Happy New Year 2016.

                                           { Happy New Year to all the Facebook friends.}

                                             New Year2016                                                                      

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

                              'Next' and 'Next' says Time, as it passes by;

                             'Quest' is a course,that man is asked to try.

                              Life's spell runs like rabbits,year after year.

                             Trial and error tasks,keep gauging the gear.

                             Old and new, are just a batch of older terms;

                             It is a fresh feel,that promotes powered firms.

                            Competition is a passport to the future fora,

                            To experience one's flair for a fabulous aura.

                             Learn to lead and lead to learn,at equal length.

                             Level playing always adds up to one's strength.

                            Success is stuck to the soul,with sense and stuff

                            And not to the goal, on a track of baits and bluff .

                            A new year is not just an old wine in a new bottle.

                            It is a never-again,'New',on nerves,in full throttle.

                                                                                  P.Chandrasekaran.

புத்தாண்டு 2016.புன்னகைக்கிறது.

புத்தாண்டு 2016  புன்னகைக்கிறது
===============================  .
உதடுகளின் சாம்ராஜ்யத்தில்
புன்னகையையை அரியணை ஏற்றுவோம் !
பொய் மேகங்கள் பெயர்ந்து கலையட்டும்.
உதடெனும் பூச்செடி  உதிர்ப்பது
வண்ணமிடும்  உண்மை மலர்களாகட்டும் .
கையில் பணமும் கணக்குகள் பலவும்,
செய்யா அதிசியங்கள் செய்து காட்டிட,
ஐயம் அறியா அன்பைக் குவிப்போம் !
பூமியின் பலமே புதுமைகள் படைத்தலெனின்,
பலமாய் புதுமைகள் பழகுவோம் பாரில்.
பொருளோடு அருளும் புவியை வென்றிட
புத்தாண்டுப் படியினை பணிந்துத் தொடுவோம்!
படபடவென முன்னேறப் பயணம் தொடருவோம் !
                                                                              ப. சந்திரசேகரன்.  

இனிய கிறிஸ்துமஸ் திருநாள் .

                                 இனிய கிறிஸ்துமஸ் திருநாள் .
                           =================================

                          மெழுகென உருகி ஒளியெனப் பரவு ;
                          எழுத்திலும்  பேச்சிலும் பளிச்சிடும்  எண்ணம்
                          உழுத நல்உள்ளம், ஊட்டிய உயர்வே .
                          பொழுதெலாம் பேணும் அன்பின் அணுக்கள்,
                          முழுதும் தகர்க்குமாம் முறையிலா வன்மம்.
                          கழுகதன் பார்வையில், காலமும் இரையே.
                          பழியின் பக்கங்கள் பல தலைமுறைக்காம்.
                          அழிவினில் காத்திட அரியதோர்  அவதாரமெடு.
                          விழிகளின்  காட்சியில் சத்தியக் கனலாய் ,
                          மொழிதனில் கனியாய், தொழிலினில்  துடுப்பாய்,
                          எழிலுறும் வாழ்வினில் இறைவனின் முத்திரை,
                          வழியெலாம் பதித்து விடியலைப் போற்று.
                                                                                  ப. சந்திரசேகரன்.  

Christmas Song December 2015..

Christmas Song, December 2015.
=======================
The Christmas itinerary of the Lord does neatly steer,
Like a spreadsheet of minutes,spread through the year;
Everyday events,edited annually,aptly adorn the sheet,
Wherein, themes of addition and deletion.meekly meet.

His Christmas visits carry a special range and rhythm;
The souls serene,pull him like a hymn, to their system.
Wherever he sees a melting glow of love-mixed,mercy,
Pat he delivers more candles with his core of clemency.

He certifies smiles and tears in their valid wield and form
But writes off those,born of customary clicks sans a norm.
He enjoys warmth and wisdom as sweet cakes and cheese
As he does carols, sung in praise of perfect joy and peace.

The annual glory of Christmas is thus a cumulative slot
Of capital collections of goodness cherished and sought.
                                                                         P.Chandrasekaran.

The Chosen Nightmares.

The Chosen Nightmares.
-----------------------------
Calamities are no casual events.
The arrogance of acquisition,
The evil of encroachment
And the greed for exploiting vegetation,
Boomerang as horrid rains, floods and drought.
Nature is no scapegoat for man's manoeuvres.
Corporates should exist, but not at the cost of
Cosmic norms, governing life on this planet.
River beds and lake shores exist,
Not to become the last resort of the poor,
To be driven to  disaster and death,
To be washed away like logs of wood.
Build not,to belittle the soil and its stuff.
Safety is mostly a self driven mechanism.
But in securing safety,endanger not,
The living environment, with least responsibility.
Deluge and ruin are no doubt,Nature's game plans.
But let not human highhandedness.
Push Nature's game plans through the backdoor.
We choose our own nightmares at a huger cost,
By digging our graves sooner,than driving the life wagon.
                                                             P.Chandrasekaran.


