Christmas Song 25th Dec 2014

 Christmas Song 25^th Dec 2014

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A true Christian does not claim to be canonized.

What one deserves is a determiner of and a cause for,

What is to follow as a sequel, in the name of the Lord.

What has to follow, may, or may not and need not.

But what one follows in life, makes much sense,

As the leading factor of life, through the path picked up,

The program and process of the journey,

The power drive and the post of the goals, at the end.

It is always, the leading spirit and not the leader that counts.

Christ was the leading spirit that stood for shouldering

Not one’s but others’, at each one’s will.

To ask, if nails came first and the Cross after,

Is to ask if hatred came first and love later.

But the nails fixed grandeur on the cross;

Like hatred, that let out the logo of love.

Christmas triggers the motion of the mind,

On a wheel of love, rolling to rule mankind

The motion continues, making miracles;

Transforming miracles into mainstream, through major pathways,

Resembling the pattern of aisles in a chapel and a church,

That secure each one’s place for peace order and joy in a Mass;

For celebrating Christmas and for taking the call for canonization.

                                                                                       P.Chandrasekaran.

God’s Days Out.

         God’s  Days  Out.

Temples in a way,have become trading corporations.

Some,as collection centres for black money,others,

As Cash counters and Teller points,for daily transaction.

Cash and coins convert praying,into power projecting.

Brokering and touting,break entries,easier than faith.                     

God can not be posted at one spot, to pose for passionate fans.

He prefers patrolling, not as a traffic cop, issuing tickets

Against violation, but probing into every one’s personal file. 

 He picks out proof of sin laundering, on a lurid, lecherous track.

The larger the ledgers, the busier God is,banking still upon,

The pilgrimage mood of his wards that pollutes not further,

Their pages of perversity, pining for periodical path repair.

Then why go to temples,  when  God  is on other official duty?

Perhaps the human psyche seeks  there,its redemption surety.

                                                                                    P.Chandrasekaran.

The Sidereal Show.

              The Sidereal Show.
           I love my days.
          They create my shadows with the sunlight.
          As my shadows toe my line,
          I claim no itch for a following;
          It is me,my shadow and my day,
          Each breathing their own air in adjacency,
          Not clamouring for being together.
          I love my nights.
          They bind me safe within my blanket.
          My dreams team up in a row with my sleep.
          It is me, my dreams and my night,
          Each flashing colors in proximity,
          Not proclaiming oneness at any cost.
          My shadows and dreams are strangers to me
          As darkness to day and light to night.
          My body is the badge of my soul,
          Like the shroud is to the body.
          The body looks not for the shroud
          As the soul bothers not for the body.
          So do day and night taking their 
          Independent cycle not minding about
          Who follows whom or who belongs to whom.
          Being attached is being dumped as sediment.
          Separation is a sidereal show of life.

                                                                 P.Chandrasekaran.
          
       
   
     
         

Nostalgia.

          Nostalgia.

The cane in the hands of a teacher

Was once, a character builder.

The less used, the loftier it was.

The teacher  at the centre, deserved the power

To use his cane at the behest of parents.

For parents too, had faith in the grip  of the cane.

Discipline travelled from home to school,

And back home, along with the school bag.

Right prevailed in the absence of rights activists.

We were caned, made to kneel down ,

And stand up on benches, to help order,

Stand proudly on a higher pedestal.

Our ears were pinched at times by the teacher

Or by fellow students, who behaved better.

There were no grumblings from those punished.

No dissenting  notes either, from those who

Believed that parenting means perfecting.

When teachers treated wards as sons and daughters.

Care and cane became the cornerstones of schooling.

Schools on the whole, were grooming posterity,

To learn what was to be learnt and live,

The way one should live, at home and out of home.

                                                                     P.Chandrasekaran.

Death is Enviable Too.

   Death is Enviable Too.

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Life's enviable moments, the living know.

Do the dead know that their death is envied?

Those who were branded as burdens,

For not caring the way they should have cared,

For letting themselves be supported than supporting,

Were cursed for living as logs of wood .

