In the Budding.

              A skeleton sketch is all I need
         To make my painter's brush yield;
         My old pieces of chalk
         Are dumped decently in trash cans.
         They are the restive reminders
         Of a rummaging career called for a finish.
         Aesthetic cells installed in my nerves,
         Caused knotty Narcissus twists
         Nudging now and then a creative verve.
         My paternal Parker is prompting me
         To draw fake lines fabricating those of Keats.
         The sin of committing a double disgrace
         To the Muse and Memory's monumental lines,
         Will become the Deadly, irredeemable eight.
         Still I long to own at least a one time skeleton sketch.
         One with a classic stroke of Rembrandt's renown,
         That will imbibe Madonna like mystery for a making.
         My brush at this thought,
         Would betray the blush of a veiled bride .
                                                P.Chandrasekaran.

The Do or Die.

     I know I have a thought factory with in;
     The blue collared comrades are in a row;
     They are mostly heading for a mutiny,
     Without packing the products for delivery.

     When crates of apples and oranges
     Get cleared from the orchards of my mind,
     I pick up roses from my garden
     And adorn my roof,with ripe reverence.

     When tribal thoughts chase me like wolves,
     I pelt robustly my  rustic thoughts at them
     Driving away the dangerous, chasing ones
     With my unflinching arms of battling stuff.

     When Lucifer cunningly crosses my way,
     I command his execution through lynch law;
     Vetting my thoughts as sickles and knives,
     I undo Machiavelli with no mood for villainy.

     The civil wars should adhere to the civil code
     And bravery should subscribe to the right mode .

                                                         P.Chandrasekaran.

A Self-made Stalker.

         If you were the moon,
       I would be Neil Armstrong;
       If you stood as Mount Everest,
       I would trek and reach you as Tensing.
       If you became Lord Buddha,
       I would bow before you as Emperor Asoka.
       If you were Lord Krishna,
       I would form the pages of the Gita.
       If you turned the Savior,
       I would grow as the Christmas Tree.
       If you were the wind,
       I would pass as the air that you blew
       And help you blissfully breathe
       The fragrance of my faith in love.
     
                                                          P.Chandrasekaran.

       

The Metamorphosis.

       The mind is a sedimentary rock;
     Waves of experience piled as layers
     Keep rolling into a thickening process;
     The in between is a percolating lot,
     Quick fixing the layers for a regular,
     Reorganization in a concentration camp.
     A periodical jolt between the layers,
     As Nazi- like coercion and Gandhian tolerance,
     Galvanizes into a balancing exercise.
     Sacred or sinister,caring or crooked,
     Passionate or perverted,
     The sediments characterize themselves
     Into interlocking imperatives,making each other
     Indispensable alternatives.
     Heaviness is not in the programme of sedimentation.
     It is a deposit mobilization process,
     On  multilateral expansive indicators
     Spreading the essence of experience
     Pointedly and progressively,
     Through the trans formative tunnels of thinking.

                                                         P.Chandrasekaran.

My Blanket

       

A make- shift shelter, installed horizontally,

Between my head and my toes,

A hammock inverted as instant roof,

A breathing space enough,

Well set for my nocturnal lay off,

My blanket bestows upon me,

A haven, safe, serene and secured;

Interventions of light and darkness withheld;

Dreams flow filtered in precision.

Noises of neighbourhood never enter my fort.

Even sunrise is allowed only at the lifting of

My self-styled leeway.

My home within home, with its impenetrable stuff,

Remains an Elysium,built at my will

Meeting the targets of my fancy mill.

                                                  P.Chandrasekaran.

The Vagabond.

           
                                  

I wanted to become a sage;

My simpleton spirit would not hear that.

I desired to become a leader;

My docile instinct shuddered at the thought.

I was keen to grow as a sportsman;

My flat foot flatly frowned upon the proposal.

I had a thespian trigger in my nerves;

My shameful shyness sealed the zeal for ever.

Music was in my blood, I thought;

My blood shook from the idea

As the hand of Midas, in fear of gold.

I am now what I am, harbouring other alternatives,

Hitting here and there but not getting anywhere.

                                                    P.Chandrasekaran

When the Oracle Speaks!

                     

You said you are from Oracle.

My mind was thrilled at the thought of Delphi.

I could not decipher from the grimaces of your

Lantern-jawed face, if your position meant pride.

But the flamboyance of your fingers,

Seemed to fix your software skills quite high.

Your haggard eyes revealed the fact that

You had outsourced sleep many nights ago.

 As the mouse had meddled with your mind for long,

You spoke with a rat like stench.

The hangover of a workaholic that was.

I could see that the steam of your youth

Had come to blows with the cyber muscles;

The desk tops had drained the dignity of your soul

Through a nonstop blow of web data

And progression of projects, on hand and upcoming.

When the Oracle speaks from Delphi,

It will be what is unspoken from your end.

                                                  P.Chandrasekaran

Friends in Four Phases

                 

                      I                                        

          Friends,

          Childhood cheerers,

          Fascinating, friction-bound, full of pranks;

          They are a bickering lot.

                    ll

          Friends,

          The yahoo gang of youth,

          Boisterous, bullying but binding to a front;

          They are full of yummy tasks.

                   lll

          Friends,

          The supportive sub plots

          Accelerating adulthood as fuel and force

          They pass out life’s litmus test.

                   IV

          Friends,

          The reminiscent walking sticks

          Supporting the bending years of aging

          They follow as inseparable instincts.

          Names and frames change;

          But friends firm up for a life time

          As corporal, cognizant and spiritual comforters,

          To carry on together as  catalysts, changing life's course.

                                                         P.Chandrasekaran

The Carrier Prototypes.

