Happy New Year 2015.

               Happy New Year 2015.

  If everything in life is new, old becomes a fairy tale;

 The new comes breathing, air fresh, healthy and hale. 

 The soil is as old as the mother’s pure and plain love.

 What grows on it, is from the techie’s hands, far above.

 There were faces once, as framed facts of fine fervor;

 The Facebook now uploads faces fabulous, as a favor.

 Life was once, latticed with lot of hullabaloo and hype.

 Added today, are Net chats like, Face Time and Skype.

 Social networking, keeps bustling with its bonhomie now;

 But social foundation stood then, as a solid, sacred cow .

 The power of mankind is tweeting invisibly, with no pains;

 But only with face to face fiesta did it make up all its gains.

 A misnomer is the New, without the halo and hold of the Old.

 A matrix should be the Old, to let the New fledge and unfold. 

                                                                            P.Chandrasekaran.

Christmas Song 25th Dec 2014

 Christmas Song 25^th Dec 2014

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

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.

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

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.