   

Life's Archives

  Life's Archives.

All saved moments of life,
Do not find a place as treasures,in one's archives.
Some are preserved as personal files.
Others become printouts for private circulation.
Some get deleted too,in course of time.
A few also get retrieved from the recycle bin.
It's all because of the processor's failure,
To filter what is to be cherished,
And what is to perish as failed shots.
Between intelligence and emotion,
Who plays foul or performs collateral damage,
Is more a casual happening,than one cataloged.
The contextual glory of life is at times
Set aside by a scroll of suffocating situations.
Intelligence and emotions are like Facebook friends,
Endorsing posts with likes and comments,
With their yardsticks of perusal and passion.
The more you peruse,the more you skip.
The more passionate,the richer the archives.
Life's archives are heavier with passion,
But stronger, on programmes of sense and sensibility.
                                                             P.Chandrasekaran.

Right Wing Thoughts.

Right Wing Thoughts.

When we were fledged,
Our right wing spread first;
The left lagged behind.
Being always right,we thought,
The left is bereft of the might of right.
We are sticklers to well set norms,
And not losers with liberal storms.
Our one target orientation owns us.
We do not look side ways to add weight.
Our soul is stronger,not being secular.
Our own values govern us,not others'.
Demagogues call us democrats.
Rebels keep telling,we are rigid.
Carnival pets, call us conservatives.
Carpet baggers cast calumny against us,
Calling us communal with majority guts.
All this acrimony and all these aspersions,
Not just because, we are always right,
But because we strongly believe
That might alone can never be right.
                                                    P.Chandrasekaran.

The Pen is Mightier,but........

Fix not the horse behind the cart.
Sense should never lead,from behind,
The preconceived precept of right.
Today the alphabet counts more
Than the attitudes in creativity.
Beware of the ruling arms more than
The  pen- turned keyboard, with its symbols.
Rightly deliver what is rightly conceived.
One wrong can not set right another.
Deeper wounds should look for healing
Rather than hurting,to cause further wounds.
Let the labour pains of creativity be genuine.
A warrior born of valorous unison hits not
With a rusted sword, raised to infect the enemy.
Fight the brute powers,flaying issues with a flair.
By shunning the itch for sensations, through sinning.
It is not that the mob is meant only for filthy flavor.
Create better taste for the crowd with a care
For the alphabet you choose to project,
And the visuals that you upload for wider reach.
Let not the words and visuals mar the pang of birth.
A creator is a stallion and a palomino for posterity
Not a still born child to be struck down for burial .
                                                                  P.Chandrasekaran.

    

The Feminist.

The Feminist.
===========
I am a feminist.
To be a feminist one need not be a woman.
It is the blood of woman that runs through
The arteries of me, you and all.
Though my father made me happen,
I am here because of my mother.
My wife is the pride of my fatherhood.

A woman is not there behind
Every successful man,as the adage goes.
She is in front of him,day in and day out.
Making his fancy wings flutter,
Helping his thoughts move forward.
And his dreams take off by her feather touch.
A woman is the value addition of the world.

The feminist in woman is a myth.
Her clamor for a place that she already has,
Is not an awakening but a thought of attrition.
Wherever she holds her position,society wins.
A flattered woman is in a state of palsy.
The state of truly cherished womanhood rests with men
Who as feminists, adore her from the bottom of their heart.
                                                                        P.Chandrasekaran.

Intercontinental insights.

Intercontinental insights.
=================
What is soil but a place,
To live in and work with.
Higher education and employment
Are more airborne today, than ever.
Career is an intercontinental carrier.
The universe is getting shrunk more,
As its beings move farther and faster.
The wider one travels, the closer the globe is.
The passion for progress crosses continents.
Some gain experience and energy.
Some lose their threads and roots.
Greater civilizations are those
That kill racial and religious interiors.
The making up of a single race
Can uproot man's soil moorings,
By mixing up food, drinks and clothes.
As the colors of life change for a new style
The colors of the mind change one's profile.
But the body like the soil is just a background,
When the mind changes its colors the body is buried.
So is the soil by all that grows on it.
Both the soil and the body are exploited zones,
Frequently getting tampered with.by pressures,
Painted on them by the passing occupancy patterns.

