A Soil of Dumpsters.

   A Soil of Dumpsters.

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In certain parts of the world,

Even dumpsters are never left behind.

But in my land of  Saints and Mahatmas,

Women are left behind men;

The desperate and the downtrodden,

Are left behind  the greedy and caste conscious.

Merit is mopped to a corner,by mediocrity.

The meek and the timid are seen far behind bullies.

Honesty is way behind hypocrisy.

Falsehood kicks truth backward,setting barricades.

There is crowd everywhere,pushing in a melee,

Nudging and hitting others for a competitive edge.

Poverty is straightly and statistically,

Trampled by the wield of wealth.

As the maddening race continues  to acquire,

To seize, encroach and expand, it leaves

The helpless and hapless dumped behind.

The game of power is a gangrene,

That lets a minority to leave the majority,

Irredeemably infected and interred,

As heaps of garbage trashed into dumpsters.

These heaps of left-behind men and women,

Grow day by day,as pyramids of shame,

In my country of Saints and Mahatmas. 

                                        P.Chandrasekaran.

                  

A First Time Voter’s Problems. {The Eighteen Year Old in India}

      A First Time Voter’s Problems.

    {The Eighteen Year Old in India}

   =============================

                      l

Papa, Can you please say, who shall I vote for?

Those who have ruled us for long, seem to have lost ,

Their makeup manuals, to stay off  the stage.

Parties with their pep for power,

Are a pretty  much  powdered lot.  

I see faces modest, with no mechanism to govern .

There are faces dynamic and daring ,

Sporting a look of arrogance, as outdoor unit.

Others carry a load   of corruption , concealed  in

Puffed  up exteriors, resembling popcorn ,or sugar candies.

Some are colorful, but branded as communal.

Others are secular, with their colors hidden inside.

Faces peripheral, keep shuffling profiles ,quite often.

There are comrades too, with their collars stiffly up;

But their proud names are in the antiques’ list though,

With only their colors and symbols, fluttering high.

                            ll

 Mama, Can you please tell me whom to vote ?

 All power mongers here, have a party to float.

 Some lead with an ‘I’ in whatever they say;

 While others say ‘WE’, to keep us in dismay.

 As nothing  creditable  so far, has come to stay,

 I am utterly confused, to choose my way!

 For, on the whole, at any decision making forum,

 Hardly have I seen, an iota of decency or decorum.

You have said pepper is a spice, very healthy and costly;

But in the House, a few vent their ire, spraying it vastly.

I know, mikes are meant for an audible reach of speech.

But members use it often, for actions amply  for a breach.

Why not men sensibly think and speak out the right,

Rather than using paperweight to spill their spite?.

A gang of them, waste nation’s precious time and money,

Busily amassing wealth ,through acts, shady and phony.

                                   lll

Oh my peers, who shall we rightly vote for?.

There are many in the race, waging a war.

We are new as voters, with hopes for a change,

That should take our country on a ritzy range.

We are ready to press the electronic button

Provided there are, men of merits, well spun.

Will the curtains ever lift for a new generation

To lead the country  with power and passion ?

                                                                             P.Chandrasekaran.

The Fractured Facts.

             The Fractured Facts.

Let the facts remain;

For facts are at times, more riddling than fairy tales.

Life’s realities are in a rattling range;

The earthworm is rustic and resilient, more stable than the earth.

The thirsty earth drinks water and  dances like a drunkard,

In a wobbling wont, denouncing the notes of a choreographer.

There are several chase and run games here, just for fun and feud.

Sensational statistics is a pressure on one’s blood and nerves .

Some one said the business of life is to step forward.

But the forward march in fact- hunting, is full of friction.

The parallel march called  rush and race, is a puncturing process ,

Pulling each other’s legs, in a manipulative mode of unbalancing.

The end of the march is not the end of  statistics.

Statistics facilitates the flow of facts by rotating the clock.

But figures turn fussy, or at times even elusive, like

Missing planes going beyond human reach, unlike the planets.

Is the vision imperative lying hidden with impaired missions?

Are the quality norms a man- made myth, with fake fundamentals?

The euphoria  over facts, on this murky planet  is a bait of the beasts,

Claiming each other’s blood, for a random price in the name of power.

They have the butchers’ qualms, in nurturing literacy through blood.

Genetic Engineering will create more numbers of this breed,

To compute multiple statistical data of gory happenings on the move,

Like noisy vehicles, rushing through a multi -lane freeway, in an overtake melee.

Fact -reports carry little validity, similar to the number of page views,

Recorded on one’s blog with no  solid proof of views and visits.

The GDP and GNP details are the biggest padding, a small frame could boast of.

The facts of the Media have their well -marked fitment tunes to match the song .

All their facts are double- checked, before they move to the print and screen,

Stapling the song to the tune, like a tailor made garment of sizes, as facts.

There is an absolute networking style in making facts look smart and selling.

It is these facts about facts that make life colorful and catchy, like a fable.

Let the original facts remain where they are, true to their form and spirit.

                                                                                                                     P.Chandrasekaran.

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.