The Redder, Red Sanders.

 The Redder,Red Sanders.

Crimes have a character;

Each crime is distinguishable from the other

In terms of their range, variation, frequency and impact.

Wood cutters and fishermen are not

Notorious historysheeters  and terrorists, to be gunned down,

In a style of nonchalance , goaded by the encounter syndrome.

Why destroy the arrows, leaving the bows safe in their abode?

Red sanders hate being waterlogged;

Do they love being locked in blood?

Do they ask for the blood of lamentable labourers

To turn redder than they are, in a fit of revenge?

Rash killing is the result of a policy paralysis.

The law abiding rifles and guns, bury their qualms,

And turn shy to encounter the hoarders of black money;

But on the other hand, let modest blood gush out,

Through their guilty, digital triggering of death.

Can the killers differentiate the logs felled, from those

Roped and heaped in a murky and mad dance of death?

                                                                                   P.Chandrasekaran.

The Populous Pain.

The Populous Pain.

Infancy is not in anyone’s itinerary ;

It forms part of the mothers’ manual.

Childhood is not a cake walk for all.

For many, it is a burden on the mother’s arms;

Considerate dads are a mothers’ blessing.

Prams and tricycles are not on each one’s agenda.

From cloth- made cradles to mats without pillows,

The greater part of the journey is a makeshift meet. 

Adolescence is always an antagonistic exit

With anti virus monitoring, all through the way.

Drop outs of school are drugged out, in a carcass disposal  schedule.  

What one wants to eat, ever remains a want for many.

There is a crowd everywhere, in  malls, temples and bars,

On all the busy roads, on all that rolls on them,

Not bothering about the pressure of the bodies.

Types of body odour  tease one another in very high frequencies.

The tough travel during the day, is only to buy a ticket for the night

For a kind of sleep, between nightmares and nervous wake ups.

From suckling sessions to serial sinning  what has been absorbed

Is more as nutrients of negatives of winners and runners up.

The mothers’ milk has no happy returns  for the donor.

Instead, what makes the womb regret  its natal navigation, is

Its abuse as a trash bag, for carrying  a heap of shame to be disowned.

                                                                                             P.Chandrasekaran.

WHO WILL KNOW YOU?

WHO WILL KNOW YOU?

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

Who will know you,

If you know not yourself?;

Even if you know you,

Who will know you, if you do not

Let yourself get known?.

Being known is being flown

From column to column,

From channel to channel

On a jumbo jet, in a jamboree.

When air fills the lungs, it is life.

When it fills with fragrance, it is fame.

There is more of fauna than flora here.

More of deserts than gardens and orchards.

The  sterile air that fills in with nothing but heat,

Turns  the lungs into a Lincoln’s tunnel,

Stuffing it with noise and fumes, as fame.

The fame filled balloon is waiting to burst,

Gasping for its nostalgic  flow of fresh breath.   

                                                       P.Chandrasekaran.

Not Thin as Thought.

      Not Thin as Thought.

        =======================

Life’s  routine  is a racy Google Search  for some

Or just a rattling, round about  ramble for many;

Travel is a tedious travail for the travelling lot,

Whereas, a trendy  treasure hunt for a few.

Socializing is a soap opera  for the stylish;

A sweet operation  for others, well versed in,

Varied preambles and patterns of lifestyles.

If learning to live together, is not living together,

Living together, is not learning to live together.

Love tastes as a lolly pop or tricks as a labyrinth ;

Marriage is either a comfort zone or casualty.

Friendship  gets fixed as facsimile, or as tattoo.

Career may be a carefree ride or a carrier of woes;

Some spot out  a thin layer of difference between

What they are and what they would have been,

Where they are and where they would have been,

On a course of fate or fortune, or a firm  feel from the heart;

For others, the thin layer is not always  as thin as was thought.  

                                                 P.Chandrasekaran.

Ode to Death.

Ode to Death.

===========

I have not seen you.

I know you only through  others

Who  know  not your hideouts .

At the nick of  the  moment or at short notice,

You pounce on your victims unawares ,

Appearing stealthily, all of a sudden,

Either in front of them or from behind.

You pick out your victims at random,

Pre-fixing YOUR TIME,YOUR PLACE

And  YOUR  PROGRAM of ATTACK.

You clinch your projects with a UPS.        

Joy is yours to see your toys extinguished.

Smile is clear on the profiles of your victims,

Falling unquestioningly  into your ugly trap.

                                              P.Chandrasekaran.

New Generation Norms.

New Generation Norms.

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

Create new folders  every moment.

Delete not the old ones by oversight.

Let all files stay put, some to organize,

Others to stagger and sabotage .

Be street- smart, signaling  the survival instinct.

Let there be friend lists without friends.

Sentiments signify structural deformities,

Obstructing  overtaking moves, with quixotic qualms.

Memory is a menace, mulling grateful whims;

Calculate minutes in terms of money and power.

Number the days of rivals and opponents.

Nip them prior to their budding.

Focus on personalized  projects,  in a selfie mode.

Style is yours, whether self- made or stolen.

Compere your moves most, while compering

Events to mark the might of celebrities.

Let your Realty Shows recycle your roles,

To be seen and heard on and off screen ,often.

Fear tomorrow, not in cowardice but in caution.

Your passion for growth should make you a predator.

What you are should be more than what you really are.

The more you zoom, the larger you boom;

The goals get closer, the nearer they are projected.

It ‘s always fun to make the world crazy, to feel easy.

                                                                          P.Chandrasekaran.

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.