Facebook Ethics.

         Facebook Ethics.

Stray thoughts, like paper plates

And disposable water bottles,

Should  reach the trash, faster than

They were conceived in a mood of meaning.

Likes and comments become daily events,

As the thought  for the day, makes its entry.

Sympathies  of friends and well wishers,

Prevent  the thoughts from boomeranging.

Only the payee knows the pain of a bounced cheque.

One who clicks a thought shot, like the one

Who signs a cheque not to be honoured,

Feels not the face of the distressed destination.

Those who happen to see a thought for the day,

From some one they don’t want to hurt,

See the thought, as empty as the waste cheque;

But still they try to save the face of the source.

From where the thought has been mooted;

By a casual click of a 'like' or post of a comment,

Friends uphold the spirit of Facebook ethics.
                                                               P.Chandrasekaran.

                                                 

The Return of the Frogs.

     The Return of the Frogs.

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The frogs were felicitous at the fall of rains,

Croaking their new tunes,

In a chorus song of jubilation.

That was the time, the monsoon

Made it a point to visit the earth annually,

With a passion for the soil and its beings.

The freshness of life everywhere,         

Was in a real, thanks -giving mood.

There was once a festive filling up,

With no void left to wail over emptiness.

The cattle were all on a rodeo round.

Right crops at the right time ,

Like right men at the right place,

Rejoiced over the rightness of things.

Now the frogs have moved into

The withering wells and waning lakes.

The swelling load of human selfishness,

With its spiraling shapes of skyscrapers ,

Has logged  off its myriad, monsoon chats,

Blaming the system failure,  for the backlog.

It  needs a new human ID and password,

To log in with www.nature.monsoon.com,

In a perfect, antivirus, protective mode;

Only a restart of the original schedule of seasons,

Will relocate  the restive frogs, to the rain fed tanks,

And make them croak felicitously at the fall of rains.

                                                                       P.Chandrasekaran.

The Banyan Tree Broods Over.

             The Banyan Tree Broods Over.

My dense shadows  seek  me a special identity,

Like the rings of Saturn, rendering him a pattern.

Unlike others, who leave their shadows behind,

I live under my shadows, for myself and for others;

Banning the arrogance of  tall trees that stand alone,

I remain  substantially sturdy-built, paving a platform

For people  to gather socially, at my sheltering behest.

I provide the meeting point for many a kangaroo court.

When the meeting minds, make a mockery of justice,

They cast their shadows of misdemeanor on me.

But my barks, thicker than the  pachyderms’ exterior,

Bother not the damage done to me, by my beneficiaries..

I am truly Indian, devoutly  national , with  Gandhian  roots.

I know to empathize and endure, with time- tested tolerance.

                                                                           P.Chandrasekaran.

The Falling Foxes.

          The Falling Foxes.

'My stocks have fallen’ says the bear.

As the stocks  boom at the bull’s fair.

It is not at all a breach of trust,

But the bane of one’s interest;

If making choices is a clear,one side game,

Where does break out, the betrayal blame?

Life is a gamble of crossing the fence.

Even kids bet their lot, with innocence.

Adults moot their confidence and power of the brain.

The Aged push in, their trump card of senile domain .

In a weird wager, each one wields a key to press.

Some are good at dice; some champion in  chess.

A few climb the snake and ladder tree,

While a few creamy, excel in all three.

Those who stand to lose, shall not blame the stocks.

In playing with the stocks, each one has to be a fox.

When the stocks fall, the fox loses its sheen ;

But the stocks will  ever be a pasture green.

The falling foxes have a lesson to learn;

Grab the sides, for a climb sure and stern.

                                                  P.Chandrasekaran.

When Might is Right.

       When Might is Right.

Right and wrong are roadways two;

One has to pick up one's lane to woo.

Who is right and who goes wrong,

Are views  that go with people strong .

Right turns wrong with those, meek;

All is right, when power is at its peak.

Like True or False,in an answer sheet,

Positions change in a second's beat.

As who will win and who will lose,

Are open to bet, for race and ruse;

Right or wrong is a cross fire case,

Just in the form of a wild goose chase.

For right is wrong and wrong is right,

So long the lead is a matter of might.

                                                      P.Chandrasekaran.

The Chic City.

  The Chic City.

Chicago is beautiful.

The falling flakes of snow are piled here,

As pyramids of white, on a routine road cleaning.

Chicago embraces the principle of coexistence.

The fall of snow, sunlight and rains,

And the fierce dance of the wind,

Vie with one another, for a front line,

Without blocking each other’s boulevard formulation.

The braving river with its unrelenting ferrying,

The partially frozen Lake Michigan with new makeup norms,

The ever busy rail lines and the freeways,

Carry on their trendy trademarks of structural grandeur.

Chicago is frightful.

The freezing winter, the frivolous, formidable wind,

The  torrents  of snow and rain in succession,

Threaten to hijack one’s peace of mind, piece by piece .

The layer upon layer body covering, calls for a bail out,

From the weather’s brutal, bullying tactics

On the day night dynamics of a devil-may-care mindset.

Chicago’s blows of horror notwithstanding,go null and void,

By its chic, beeline spirit of belligerence,

Ever endorsed by the residents’ ring tones  of chivalry.                       

                                                            P.Chandrasekaran.

It’s Bells All the Way..

    It’s Bells All the Way.

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The bells are religious.

For the Hindus,

The jingling bells  forecast

The arrival of an elephant or a line of elephants.

The temple bells tether one’s thoughts closer,

To the mood of  in- depth prayer.

The bells also pronounce  the schedule of

Gods, at their showers and meals.

For the Christians, the church bells toll

The chain of events like birth, marriage and death.

Besides marking the mind to the  Mass.

The funeral bells of course, freeze

The mind with the biblical facts of life.

The bells are psychological.

At college, as if at a click of the mouse,

They connect to newer log in sessions.

 But at school, they are the harbinger of moods

Such as fear, relief and joy .

As the morning school bell goes,

Nervous symptoms travel through the hours,

On being spotted and named for omissions of kinds.

When the last bell goes, pat moves out of school gates,

A crowd of legs on a sprint, sport free race;

A couple of limbs here and there, holding

The falling trousers and skirts,

Speak of wild ecstasy, born of relief.

The week end  and  term end bells,

Unleash a rapid flow of nimble feet,

Moving in anticipated directions,

For a meaty, merry go round.

The bells are travel prone;

They  ring at the small railway stations,

For the arrival and departure of trains,

That are mostly behind schedule;

The bells seem to say ‘buck up commuters’;

And those commuting, jostle with one another,

For a timely board in and bump out,

On and after, an erratic choice of compartments.

It’s bells all the way in everyone’s life

Being the calling bells and telephone bells ,

Ringing now and then, day in and day out,

As the reporting layers of the routine stuff,

At times rattling the inmates too,

Bringing unwelcome visitors and unnerving calls.

                                                      P.Chandrasekaran.