The One Ever With You.

 

        

    

The one whom you loved and keep loving,

The one who lived only to love you,
The one who became you, in mind and spirit,

Lives in your eyes and their looks and tears,

In your thoughts and their themes,

In your words and their meanings,

In all your prayers and their unspoken power,

In your day- to- day spell as a person of poise

And your passion for the Lord and His flair for love.

Synthesized to your soul and its rhythm,

She runs your pulse and your heart throb;

As you move and rest through your days and nights,

She makes you move and rest, as she ever did,

Par taking your preference for peace and harmony.

                                                               P.Chandrasekaran

A Worthy New Year.

  Paint your imagination with fresh colours

  To create a landscape of brand new ideas;

  Drive your ideas through untraveled zones

  To experience the thrill of the unknown;

  When the unknown becomes the known,

  Weigh its value to make the travel worthy.

  The mind for sure, can control its trip sheets

  For it would never make a marathon mission

  Towards unproductive and uneasy dead ends.

   A life lived vigorously with a will to venture

  The arduous altitudes of the upward march,

   Validates one’s Daily Sheet with all credits

   For living the way, one should live one’s lot;

   For gaining one’s ground after having fought.

                                                                P.Chandrasekaran

                                                                                                                                                                                                                       

New Year 2012.

                                         New Year 2012

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

Every New Year sets in motion a renewed race

For relocating every one’s dreams and desires

In a new dimension, towards new directions;

The man- made calendar is a monumental myth.

Time is the veteran guardian of a well-set run

For the continuance of order and discipline.

New Years are perhaps periodical stopovers,

For revisiting and revising lessons in leadership.

The flow of time tacitly favours many free ways

For making every second lead to historic years.

The happening of a year should reaffirm the fact

That leadership is not a hierarchic phenomenon;

It is an eternal chain, where each link leads the other

In its own way, to make breakthroughs in its motion.

The leading principle of life is to help everyone lead

With each one’s vision extending to self-actualization.

         ========0=========0==========

                                                                                  P.Chandrasekaran

Christmas Song.

Christmas marks the clearance of all delusions;

The Magi were promptly shown directions clear,

By the unfailing stars of the Divine Order.

The serene glow of the Star of Bethlehem                                                             

Flowed straight into the hearts of men

Fixing the G P S  for life’s right terminals.

Deviation was never an item on the Christmas agenda.

Even the miracles performed, were not patented

For promoting the intrigue of illusions of a magic show.

Meant instead they were,

For mending the wayward sheep on a renegade path.

The Sermon on the Mount was a straightening discourse

For attaining perfection through the healing of  wounds

Caused by delusions personified.

When the visually impaired vindicate validly

The Braille version of the Bible,

The seeing should always see things

As a vaster benefit of their vision

Without winding their ways on deceptive tracks.

While walking in a crowd, watch your goal.

When you walk alone, form forthright foot prints.

The paths trodden without the  pangs of guilt ensure,

Delusion-free days and nights as Christmas guarantee.     

     -0-------------0--------------0----------------- 0--           
                                                               P.Chandrasekaran                                                   

Christmas Song

Christmas is a day of lamination

In the name of The Lamb of God;

Laminate thoughts of love to shine

Like the lovely smiles of little kids.

Let the latent goodwill ever lie intact,

With built-in layers of the lactic stuff

Sucked from the staple source of sacrifice.

Let goodness of life get stuck to the soul,

Like a child clinging to the lap of its mother.

Live latched on straight, to life’s lofty goals;

Get riveted to the leading lines of the Holy Book,

With its protective leaves, lending lifeline clues.;

Let the Christmas cheer and the Character of life,

Carry on together the benign process of blending

Like lamp and its light, like candle and its glow,

Like the flow of blood and its throb in the heart

For a progressive pattern of life’s reinforcement.

                                                                P.Chandrasekaran

Marriage Anniversaries.

         
Marriage anniversaries monitor annually,

The enhancement of the range of romance;

Romance is not just the rhapsody of love;

Nor is it a repetition of ringtone vibrations.

It is the daily thrill of learning to live together

To match and mix equations and wavelengths

In the manner of ravishing rainbow colours

Or a symphony of rhythms titillating the ears.

The juxtaposition of thoughts in a balancing act,

The management of rattling nerves and moods,

And the day- to -day exchange of endearing words

Will sustain the spirit of settling down with ease

And shower new addition joys in the years to come

To steer smile- sharing sessions for a family show

                                                                    P.Chandrasekaran.

Under Article Such and Such.