Far from these,there are some who never cross barriers,
But stay stuck to their soil,expanding scopes all the while;
With their mind, that matches its myriad colors to the body,
And their thoughts and ways of life, as stable sensors,
They embrace the bulk of mankind with a sublime hug.
Like plants absorbing water and carbon dioxide,
Like seers seeing gods from with in,
From where they are,they have the continents drawn to them.
We call them cosmopolitans and humanitarians.
                                                               P. Chandrasekaran.

Pedestrian Thoughts.

             Pedestrian Thoughts.

The tardy trucks wryly wriggled their way
Like pythons looking for their unlucky prey.
The trucks knew where to leave the load away,
As the pythons their spot, for their eggs to lay.

When the zebra crossing is often set to rest.
The pedestrians' patience is pushed to test.
In countries known to honour the human feet,
People cross the streets without the police beat.

But our urban pavements are a haven of bribes
For fixing dwellers,peddlers and homeless tribes.
Most streets here, have no walking zones as such,
And road traffic hits walkers,with a wicked touch.
.
Pedestrians on roads seem to walk on nails and knives,
Battling with traffic terror ruining their limbs and lives.
                                                              P.Chandrasekaran.

On Smiles.

Smiles !,
The lateral blooming of the lips,
Either closed or open,in lively lots.
A closed smile carries a hidden agenda.
An open smile is like an apple garden.
A graceful smile is the gift of god.
A charming smile,is chiseled out
To streamline a self-made style.
A sly,scheming smile is a slope of the mind,
Reflecting downward symptoms of the brain.
The smile of victory has a set pattern.
The smile of arrogance bears an arbiter's emblem.
A black and white smile, with winning teeth,
Well set by divine or dentist's hands,
Offers a bright and bounteous treat.
A colorful smile cuts others to shape.
Toothless smiles of babies take you to Heaven.
But those of the aged, read pages of life.
Called a mile of travel, between two yesses,
Life's journey is incomplete, without
The multiple exits of mind blowing smiles.
                                                             P.Chandrasekaran.

Oh My Dear Elephant God.

Lord Ganesh,
The elephant faced spark plug
Of all initial human drives,
Is ever fine with his pot belly.
A banyan tree shelter,or a shrine,
Or any road side resting place,
He has no issue with anyone,anytime,
As to where he is placed, to be a referee
To what each one does, or fails to do.
His pet music is listening to the serial sounds of
Cracking of coconuts, for gaining his grace.
His staple food is the holy grass or a pair of bananas;
But his annual feast is the sweet stuffed rice sandwich.
In a sibling race for winning a mango,
He set the precept, that parents become
The windows of the world,far and wide.
But would he ever approve of the race
And the craze, for manufacturing his idols,
In multiple sizes and colors on his birthday,
Just for the sake of drowning him in the deep sea
And the rivers, in each one's style and range?
Oh the sensation in celebration,causing clashes!
That he is the common deity of the common Hindu,
That he becomes a success symbol at the top of answer papers,
That one of his horns is broken is nothing but
A warning to all humans,against imperfection,
Are not mere tales,or tricks, but magnificent truths of this
Never- claiming- to- be big, but ever bounteous,God.
                                                    P.Chandrasekaran.    .

Teacher:- The Students'Pride.

Is the teacher just a few pieces of chalks,
Digitally travelling on boards,black and white?
Is he a cane guard, with a handbook of dos and don'ts?.
Can he be a standing monument, or a sitting duck
To set precedents, for patterns of lifestyle?
Does he steal the show or succumb to his flow?
A trained teacher knows his turns and twists.
But an inbuilt teacher can make his inroads.

A teacher who waits for his wards, is their well meaning friend;
One who makes them wait, is politically groomed in power mongering.
He who keeps looking for the bell to go,is a vagabond.
One who leads beyond the bells, is a wastrel of others'time.
But one who tops up the listening zeal, through trendy,time bound sessions,
And inspires from point to point,becomes the inside of every learner.

                                                                                       P.Chandrasekaran.

Note:-Looking in retrospect,I do not know which aspects of my poem did I reflect in my career.My students alone can have the ultimate say.Similarly there could be a galaxy of other ideas on the proudest profession,called teaching.This humble sonnet is dedicated to my teacher/teaching fraternity.P.C

The Symbols of My Soil.

The Symbols of My Soil.

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

The bullocks with the plough, had a long run,

Getting stuck to the soil, like a dress well spun.

Farming was found to be my soil's strong base,

When it became free from the colonial chase.

But the soil seemed to be too'bonded' and big,

For the bullocks and the plough to do the dig.

The right hand with its firm grip and stocks

Slowly got rid of the plough with its bullocks.

As the hand could make and unmake things,

It grew faster and greater to make more innings.

Oh the whip of the hand could be right or wrong,

It could blend or break the rhythm from the song.

The holding hand was soon found to be losing its hold,

By becoming the fist of power, to make gains manifold. 

