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.  

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                                                                               P.Chandrasekaran.