       The rat smelt the rice;
       The rice began to smell the rat.
       The cockroaches launched a rattling coup;
       The kitchen became their domain.
       The ants were unmindful of their size;
       The faster ones were the softer.
       The biting ones were a bewildering lot.
       The neighbourly cat never bothered about
       Norms of etiquette.
       The spiders were busy making
       Their cobwebs unmade.
       Behind these invasions unruly,
       Did pass on the pact and principle of co-existence
       As the unwritten article of mutual faith.
                                           P.Chandrasekaran.

Shock Absorbing.

   When friendship fails
   After mutual faith has faltered,
   Memory and forgetfulness
   Swiftly exchange sides.
   Memory begins to zoom the negatives;
   Forgetfulness buries the glorious past like a corpse,
   Million fathoms deep, underground.
   As hatred breeds hiccups,
   The cleft widens into crevices and chasms.
   The scars of  a broken friendship
   Are deeper than the wounds that caused them.
   Faith in fascinating friendship,is frowned upon
   In unpalatable, retrospective revelations.
   As the truth gets unfolded,
   There are more shocks to absorb
   That rattle and let the mind wobble
   At the rickety realization that
   Sentiments have no set lanes to travel
   For masked human relationships.
                                              P.Chandrasekaran.

The Body Language.

         The darker side of your life
         Has perhaps clipped your lips,
         Though often I wish,
         You talked with your tongue
         In your cheeks.
         Your mealy mouthed reactions,
         Monopolize your communication network.
         You are scared to throw a smile
         Lest  your lips should change their style.
         Your hands compensate
         The failure of articulation.
         You nod,shake and shrug
         Rather than sever your lips for awhile.
         Can I ever grab your gravid mind
         Penetrating through your blocks intertwined?
                                              P.Chandrasekaran.

  

The Midas Myth.

           The pebbles I gathered,
           Turned trendily into precious diamonds;
           The diamond-turned pebbles,
           Taunted my fabulous fortune,
           In a sardonic,glitter.
           I know I was no Alchemist breed;
           Nor did I own a philosopher's stone.
           But the pebbles I held in my hand
           Imposed on my ego a divining greed.
           I gathered some more pebbles
           And my eyes in avarice starved for
           A speedy, shining  galaxy,
           In my self-expanding kitty.
           This time, I scorned my petrified pebbles,
           With rage and revenge.
           But the pebbles blamed my unworthy hand
           For the jinx it deserved.
           I failed to note the missing link
           Between my hand and my wand.
                                               P.Chandrasekaran    .

My Vision Chart.

    Looking through the binoculars
    Of my photographic vision programming,
    A little bit of life looked rosy,I thought.
    The rest of it was bushy and thorny.
    I altered the direction and dimension
    Of my seeing style;
    The view finder began to waver
    And the rosy-bushy- thorny theories
    Turned around to re-orient and re-interpret
    Themselves,in a make shift.
    That I was struggling for growing up
    Was symptomatic of a ramifying,radical
    Vision activity without a rule guide;
    What was seen was less than
    What was meant for seeing.
    The more I saw,the more pressure
    It built in,for making the rosy,bushy-thorny,
    And the bushy-thorny,rosy.
    Views in fast track conversion and convergence
    Buckled under the successive stills of
    Microscopic,magnifying indicators;
    To grow is to learn to see things as they are;
    The best way to see ,is to shirk
    The irrelevant impact of seeing.
    Besides the linear and lateral look outs,
    An aerial,giant wheel,roller coaster position of seeing
    Patronizes prime levels of vision
    Before  pruning, to optimize
    A list of kaleidoscopic objects
    Fit for an eternal,aesthetic show .
                                                 P.Chandrasekaran.
 
   
    

The Uxoricide.

      In corporeal terms
     The charred mortal remains looked
     As a bundle of burnt wood.
     Feelings of woe,neither owed nor owned,
     Fixed the issue as closed.
     Truth stood incinerated.
     There was no submission of faith
     Either uxorious or filial.
     When the mind turns into a morgue,
     Passing away becomes more a prerogative
     Than being born.
     That one can choose one's funeral,
     At the behest of one's conjugal blues,
     Labels the better half as a badger
     Beside and from behind.
     Here, the bereaved husband
     Sang his ready made fake requiem,
     Lamenting the loss of some one
     He hardly ever tried to love.
                                           P.Chandrasekaran.
   

The Unholy Waters.

 
      Long before the lunch hosted,got digested,
      A limb of the host was lost;
     The summer waters of a rain fed tank
     Silently swallowed innocence,
     Like a sinister,static monster.
     The quicksand like alluvial avarice
     Asked for more,not like Oliver's famished brand,
     But like the Leviathan greed of Lady Macbeth.
     An act that would ask for all the holy waters
     To get the stains cleared.
     A sluggish pond claiming to have drowning zones,
     Reflected the deceptive dimensions of destiny
     Like gods posing to have a flair for
     Killing budding lives for sport.