But how they lived for others, met their daily needs,

With meek acceptance of mixed blames ,

Become posthumous anecdotes for a reminiscence.

A sudden, easy death, with a no nuisance blow,

Calls for a reckoning of assumptions and errors

In assessing what others were worthy of, in real value.

Funeral tears in full form, besides being spontaneous,

Acknowledge loss and guilt as the dichotomy of death.

An instant natural death mitigates at one stroke,

The pain of the dead, having been a ‘burden’ while living

And the guilt of the living for having viewed as burden,

Those who were not hangers- on, heart and soul.

The tears shed on their death, spring from cathartic base.

                                                                        P.Chandrasekaran. 

The Hitchhiker.

                           The  Hitchhiker.

I want a lift,

Not on a vehicle on the roads;

Not the elevator or escalator,

For an effortless journey upwards.

But one that would place me on the higher rungs of

The social ladder of the elite and the enlightened.

From there, I will look not only down,

But also look down upon the point, where I stood.

The pleasure of slighting the way I was slighted,

That of kicking those, whose hands I held,

As stubs of waste in the street, is a premier posture.

Owning a vehicle without a destination, is outlandish;

Reaching one's destination without a vehicle, is orienting.

What one owns is immaterial; where one reaches,is inspiring.

How  one reaches where one wants to, is intriguing.

A down cast view of one’s original placement

Does the decisive round of what one is capable of.

Hitchhiking and heckling, hit the iron when it boils hot.

The ripe maxim of life is to get the best from others'lot.

                                                                     P.Chandrasekaran.

ORDER! ORDER!

ORDER! ORDER!

To be in disarray is not a new phase;

Life has been out of order,

Every now and then, one way or the other.

The past was not a perfect model;

Lest the present should not be

What it is today, being heckled and howled

For not setting trends for the future.

‘’Order! Order!’’ Every one cried yesterday and everyday,

Judges, Speakers, Teachers and all those,

Laid up with the predicament of presiding over.

The missing values were missing earlier too.

But their volumes have increased in vitriolic verve now.

There was noise in joint family homes on a jumbo jet fashion;

But the noise carried the nearness of tones, for a jamboree.

There were joyous cries united whimpers, with concern and concord.

Sentiments formed the succulence of life, squeezing the essence of

Endurance without imposition of values of any kind.

All was natural and that was perhaps felt as the core of living.

Today all is in chips and none remains a chip of the old block.

The self is the taste of the succulence, with joys and whimpers

Taking a holiday, for now, or for ever, no body knows.

Disorder is the hard disc and the soft copy of a routine,

Lacking in rhythms, vibrations and ring tones of being natural.

To be in dis array, in an artificial mode, is the worst of all modes.

This makes the difference in the cries for order between yesterday and today.

                                                                                         P.Chandrasekaran.

The Thugs’Zone.

The Thugs’Zone.

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

Gender is not mere grammar.

It strikes criminally as hammer,

Against victims, by rogues rude,

Wearing their communal hood.

Rape and ruin of a woman’s life

Reflects a state so rotten and rife.

If boys are boys in offensive modes,

Fleece them to death on the roads.

The law has its cheapest leverage

To bail out goons, beating its image.

The rulers have no qualms to rule

On seats of filth and fraud, so cool;

Curse on society to wait and watch

Events that muster a murky march.

                                                 P.Chandrasekaran.

Frowning Upon Time.

     Frowning Upon Time.

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

Time has made my body a battered road,

Travelling on it like a tanker,

Too fast, with a load, rather too heavy.

People call it ageing, my wrinkles and my broken teeth.

I have not lived fast; but years have fled ,

Like rattlesnakes chasing rabbits.

Today, Time stands witness to my growing plight,

Recalling past events  as excesses, not being bright.

My childhood days remain hidden from my purview,
Because taboos disposed by childhood dreams into a trashcan.

My adolescence accounts for negligible anecdotes.

The college days passed by, in foolish faith

In friends, whom I remember more than myself.

