A Soil of Dumpsters.

   A Soil of Dumpsters.

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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}

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                      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.