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.