Those guys did not allow me, to assess time,

For a schedule of my own activities.

Society is always in a spirit of robbing

Others’ time, for accomplishing its own agenda.

Fears heckled me like reptiles wriggling into rat holes.

Looking back now, it is all a collateral damage

That time has done to me, in a co- travelling course.

The scars of pimples that pirated my pink of youth,

The shrinking skin and the sinking cheeks,

Are nothing but the scores of the subway strategies of Time.

The rest of my life now, looks like a wallet with little cash,

That someone keeps feeling through the fingers,

While travelling in a crowded lane,ruled by pickpockets.

Getting old is nothing but struggling to push out

One’s head and hand, as a last ditch effort,to survive

While sinking down helplessly, in the quicksands of time.

                                                                    P.Chandrasekaran.

    

Wafer Biscuit Thoughts.

Wafer Biscuit Thoughts.

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

Learn to disown memories,

They are troublesome and tormenting;

Tear them to pieces, not to be pasted again.

Throw them into the trash bin.

Life’s death traps are many.

Let not memories become one.

Unwanted past, always remains a quicksand;

A tsunami- in- waiting, to make tomorrow, clueless.

Muddy memories make movement of the brain, arduous,

Paving way for palsy, knocking at your doors.

Scavenge them with a sanitized profile.

Periodical fresh painting keeps one abreast.

Painting in new colors, could transform ghettos into palaces.

Mortgaging sleep, for digging old thoughts,

Would not make one a missionary or a messiah.

Watch the slogans of the new generation,

Marching with placards ‘’Lead ! but not load.’’

To feel easy is not to think hard.

The running stream will take you ahead.

When memories have gone into chips and drives,

Why bother the brain with a carry -on baggage?

Learn the wiser ways to sail without sinking.

Wafer biscuit thoughts will dissolve in Time’s beverage,

Without a trace of their existence turning into memories.

Buy them in plenty, to keep munching without strain.

Besides, a good night’s sleep is the bonus that you gain.

                                                                P.Chandrasekaran.

The Fragile Rainbow.

               

            The Fragile Rainbow.

The thick black clouds threatened a downpour.

The rocking thunder stood by the dark clouds.

The wild winds wore a foul look, blowing

As if to settle scores with the clouds,

For a previous,pointless enmity.

People were eagerly awaiting,

The fall of sure, summer torrents.

The weather reports had confirmed it too.

But the wind- shattered, dissipated dark clouds,

Ran rattled,as if shifting to safer hideouts,

Getting weakened, at every phase of their transit.

In between ,there appeared, the evening Sun,

Amidst showers, light and warm, all clicking

To display, the emergence of a ritzy rainbow.

The rainbow alliance of colors in the sky,

That lasted for a short while, like the dark clouds,

Made a fair show,only to beautifully betray,

The defeat of a concrete,collective mission,

Buried, beneath the colors of a fragile union.

                                                       P.Chandrasekaran.

    

A Soil of Dumpsters.

   A Soil of Dumpsters.

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

In certain parts of the world,

Even dumpsters are never left behind.

But in my land of  Saints and Mahatmas,

Women are left behind men;

The desperate and the downtrodden,

Are left behind  the greedy and caste conscious.

Merit is mopped to a corner,by mediocrity.

The meek and the timid are seen far behind bullies.

Honesty is way behind hypocrisy.

Falsehood kicks truth backward,setting barricades.

There is crowd everywhere,pushing in a melee,

Nudging and hitting others for a competitive edge.

Poverty is straightly and statistically,

Trampled by the wield of wealth.

As the maddening race continues  to acquire,

To seize, encroach and expand, it leaves

The helpless and hapless dumped behind.

The game of power is a gangrene,

That lets a minority to leave the majority,

Irredeemably infected and interred,

As heaps of garbage trashed into dumpsters.

These heaps of left-behind men and women,

Grow day by day,as pyramids of shame,

In my country of Saints and Mahatmas. 

                                        P.Chandrasekaran.