Then the Lotus that is closer to the soil and its essence

Spread its petals, with magnitude and magnificence.

Against the aroma of people’s aspirations and dreams,

The lotus here, is too soft to survive the political steams.

Handled by the hands, known to mishandle the tasks,
Petals of lotus pang for a glow, as if hidden in masks;

Fancy dissipates fragrance, with an itch for fables,

While facts keep rolling across the deciding tables.

The rising sun in its long transit, has lent more heat than light

With its journey smudged by tainted clouds, dimming its sight;

The leaves are lovely, so long they are fresh and green;

But once turned withered and dry, they lose their sheen.

Be it the sickle and the corn or the hammer and sickle,

It is the hands that hold them,make them face a heckle.

The umbrella can never weather the wild wind and the storm;

So do the other symbols,sulking under pressures of their form.

My soil is dense with more of flags and symbols than of vegetation.
Even if monsoon fails,money does not,for alliances with ambition.
The symbols of my soil keep surging, to match its population,
In terms of caste and religion, to surpass human imagination. 

But what are all these symbols for, without representing a system?

And what for is a stunted system, with out its firm root and stem?

                                                                             P.Chandrasekaran.

Sense of Belonging:--A Double Sonnet.

Sense of Belonging:--A Double Sonnet.

Is belonging  synonymous of permanence.
The earth belongs to the universe.
The sun the moon and the stars belong to the skies.
All living beings belong to their mothers.
When a baby beautifully clings to its mother,
It is the mother's belonging,as matter and spirit.
Growing up  changes the pattern and form of belonging.
And who belongs to whom, bids for preferential modes,
Matching the way and the place, where one grows up.
Between man and woman,who belongs to whom,
Becomes either a contract or point of contention.
Delightful togetherness is bilateral belonging.
But dependence makes being together,a blight,
Making us doubt if belonging is wrong or right.

Is sense of belonging just an illusion?
Some say,nothing belongs anywhere,to anything.
Even the air we breathe in and out, does not belong to us.
If the air belongs to the winds, where do the winds belong to.
What we think we own here, is at Time's mercy.
Even what belongs to time, does not belong to it at all times.
All things fall as the leaves and flowers from the plants and trees.
The size of the moon does not always belong to it,
So do the light and heat of the sun,getting stunted
By the temerity of rain-fooling clouds,raiding the skies.
The eclipses of the sun and the moon are like a sudden coup.
All this shows that belonging is a betraying concept.
Then why this sad, senseless longing, for a sense of belonging,
When all that bound us all together, was a transitory thronging.
                                                                                   P.Chandrasekaran.

India's August 15th..

   

August 15^th 1947 was not just another day.

How many here know, how many days went before it,

To make it the day it is and it came to be!

And how many were dead, to drive others to this day!.

Like wreathes placed on tombs and coffins,

Freedom, bloomed on bodies sown as seeds,

Sprouting, like a cluster of seedlings from the soil.

Our freedom was borrowed,from the breath of others

Who lost it, to chase the colonial curse out of the soil.

We have seen nearly seven decades of independence,

But the fruits of freedom are not yet ripe,

With rife wrangling and bickering, among my post 47

Brothers and sisters, clamoring for the entire tree, with the fruit.

We hoist out national flag on every August 15^th

With patented pride, to celebrate our independence;

We bully others every day, before and after this  day.

Though this day’s guard of honour, is due only to those,

Who ever had the guts to unfurl the national flag,

When the alien brains hurt the native hands, holding it.

The cry for independence was stronger than the catch of it.

And now the grasp of independence vests rightly with those,

Who would let the tree and its fruit belong to all,

For whose sake lives were lost, like candles in a race.

                                                                 P.Chandrasekaran.

கனிந்த நல் கலாம்.

கலாமும் காலமும்

இடம் மாறிய இணை எழுத்துக்களே;

எழுத்துக்கள்  இடம் மாறினும்

கலாமும் காலமு மொன்றே .

காலத்தைக் கணக்கிட்டேச் சென்றன

கலாமின் காலடிச் சுவடுகள்.

காலத்தை வென்றவர் காலத்தின் கருவெனில்,

காலமாவாரோ கலாம்?

இயற்கையோடு இணைந்தவர்

இயற்கை எய்துவரோ என்றேனும் ?      

விண்ணில் கலாம் ஓர் ஏவுகணை;

மண்ணில் ஏவல் அறியாக் கனி.

மழலை தொடங்கி முதுமை வரை

மனித மனம், இனிமை போற்றும் கனி;

கணிதமும் கணினியும் அறிந்த கனி.

