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.

    

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.