                  

A First Time Voter’s Problems. {The Eighteen Year Old in India}

      A First Time Voter’s Problems.

    {The Eighteen Year Old in India}

   =============================

                      l

Papa, Can you please say, who shall I vote for?

Those who have ruled us for long, seem to have lost ,

Their makeup manuals, to stay off  the stage.

Parties with their pep for power,

Are a pretty  much  powdered lot.  

I see faces modest, with no mechanism to govern .

There are faces dynamic and daring ,

Sporting a look of arrogance, as outdoor unit.

Others carry a load   of corruption , concealed  in

Puffed  up exteriors, resembling popcorn ,or sugar candies.

Some are colorful, but branded as communal.

Others are secular, with their colors hidden inside.

Faces peripheral, keep shuffling profiles ,quite often.

There are comrades too, with their collars stiffly up;

But their proud names are in the antiques’ list though,

With only their colors and symbols, fluttering high.

                            ll

 Mama, Can you please tell me whom to vote ?

 All power mongers here, have a party to float.

 Some lead with an ‘I’ in whatever they say;

 While others say ‘WE’, to keep us in dismay.

 As nothing  creditable  so far, has come to stay,

 I am utterly confused, to choose my way!

 For, on the whole, at any decision making forum,

 Hardly have I seen, an iota of decency or decorum.

You have said pepper is a spice, very healthy and costly;

But in the House, a few vent their ire, spraying it vastly.

I know, mikes are meant for an audible reach of speech.

But members use it often, for actions amply  for a breach.

Why not men sensibly think and speak out the right,

Rather than using paperweight to spill their spite?.

A gang of them, waste nation’s precious time and money,

Busily amassing wealth ,through acts, shady and phony.

                                   lll

Oh my peers, who shall we rightly vote for?.

There are many in the race, waging a war.

We are new as voters, with hopes for a change,

That should take our country on a ritzy range.

We are ready to press the electronic button

Provided there are, men of merits, well spun.

Will the curtains ever lift for a new generation

To lead the country  with power and passion ?

                                                                             P.Chandrasekaran.

The Fractured Facts.

             The Fractured Facts.

Let the facts remain;

For facts are at times, more riddling than fairy tales.

Life’s realities are in a rattling range;

The earthworm is rustic and resilient, more stable than the earth.

The thirsty earth drinks water and  dances like a drunkard,

In a wobbling wont, denouncing the notes of a choreographer.

There are several chase and run games here, just for fun and feud.

Sensational statistics is a pressure on one’s blood and nerves .

Some one said the business of life is to step forward.

But the forward march in fact- hunting, is full of friction.

The parallel march called  rush and race, is a puncturing process ,

Pulling each other’s legs, in a manipulative mode of unbalancing.

The end of the march is not the end of  statistics.

Statistics facilitates the flow of facts by rotating the clock.

But figures turn fussy, or at times even elusive, like

Missing planes going beyond human reach, unlike the planets.

Is the vision imperative lying hidden with impaired missions?

Are the quality norms a man- made myth, with fake fundamentals?

The euphoria  over facts, on this murky planet  is a bait of the beasts,

Claiming each other’s blood, for a random price in the name of power.

They have the butchers’ qualms, in nurturing literacy through blood.

Genetic Engineering will create more numbers of this breed,

To compute multiple statistical data of gory happenings on the move,

Like noisy vehicles, rushing through a multi -lane freeway, in an overtake melee.

Fact -reports carry little validity, similar to the number of page views,

Recorded on one’s blog with no  solid proof of views and visits.

The GDP and GNP details are the biggest padding, a small frame could boast of.

The facts of the Media have their well -marked fitment tunes to match the song .

All their facts are double- checked, before they move to the print and screen,

Stapling the song to the tune, like a tailor made garment of sizes, as facts.

There is an absolute networking style in making facts look smart and selling.

It is these facts about facts that make life colorful and catchy, like a fable.

Let the original facts remain where they are, true to their form and spirit.

                                                                                                                     P.Chandrasekaran.