உண்மை உணர்ந்த, உயர்ந்த கனி

மென்மையும் மெருகூட்டும் மேன்மையும்,

தன்மையாய் கொண்ட தனிச்சுவைக்  கனி.       

உரத்த சிந்தனையால் ஊக்கம் உரைத்த கனி.

பிறப்பால்  தமிழும் பிறர்க்காக ஆங்கிலமும்

சிறப்பாய்  நவின்ற கனி.
இறப்பறியாச் சிந்தனையில், என்றும்
இணையில்லா பாரதம் வென்ற கனி .
                                        ப.சந்திரசேகரன்.  

Do Not Love.

Do Not Love.

Do not love your parents,

To push them into the pockets of

Possessive self-pity;

Do not love your spouse,

To surrender each other’s self- esteem.

Do not love your children,

At the cost of their character.
Do not love your siblings
To set ablaze the serene maternal cord.
Do not love your friends
To unlock their cherished mood of privacy.

Do not love  your religion,

To reach the frenzied peak of fanaticism.

Do not love your country,

To become a zealous xenophobe.

Do not love yourself,

To step up the I over everybody else.

                                       P.Chandrasekaran.

The Fragile Kite.

          The kite that was flying very high,
          Had the pride to pooh pooh the sky.
          The thread that was holding the kite,
          Scorned at the kite's blowing weight.

          The hand holding the kite on its thread,
          Heckled them both, for their crazy head.
          The wind in a whirl, whipped all the three
          Playing for a while, his blowing game in glee.

          Down fell the kite like a jet, speedier to the ground
          Cutting the glassy thread and its hand in a turnaround.
          Flying one's moments of pride is a fragile fashion
          As living is hiring for a while, an airborne mansion.

          It is not that everyone builds here, castles in the air;
          But life is too fragile a kite to fly in an eternal flair.    
                                                             P.Chandrasekaran.          

Being a Grandpa.

Being a Grandpa.

Come my delightful darlings,

You all have my kisses in plenty,

That I did not offer my children,

Because they had a lot from their grand parents.

It is not that I did not love my children;

But my concerns were more for their character and career.

My earnings were meant for them, not my time.

You have all my time and extra attention.

In turn, your words carry the magic wand  to mesmerize me,

With all your pranks, that went unnoticed in the case of my wards.

Childhood is the same for all kids, with crowded days of innocence.

But the charm of childhood becomes a charter for responsible rearing;

The pains of parenting are set aside by the pleasures of grand parenting.

It looks as though yesterday’s Hitlers are today’s Laurel and Hardy.

A Pa becomes grand in looks and love, after passing out the parenting test

With the power of patience to stay as grandpa until the day he passes away.

There is a thin line of difference that adds purple patches to the grey grandpa.

It is the transition from responsibility to a relaxed return to second childhood.

                                                                                             P.Chandrasekaran.

First and Second Thoughts.

  First and Second Thoughts.

First thoughts are like one's feel of first love ,

Lifting men closer to the Heavens, far above.

Second thoughts would shine as second to none, 
For those, whose step ahead is never meant for fun.

Thrills and surprises may await all the first moves.

But,second thoughts fit things into firm grooves.

Second thoughts set standards through precision

Pruning routes of multiple exits, prone to deviation.

Fears of first thoughts, could heavily freeze the mind,

Of those who, fingers crossed, get stuck, far behind.

While first strokes belong to galvanizing trend setters
Second thoughts seem to confine achievers, in fetters.

First or Second,thoughts and moves  have their wield,
If firmness of march and fitness of goal hold the field

                                                        P.Chandrasekaran.

The Social Itch.

Man is social;

But where is society?

There is laughter; there are tears.

There are emotions of all frames.
But sharing is mostly in a holiday mood,

For humanity can not hear the voice of sharing,
As many are in their electronic hideouts

Tweeting and posting their social itch.

Education has made us more civilized, but less human.

We hate insiders,for the sake of wooing outsiders;

Just as we visit temples, when we have deities at home.

Logic lays barricades against emotional trafficking 
With the brain losing faith in the beat of the heart.

Man pampers partying as a platform for ,
Personal recharging and promotion of self image,

Betting on mutual terms and conditions for a contract.

Man may not be social,while swiping his debit or credit card;
But he is very much in the social net while swiping hid ID card.
                                P.Chandrasekaran.

Being Indian.

Being Indian is being secular and communal.

Contrary slogans continue as our pet manual.

Temples, churches and  mosques are built to stay,

As three- side waters, of this Peninsula’s role play.

The minority voices keep harping themes in a mood of turmoil,

Even after the exit of the colonials and the partition of the soil.

But the majority voices  boil communal cauldrons, as anathema

While loyalties keep shuffling, between Godse and the Mahatma.
Amenities for public, are thrown as a gift of privilege and favour;
As political groups cry for a share in, projects of people's power. 