               The cradle is an inverted parachute
           Insulating the infant, like the mothers womb;
           A lulling limousine journey to the sleep terminal,
           A respite to the mother's lap for a while;
           The outdoor perambulator parades innocence
           With fairy tale scenes filling the fancy of the kid.
           The palanquin is a pomp of power,
           Like an age-old trunk box stuffed with
           The timeless arrogance of authority.
           It makes beasts of burden of men,
           For animating  lifeless loads born to rule.
           The hearse like the womb, justifies
           Carrying as an act of caring.
           From the cradle to the hearse,
          The acceleration accrued is not accidental.
          It is a pattern clear, of experience in power steering.
          Why should a temple elephant go must
          At god's own premises and steer its way
          To trample upon the mahout that drove him?
          Who should carry whom also fixes the hour
          For who to drive,to steer and to wield power,
          The carrier prototype norms framed from time to time,
          Include schedules of the power game ever in its prime.

                                                                     P.Chandrasekaran
       
         

God's Profile.

              For some God is just a portrait,
              Available at zero premiums.
              For many at the lower slabs,
              God is a fate builder and destiny driver.
              For those at the mid post,
              God is an answering machine.
              For a few at the higher rungs
              Of honest mind fixing,God co-exists
              At equations human and friendly.

              This closer ,kinetic mind clinging,
              Like a crowning catch in cricket,
              Connects divine website to human access.
              Minutes of ecstasy, meet the whole time goals.

              God is a tacit transformer;
              The inherent alchemist, effecting
              The perfect chemistry of coming together,
              Through His integral coding system
              With pre-set well meaning itinerary
              For emergency landings and takeoffs,        
              Letting the human intent to choose
              Its own route and rendezvous.

              While the willing play with Him,
              The not willing are made to knock at His doors,
              As and when He wills them to.

                                                             P.Chandrasekaran.

Yesterday,Today and Tomorrow

          The past is a parasite;
          It eats away the present
          Through a spray of memory pests.

          The present is a prophet;
          It prescribes precepts with potholes
          For a fairy tale tomorrow.

          The future is a fiction in foresight;
          It is locked in myth and mirage
          Bound for delusive happenings.

          Wisdom should withdraw from
          Trendy concepts of time,
          Helping us taste life,for the taste of it.

                                                      P.Chandrasekaran 

In Praise of the Elements.

                            .                

           I love the life-giving soil

       Because it makes me toil

       To receive its ripening reward

       For life’s labour, labelled hard.

       I meekly adore the lofty sky

       For my hopes, that largely lie

       In the directions marked high;

       I proudly salute the invisible air

       That makes me breathe fresh and fair,

       For a purpose pruned to progeny’s care.

       I worship the water’s holy grace

       Cleansing dirt at a regular pace

       To give my mind a secured space.

       I would fall in awe before the Lord of Fire,

       Not for fear of his flames and fumes of ire,

       But for promptly lifting my spirit much higher

       To my mortal remains held in a pyramid of pyre.

                                                           P.Chandrasekaran

The Dozen Faces of Death

     
                                       

           1} Death anticipated is:-

               Ambulances honking all through the way.

           2} Death waitlisted is:-

               Waiters’ patience wasting away

           3} Death marked in hit list is:-

               Encounters  empowering the agents of death

           4} Death engineered is:-

              Mercenaries manifesting their macabre might.

           5} Death committed is:-

              The failure of the art of living on all counts.

           6} Death executed is:-

              Judicial sanctions getting sanctified.

           7} Death declared is:-

               Putting a nail on life’s coffin.

           8} Death reported is:-

               The Fourth Estate parading its flair for poetry.

           9} Death mourned is:-

              The writing of elegies on an experimental basis.

          10} Death celebrated is:-

               Dispensing happily with unwanted,undesirable lives.

          11} Death honoured is:-

               Gunshots hitting the height of skies.

          12} Death experienced is:-

               Serene Silence stealing the show.

                                                               P.Chandrasekaran

                        

Exchange of Melodies.

   Marriage is a song in praise of one’s woman

  Who adores her man meeting her mindset;

  It is a verse in the form of vibrant voice chat,

  With rhythms relocating each other’s dreams.

  Skirmishes here and there set the ball rolling

  For an instant access to trouble shooting shifts.

  Pyramids of give and take,become big pointers

  To the process of perfecting a peer programme.

  From the founding base of widening perceptions

  Of all the ‘what,how and why’ of coming together,

  Rich tunes celebrate with supporting song sense,

  The twin gender grasp of a holistic heart rendition.

 Wherever exchange of melodies monitors frequencies

 The music of marriage mellows down its discrepancies.

                      

                                                                             P.Chandrasekaran.

Hallucinating Expressions.

  Expressions that do not mean what they appear to mean. 
  Guess what they mean?

1} Dutch courage is not the courage of the Dutch.

2} Sleeping policeman is not a cop asleep.

3} Shot gun marriage is not the one celebrated at gun shot

4} Portuguese man-of-war is not a soldier from Portugal.

5] Wet blanket is not one drenched in water.

6} Black widow is not a woman in black, without her husband

7} Fruit cake is not a bakery product.

8} Wooden spoon is not a kitchen utensil.

9} Grass widow is not a widow selling grass.

10} A five-o-clock shadow is not one caused by the setting sun

Answers:-

1} Drunken courage.
2} A road hump
3} An emergency marriage necessitated by

the bride’s pregnancy. 4} A jelly fish 
5} one who takes out fun from a situation

6}  A North American poisonous spider 
7} An eccentric person 8} The last place in a race

 or competition. 
9}  A woman whose husband 
lives away most of the time.

10} A slight growth of hair on the skin of a man several hours after he had shaved.

                                                                                  P.Chandrasekaran