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.

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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.

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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.

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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.