 

Being Indian is being traditional and modern.

We have not yet carved for us a distinct pattern.

Our homes allow meek mothers to lead the way,

For the Paternal heads, to rule and have their say.

Our women are free to go anywhere ,anytime they like, at their risk..

Without a biological backing, burdening themselves, with tasks brisk.

Rapists make their roll calls from their ambush, on an outlandish spree;

Wrecking  the fate of their fragile victims, in a reckless dance of glee.

Technology discovers trends new, for trading, men’s thirst for dowry.

To boorishly negotiate proposals of marriage across the table of usury.

Many an in-law, is still bent upon behaving as outlaw,

Downgrading dignity of others, as a dirty heap of straw.

Society is nothing but the cackle of the careless crowd,

With  fashions of  fiery  thoughts, noisily blowing loud.

We own the streets, more than our homes,to be free to stroll and  sleep around,

Making them most of the time, our betting spots, or beaming battling ground.

We have techies around from the I.T hubs and tax collectors from the Capital,
The former outsourcing their stuff, the latter sourcing the currency's black cell. 

We have made books of law, civil and criminal, but we love to break them all;

Breaking besides our heads, to see that our dear democracy is never set to fall.
                                                                              P.Chandrasekaran.

                                                                                    

Getting Disconnected...

               
                 Getting Disconnected..

               When you were born,
               Did you not create a storm?
               The umbilical cord was perhaps
               Long enough for you,
               Not to get easily disconnected
               From your maternal link.
               You made the 'unkindest cut of all'
               To be frantically on your own; 
               How much did you tamper with
               Your looks and life mode, you may not know.
               Nor will you weigh in real terms,
               The load you acquired to make you
               Heavier on the soil and in your hearse.
               That your eyes never shed tears of their own
               And your lips were never severed without bogus smiles,
               Speak volumes of your toxic life style.
               When all the exit gates get closed,
               You will be buried with nothing that came with you.
               Not even a bit of your long umbilical cord .
               Your gains here will become your shroud;
               Your coffin would  lament your presence with in.
               But the soil will solemnly contain your coffin,
               With the manner of motherhood of another womb.
                                                       P.Chandrasekaran

Scaling New Heights.

          Scaling New Heights.

      Motherhood is a masterpiece in creativity
      And not a mechanical delivery system;
      Childhood is the instant access to innocence.
      And not a castle building course in the cradle.
      Boyhood is making buoyant steps forward
      And not a breezy stroll, for borrowing
      Lifestyle manual in easy installments.
      Girlhood is a self governing grand script
      Not a selfie device for gaining  leverage
      Through  competitive fashion parades.
      Adulthood is a sabbatical state between
      The bonny side of bachelorhood and marriage
      And not for beating against the walls in self defeat.
      Ageing should be a guiding calendar sheet
      Not a fodder for fruitless and futile mastication
      On  the soiled stories of a life time.  
      If each stage of life is at loose ends with the other,
      It is a struggle for fitting fragments into a perfect form.
      If one follows the other,living gets stereotyped.
      If each stage of life influences the other as a leading ladder,
      The right mix of stages, mounts new heights for views broader
                                                P.Chandrasekaran.

The Woes of English.

       The Pangs of a British Legacy.

"My users have a hell of lot, to do with me.

A few decades ago, they were my mirror.

I looked fabulous, when I saw myself through them;

Today they are causing blisters on my face

With their killing,keyboard manoeuvres.

Whenever they wantonly skip an alphabet,

I feel like losing one of my limbs,in an accident.

When they love to be ungrammatical,

They seem to put me in a casualty ward ;

At times,even in the intensive care unit,

With an internal organ failure,for urgent care.

How beautiful I looked in the hands of

A Shakespeare or Milton,a Johnson or Russell,

A Dickens or a Hardy,or an Ayn Rand,for instance.

Even the Dailies who loved my original looks,

Have begun to tamper with my alphabet,

On account of their electronic arrogance.

What they want is,how I am understood.

And not how appealing,the understanding should be.

I have become What T.S. Eliot once said,of them..

‘A heap of broken images and a withered stump of Time.’

The letters of my alphabet are crossed like their fingers.

Why a generation with neat,new and nice ideas,

Should choose to clothe them in rags,as a fashion?

Why this poverty of language,for a purpose peculiar?

Should my sentences,face an undue Death Sentence?"
P. Chandrasekaran.

A Pyramid of Precepts.

    A  Pyramid of Precepts.

   Love's waves recede

   When one draws farther,

   As the other moves closer.

   Frankness breaks down in other's silence.

   Reciprocity is the note of compliance,

   That rules the rhythm of living for a purpose.