Facebook Ethics.

         Facebook Ethics.

Stray thoughts, like paper plates

And disposable water bottles,

Should  reach the trash, faster than

They were conceived in a mood of meaning.

Likes and comments become daily events,

As the thought  for the day, makes its entry.

Sympathies  of friends and well wishers,

Prevent  the thoughts from boomeranging.

Only the payee knows the pain of a bounced cheque.

One who clicks a thought shot, like the one

Who signs a cheque not to be honoured,

Feels not the face of the distressed destination.

Those who happen to see a thought for the day,

From some one they don’t want to hurt,

See the thought, as empty as the waste cheque;

But still they try to save the face of the source.

From where the thought has been mooted;

By a casual click of a 'like' or post of a comment,

Friends uphold the spirit of Facebook ethics.
                                                               P.Chandrasekaran.

                                                 

The Return of the Frogs.

     The Return of the Frogs.

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

The frogs were felicitous at the fall of rains,

Croaking their new tunes,

In a chorus song of jubilation.

That was the time, the monsoon

Made it a point to visit the earth annually,

With a passion for the soil and its beings.

The freshness of life everywhere,         

Was in a real, thanks -giving mood.

There was once a festive filling up,

With no void left to wail over emptiness.

The cattle were all on a rodeo round.

Right crops at the right time ,

Like right men at the right place,

Rejoiced over the rightness of things.

Now the frogs have moved into

The withering wells and waning lakes.

The swelling load of human selfishness,

With its spiraling shapes of skyscrapers ,

Has logged  off its myriad, monsoon chats,

Blaming the system failure,  for the backlog.

It  needs a new human ID and password,

To log in with www.nature.monsoon.com,

In a perfect, antivirus, protective mode;

Only a restart of the original schedule of seasons,

Will relocate  the restive frogs, to the rain fed tanks,

And make them croak felicitously at the fall of rains.

                                                                       P.Chandrasekaran.

The Banyan Tree Broods Over.

             The Banyan Tree Broods Over.

My dense shadows  seek  me a special identity,

Like the rings of Saturn, rendering him a pattern.

Unlike others, who leave their shadows behind,

I live under my shadows, for myself and for others;

Banning the arrogance of  tall trees that stand alone,

I remain  substantially sturdy-built, paving a platform

For people  to gather socially, at my sheltering behest.

I provide the meeting point for many a kangaroo court.

When the meeting minds, make a mockery of justice,

They cast their shadows of misdemeanor on me.

But my barks, thicker than the  pachyderms’ exterior,

Bother not the damage done to me, by my beneficiaries..

I am truly Indian, devoutly  national , with  Gandhian  roots.

I know to empathize and endure, with time- tested tolerance.

                                                                           P.Chandrasekaran.

The Falling Foxes.

          The Falling Foxes.

'My stocks have fallen’ says the bear.

As the stocks  boom at the bull’s fair.

It is not at all a breach of trust,

But the bane of one’s interest;

If making choices is a clear,one side game,

Where does break out, the betrayal blame?

Life is a gamble of crossing the fence.

Even kids bet their lot, with innocence.

Adults moot their confidence and power of the brain.

The Aged push in, their trump card of senile domain .

In a weird wager, each one wields a key to press.

Some are good at dice; some champion in  chess.

A few climb the snake and ladder tree,

While a few creamy, excel in all three.

Those who stand to lose, shall not blame the stocks.

In playing with the stocks, each one has to be a fox.

When the stocks fall, the fox loses its sheen ;

But the stocks will  ever be a pasture green.

The falling foxes have a lesson to learn;

Grab the sides, for a climb sure and stern.

                                                  P.Chandrasekaran.

When Might is Right.

       When Might is Right.

Right and wrong are roadways two;

One has to pick up one's lane to woo.

Who is right and who goes wrong,

Are views  that go with people strong .

Right turns wrong with those, meek;

All is right, when power is at its peak.

Like True or False,in an answer sheet,

Positions change in a second's beat.

