salesman stuff.

Science is submerged in the devices of stalwarts
Of race, region and space ,

As an imp of the international barter.

Life saving hands lie mostly, currency bound.

The voice of Truth is gagged by firm falsehood.

The closed eyes of the Goddess of justice,

Reflect shame more than the sense of balance.

Gadgets have kept humanity anesthetized,

With its emotional side paralyzed beyond recovery.

The driving forces of man are man’s own making,

As eclipses growing on the planet, than around.

                                               P.Chandrasekaran.

The Void.

   The Void.

The echoes in a void mind

Are like still born babies.

One who cannot and does not love,

Sees the emptiness exploding

Into atoms of annoying nothing.

A mind filled with warmth of love

Rejuvenates, reverberates and is heard

Like  the cries of healthy babies born to rule.

God takes a holiday from shrines
Crowded with picnic thoughts 
Rather than souls seeking solace.

The presence of God is in the gathering

Of those who assemble never to dissemble.

Prayers emanating from patterns of true love

Reach the ears of God in their original form.

The voice of the Supreme, with its wield

Makes resplendent  responses to those

That replenish love and joy and hope for all.

All holy books hold on to one decoding device.

But man tries to decode them with different tools.

Stand, kneel, prostrate; but pervert not the path,

With traffic encumbrances of echoes of emptiness .

                                               P.Chandrasekaran.

My Winter Days in Chicago..

          My Winter Days in Chicago.

 ===========================

The Navy Pier charm and Napervile calm

Make Chicago a place of free, fleeting form.

The brutal wind here, blows hot and cold,

Cutting the warmth into a whipping mold;

Like a butcher’s bold knife battering in gore,

In a pair of riding rapacious hands that soar.

The skins used to the scathing, chill weather,

Brace the wind, striking its sheen to wither.

But those new to the soil and its savage wind,

Are set to suffer its strokes for want of a rind.

Life in this zone for natives, is lived in its best;

For those visiting in winter, it is a litmus test.

The once a way trip to the august,Aurora shrine,

Keeps the body and mind protected, fit and fine.

                                                 P.Chandrasekaran.

Prophetic Clippings.

    Prophetic Clippings.

=====================

Life’s tricky shots were those

That exposed the intricate designs

From the never expected quarters.

The silent inner voice turned shaky for a while.

The click of the camera was casual.

What came in the picture, was not of course

On the agenda of the photographic schedule.

While the focusing was accidental,

The attached shocks were incidental.

Casual clippings at times carry, count downs

On subtle revelations of a rudderless sailing

With those believed to protect;

Controlled shots are those that hide

Falsehood with a kind of fellow feeling.

Intrusions inherit clues for the future. 

                                      P.Chandrasekaran.

Sham Sympathies.

             Sham Sympathies.

Cruising on the Caribbean Sea,

As I did last, on the Atlantic waters,

The repeat course of the line of buffets

And the heap of food that was wasted

As a privilege of paid navigation,

Hit me hard with the impoverished faces

Failing repeatedly to have access to

Something to eat once a way.

The voice of hunger surpassed

The surge of enjoyment, in a large scale.

The punching cry of poverty

Would grudge my indulgence,

Mocking at my manipulative qualms.

                                 P.Chandrasekaran.

                           

At The Daycare.

     At The Day Care.

==================

Mom and dad love me a lot

Not to put me ever in a spot.

They want me to grow up

Toeing their likes and dislikes;

None of my needs ever let down,

They dream,design and do all for me.

I play and sleep and learn for a while,

All through the days of the whole week .

The weekends wind up like wee hours,

Passing out soon, for the other week.

Mom and dad give me gladly all I want,

Except their time, that has my taunt.      

                         P.Chandrasekaran.