   Thinking, and doing one’s thought differently,

   Does not mean one is crossing the other

   At frequent junctions for a battleground.

   Diversities double up the directions of life,

   Though all directions are horizon bound.

   Talk to differ; but talk, one should.

   Pyramids are made from a broader base.

   It is the growing peak that makes sense.

   The peak is the culmination of coming together,

   That makes the base for betting and binding,

   For moving closer, to break down silence,

   And  reinforce frankness never to break.            

                                                  P.Chandrasekaran.

Suburban Thoughts.

           Suburban Thoughts.

   Expansion is both a symptom and sequel,

   Like the swelling traced in a body.

  Cities expand at the cost of their neighborhood.

  The highway lanes expand, for making many an exit.

  The vertical expansions are for 'high living' 

  And skipping suffocating stop overs, while moving.

''Either till the soil or kill it, to make sites for realtors

  Or the industry lords'' say the land acquisition lobbies. 

  Resources are meant for distribution, is their logic .

  Plantation of saplings is meant only for posterity.

  Benefit someone to provide the shade, shifting the trees.

  The size of the new shade will of course belong to those

  Who know to survive better than the deprived.

  Riches grow for some because they know,

  How to surgically remove  for a cause,

  The swelling in others, calling it a disease symptom.

  Ethically speaking, encroachment is good

  For creating growing neighborhoods.

  A good neighbor is one who knows, by all means,

  To fend for himself  without mending his fences.

  A burgeoning neighbourhood is that 

  Which brings down the vanity of soil lovers,

  Rusting with their rural belongings, of road ridden tractors,

  Transporting thoughts of simple living and high thinking.

  ''Let the floors remain where they are'' echo the suburban voices;

  ''The carpets will take care of the whole show''.

                                                            P.Chandrasekaran.

A Round the Clock Romantic.

A Round the Clock Romantic.
=======================

Once I landed on a double moon
Your pair of eyes;
Your lips synchronized with your feelings.
The body language of romance
Breaks the barriers of the body,
In search of something more than the body.
Fondling  may be and is, the front liner,
In leading the journey of making love.
But love is more than making love;
It is more than being together in bed.
Love is the power of vision in the pair of eyes
Reading the closed text of the other,
Without the other's knowledge and approval. 
A feeling of fineness in perfection.
Like the joy of breaking the ice,
Like the thrill of tasting the oil
Through the food, fried in it.
Like  the aroma identifying its source.
Through invisible tracking devices.
Like the known ears navigating
The niceties in the notes of music, .
I can reach my double moon wherever they are,
As pet animals reach their homes unguided
And steal the throbs of the heart in proximity. 
Aren't the fingers God's gift,
To digitally fine tune fantasies with facts.
The fatigue of fingers closes not, the facts and fantasies.
For love is nothing but a round the clock symphony of the soul,
Heard through the vibrations of the senses and thoughts in eternity.                                                                                                                                    P.Chandrasekaran.
   

Load Shedding.

Load Shedding.

Heaviness is both a hitch and a hunch.

Acquired heaviness owes its origin

To a laid back attitude, of being self-dumped.

Imposed heaviness is an indictment,

Single edged, or mutually manipulative.

Hurting or getting hurt is a lurking clause

Of obese schedules of the sinning charter.

Catharsis has a catalogue for assessment.

A weighbridge for scaling precisely, the bulk;

Nay! Not just the bulk, but the source of it.

Unloading has its modules and worksheets.

Load shedding can be engineered, as precisely as loading.

Disrobing hatred, is the prologue of the load shedding serial.

Shedding tears is not an ornamental deal but an organized act,

Of balancing the heart and soul, through programmed maintenance.

With the excess of indignity gone on a liquefied lane,

Living is a gathering of fresh leaves, each leaf letting out

The fragrance of love, shedding down the stench of heaviness.

                                                                              P.Chandrasekaran.

The Redder, Red Sanders.

 The Redder,Red Sanders.

Crimes have a character;

Each crime is distinguishable from the other

In terms of their range, variation, frequency and impact.

Wood cutters and fishermen are not

Notorious historysheeters  and terrorists, to be gunned down,

In a style of nonchalance , goaded by the encounter syndrome.

Why destroy the arrows, leaving the bows safe in their abode?

Red sanders hate being waterlogged;

Do they love being locked in blood?

Do they ask for the blood of lamentable labourers

To turn redder than they are, in a fit of revenge?

Rash killing is the result of a policy paralysis.

The law abiding rifles and guns, bury their qualms,

And turn shy to encounter the hoarders of black money;

But on the other hand, let modest blood gush out,

Through their guilty, digital triggering of death.