As who will win and who will lose,

Are open to bet, for race and ruse;

Right or wrong is a cross fire case,

Just in the form of a wild goose chase.

For right is wrong and wrong is right,

So long the lead is a matter of might.

                                                      P.Chandrasekaran.

The Chic City.

  The Chic City.

Chicago is beautiful.

The falling flakes of snow are piled here,

As pyramids of white, on a routine road cleaning.

Chicago embraces the principle of coexistence.

The fall of snow, sunlight and rains,

And the fierce dance of the wind,

Vie with one another, for a front line,

Without blocking each other’s boulevard formulation.

The braving river with its unrelenting ferrying,

The partially frozen Lake Michigan with new makeup norms,

The ever busy rail lines and the freeways,

Carry on their trendy trademarks of structural grandeur.

Chicago is frightful.

The freezing winter, the frivolous, formidable wind,

The  torrents  of snow and rain in succession,

Threaten to hijack one’s peace of mind, piece by piece .

The layer upon layer body covering, calls for a bail out,

From the weather’s brutal, bullying tactics

On the day night dynamics of a devil-may-care mindset.

Chicago’s blows of horror notwithstanding,go null and void,

By its chic, beeline spirit of belligerence,

Ever endorsed by the residents’ ring tones  of chivalry.                       

                                                            P.Chandrasekaran.

It’s Bells All the Way..

    It’s Bells All the Way.

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

The bells are religious.

For the Hindus,

The jingling bells  forecast

The arrival of an elephant or a line of elephants.

The temple bells tether one’s thoughts closer,

To the mood of  in- depth prayer.

The bells also pronounce  the schedule of

Gods, at their showers and meals.

For the Christians, the church bells toll

The chain of events like birth, marriage and death.

Besides marking the mind to the  Mass.

The funeral bells of course, freeze

The mind with the biblical facts of life.

The bells are psychological.

At college, as if at a click of the mouse,

They connect to newer log in sessions.

 But at school, they are the harbinger of moods

Such as fear, relief and joy .

As the morning school bell goes,

Nervous symptoms travel through the hours,

On being spotted and named for omissions of kinds.

When the last bell goes, pat moves out of school gates,

A crowd of legs on a sprint, sport free race;

A couple of limbs here and there, holding

The falling trousers and skirts,

Speak of wild ecstasy, born of relief.

The week end  and  term end bells,

Unleash a rapid flow of nimble feet,

Moving in anticipated directions,

For a meaty, merry go round.

The bells are travel prone;

They  ring at the small railway stations,

For the arrival and departure of trains,

That are mostly behind schedule;

The bells seem to say ‘buck up commuters’;

And those commuting, jostle with one another,

For a timely board in and bump out,

On and after, an erratic choice of compartments.

It’s bells all the way in everyone’s life

Being the calling bells and telephone bells ,

Ringing now and then, day in and day out,

As the reporting layers of the routine stuff,

At times rattling the inmates too,

Bringing unwelcome visitors and unnerving calls.

                                                      P.Chandrasekaran.

Quoting, Groans of Paradox.

      Quoting, Groans of Paradox.

 =========================

‘’In my country of a plethora of party flags,

  Banners, cut outs and posters,

  The statues of gods and men,

  Are richly clad or painted in gold .

  But marriage proposals here and there,

  Are broken for shortage of a sovereign.

  My country is rich, but my people are poor.

  For politics has a passion for poverty,

  As votes pour in from the woes of the poor.

  Our dams may deplete; but our scams are replete.

  There is little water for the summer’s thirst.

  There is enough though, at the bars all over .

  But my people are pathetically poor,

  Despite the daily, free flow of money,

  From the maternity wards to the mortuaries’’.

                                                    P.Chandrasekaran.

The Shoulders.

    The Shoulders.

   =============

A hanging peg I was for you,

To strap hang your stifling school bag;

You did not bother to hurt me,

Standing on a bus,during your daily commuting.

Later,I allowed you the pleasure of

Lifting your kids whenever you wanted.