Can the killers differentiate the logs felled, from those

Roped and heaped in a murky and mad dance of death?

                                                                                   P.Chandrasekaran.

The Populous Pain.

The Populous Pain.

Infancy is not in anyone’s itinerary ;

It forms part of the mothers’ manual.

Childhood is not a cake walk for all.

For many, it is a burden on the mother’s arms;

Considerate dads are a mothers’ blessing.

Prams and tricycles are not on each one’s agenda.

From cloth- made cradles to mats without pillows,

The greater part of the journey is a makeshift meet. 

Adolescence is always an antagonistic exit

With anti virus monitoring, all through the way.

Drop outs of school are drugged out, in a carcass disposal  schedule.  

What one wants to eat, ever remains a want for many.

There is a crowd everywhere, in  malls, temples and bars,

On all the busy roads, on all that rolls on them,

Not bothering about the pressure of the bodies.

Types of body odour  tease one another in very high frequencies.

The tough travel during the day, is only to buy a ticket for the night

For a kind of sleep, between nightmares and nervous wake ups.

From suckling sessions to serial sinning  what has been absorbed

Is more as nutrients of negatives of winners and runners up.

The mothers’ milk has no happy returns  for the donor.

Instead, what makes the womb regret  its natal navigation, is

Its abuse as a trash bag, for carrying  a heap of shame to be disowned.

                                                                                             P.Chandrasekaran.

WHO WILL KNOW YOU?

WHO WILL KNOW YOU?

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

Who will know you,

If you know not yourself?;

Even if you know you,

Who will know you, if you do not

Let yourself get known?.

Being known is being flown

From column to column,

From channel to channel

On a jumbo jet, in a jamboree.

When air fills the lungs, it is life.

When it fills with fragrance, it is fame.

There is more of fauna than flora here.

More of deserts than gardens and orchards.

The  sterile air that fills in with nothing but heat,

Turns  the lungs into a Lincoln’s tunnel,

Stuffing it with noise and fumes, as fame.

The fame filled balloon is waiting to burst,

Gasping for its nostalgic  flow of fresh breath.   

                                                       P.Chandrasekaran.

Not Thin as Thought.

      Not Thin as Thought.

        =======================

Life’s  routine  is a racy Google Search  for some

Or just a rattling, round about  ramble for many;

Travel is a tedious travail for the travelling lot,

Whereas, a trendy  treasure hunt for a few.

Socializing is a soap opera  for the stylish;

A sweet operation  for others, well versed in,

Varied preambles and patterns of lifestyles.

If learning to live together, is not living together,

Living together, is not learning to live together.

Love tastes as a lolly pop or tricks as a labyrinth ;

Marriage is either a comfort zone or casualty.

Friendship  gets fixed as facsimile, or as tattoo.

Career may be a carefree ride or a carrier of woes;

Some spot out  a thin layer of difference between

What they are and what they would have been,

Where they are and where they would have been,

On a course of fate or fortune, or a firm  feel from the heart;

For others, the thin layer is not always  as thin as was thought.  

                                                 P.Chandrasekaran.

Ode to Death.

Ode to Death.

===========

I have not seen you.

I know you only through  others

Who  know  not your hideouts .

At the nick of  the  moment or at short notice,

You pounce on your victims unawares ,

Appearing stealthily, all of a sudden,

Either in front of them or from behind.

You pick out your victims at random,

Pre-fixing YOUR TIME,YOUR PLACE

And  YOUR  PROGRAM of ATTACK.

You clinch your projects with a UPS.        

Joy is yours to see your toys extinguished.

Smile is clear on the profiles of your victims,

Falling unquestioningly  into your ugly trap.

                                              P.Chandrasekaran.

New Generation Norms.

New Generation Norms.

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

Create new folders  every moment.

Delete not the old ones by oversight.

Let all files stay put, some to organize,

Others to stagger and sabotage .

Be street- smart, signaling  the survival instinct.

Let there be friend lists without friends.

Sentiments signify structural deformities,

Obstructing  overtaking moves, with quixotic qualms.

Memory is a menace, mulling grateful whims;

Calculate minutes in terms of money and power.

Number the days of rivals and opponents.

Nip them prior to their budding.

Focus on personalized  projects,  in a selfie mode.

Style is yours, whether self- made or stolen.

Compere your moves most, while compering

Events to mark the might of celebrities.

Let your Realty Shows recycle your roles,

To be seen and heard on and off screen ,often.

Fear tomorrow, not in cowardice but in caution.

Your passion for growth should make you a predator.

What you are should be more than what you really are.

The more you zoom, the larger you boom;

The goals get closer, the nearer they are projected.

It ‘s always fun to make the world crazy, to feel easy.

                                                                          P.Chandrasekaran.