I liberally helped you in porting

Your weekly procurement without a wage.

Now, down with age, you cry ,

Forgetting the fact that it is I who am aching.

You know pretty well, that when you fall dead,

You will have some one else’s to hang on,

Helping you as usual,even on your last journey.

                                         P.Chandrasekaran.

Night is a Battle Ground .

  Night is a Battle Ground .
====================

Night is a battle ground ;

Sleep and dreams keep fighting.

Dreams turn into  munitions

Making sleep’s defensive mechanism futile.

When peace of sleep is defeated,

Draconian dreams rejoice in victory.

The diurnal, shadow -fighting endeavours,

Deepen into  warring nocturnal mind frames,

For crossing the peaceful frontiers of sleep.

Day time thoughts have their nuclear impact,

As  vertical shoots of valor,  to hit horizontally,

The hours of sleep, with an artillery of dreams.

But a wake up from sleep, kills all dreams ,

With  the sudden pull of a dauntless dawn ,

That draws up the curtains for fresh vertical shoots,

Preparing the battleground for another night.

                                                 P.Chandrasekaran.

The Spiritual Hunt.

                 The Spiritual Hunt.

At the shrines where I went to pray,

I saw no gods around. 
They were busy perhaps,

Looking for humans elsewhere.

Their absence kept the God hunters crazy,

Hunting for things that Gods detest to see.

In the plates where camphor and oil lamps burn,

Coins and currencies tilted the balance

In favour of those, 
Who were 'liberal' in worshiping.

I struggled to fix my thoughts, in the eyes

Of the statues of gods and goddesses.

But my eyes played the truant,
Ogling at anything but divine.

The  entertaining crowds seemed to heckle

My pretended piety, emptying my soul.  

I returned home to turn to my Gods in their selfie mode.

They seemed to ask, how long could they wait for me,

To refine my stuff, and replenish my soul .

I snubbed them back and went to bed,

Preparing my soul for my morning prayer

At the temple of my choice, on rotation. 

                                              P.Chandrasekaran.

In God’s Chamber.

       In God’s Chamber.

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

When I told God,

I wanted to be in two different time zones

At the same time,

Just to feel the thrill of it,

He said He alone had that privilege.

When I expressed my zeal

To travel multi-dimensionally,

By flying, driving and sailing simultaneously,

I was advised not to indulge in tomfoolery.

Finally when I asked  him  if I could preview

The  moment  of  my death, pat He said

Every one’s moment of death was earned,

The way  they lived  their  moments of life.

And a preview of the same, had no set patterns as such.

                                                    P.Chandrasekaran.

Liquidation.

     Liquidation.

In some ‘liberal’ third world countries,

Where population is the single resource,

Life is spilled over in liquor outlets;

Dopes and dipsomaniacs drive in

Or walk over, for their daily festival,

When their families can hardly pin their hopes,

For a festive mood that means modified living.

Politics is more focused on freebies in certain pockets.

The cyber side of these zones is not weak but.

Mobile connectivity 'mitigates' the blow of hunger.

A handset takes each one to their destination,

Drier than the soil that has not felt the fall of rain for long;

What if, when the majority magnify their life’s dreams

Through an intoxicating flow of fatal fun raisers?

                                                                         P.Chandrasekaran.

Dying Offshore.

 Getting killed in a remote alien land,

With kith and kin kept waiting for long,

For a grievous glimpse of one’s last remains,

Takes a dig at the heart, with tons of weapons

Hitting at one stroke, causing a piercing blow.

The pain of parting is a part of the game.

But the sore of not being able to share

The parting moment, paints grief in permanence.

The battle of the womb with pangs of pathetic kicks,

For the one to be packed for the tomb, is a rude reminder

Of those, that it received  during the genesis and gestation;

The heart beats louder, with resounding requiems

During the course of fatal pull of the umbilical cord,

Years after its delinking delivery programme.

No backup can boost the morale of a bereaved mother.

Dying offshore, is the most diabolic cut of all.

                                                                        P.Chandrasekaran.