His Master's Voice.

       Man thinks,
      God speaks with a divine voice
      In an oracle intonation,
      Through carved frames and hallowed flames,
      Scented fumes and sanctified sweets,
      Soothing hymns and stereotyped sermons.

      Coiled wicks dipped in oil
      Burning Godly gigabytes,
      Seem to connect man's ID
      To the celestial website though.

      But God never speaks or chats.
      He has no dialect for dialogue.
      He is the current of the Aside,
      The soliloquy of every soul,
      The master of the art of monologue
      Making the spirit set in a role of silence
      His is the voice speaking and spoken to
      As the vibration of the vocal chords.
                                           P.Chandrasekaran.
      

Pipe Dreams.

      Did Helen of Troy make Faustus immortal
    With the Kiss he asked for?
    Between the kiss and Heavenly bliss,
    What did Faustus really ask for?
 
    Did Cleopatra breathe the nobleness of life
    In Mark Antony's machismo embrace?
    Or wast it just the wishful thinking
    Of a third of the Roman triumvirate?

    Yesterday's taboos have become today's traditions..
    Sharing the bed beyond the conjugal boundaries,
    Is labeled now as live-in-relationship
    Winning the nod of judicial heads.

    The stripped secrets of self bound moments
    Are processed and outsourced
    As tinned trading stuff,for a profit margin.

   Love and nobleness
   Were lost as pipe dreams in madcap transactions
   Registered in blood,
   Between the German philosopher and the super mammon,
   And remembered as romance,
   Between the Roman brave heart and the Egyptian ecstasy.
                                                              P.Chandrasekaran.

The Closer Gains.

 
        Intimacy at times,
        Becomes an intimidating factor.
        At closer browsing,
        Smiles grow into reptiles.
        Scented words and cynical raids
        Periodically intercept the romantics of
        Relationships intimate, but irrelevant.
        In the cordial act of coming together,
        Pains overtake peripheral gains.
        The perception of personal agenda
        Leads a pointer to see within,
        What is being seen; and to read
        In between, what is being said.
        Revelations mark re- fixing
        The blue print dimensions of
        Being or staying at close quarters.
                                              P.Chandrasekaran.

No Admission.

       Why don't you open
      The stone door of your mortal home
      And shut me in?
      Am I so uninvited that
      You should keep me waiting
      For an entry ticket?
      Or,am I knocking at
      My own inhibitions?
                      P.Chandrasekaran.

Pass Pass.

       The cry of birth can be construed

       As a mark of protest at the throes of a changeover;

       The sudden agoraphobic slip

       From the gestational support base,

       Sounds formidable for the newborn.

       To feel that the world is too much,

       Was hardly in the programme of the womb.

       Why didn't the umbilical cord withhold the fall?

       The smile stamped at the last breath may be understood

       As the silent expression of gratitude for the help line

       Facilitating a fleeting exit from

       The suffocating bodily confinement.

       The premeditated release of the spirit

       Becomes a fascinating formulation.

       To keep the spirit stuffed in flesh,

       Was scarcely in the scheme of things.

       Why didn't the solid frame

       Surpass the passing away predicament?

       The cry and the smile together,
       Symbolize a note of cohesion
       In their cock a s noodle contempt
       For the temporal tie up
       In between the falls one and two.
       Like many a fruit that falls from the tree,
       Gets split into sweetness and seed,
       The fall of life from its terrestrial hold
       Breaks into breath and body.
       While sweetness and breath settle down
       As abstract infinities,
       Seed and body seek sojourn
       Under the soil's  shelter .
       The cry and smile alternatives
       Keep changing their tunes in a pass pass rhythm.

       P.Chandrasekaran

      

The Summing Up.

    Life's fallacies line up like a rigmarole,
    In the rough and tumble of a living row.
    The fantasies of childhood fail to further in adolescence.
    Teen age glories become tissues of lies.
    Romance developed like a baby in mother's womb,
    Recedes like some mothers' gestational diabetes.
    Even adulthood amusements have an undercurrent
    Of anemic backlogs.
    Mismatch of marriages,like a child and its sullen looks,
    Manipulates exotic printouts of daily delusions.
    Roses are made but not grown.
    Ageing surrenders to the rancid course of mulling
    In matter-of -fact reminiscences.
    The terminal collection of silly nothings
    Transforms into flowery wreaths and rich requiems
    With a bonus of frills and filigrees
    For the decorative map of each one's life line.

    P.Chandrasekaran. 

The Real.

             In a mist,
          I mistook two stones for beads.
          It was my maiden mishap;
          A melee of my dreams
          Down loaded by my hallucination.

         In a fit,
         Bulldozed by my past,
         I chased shadows in a mystic race
         Tracing my tardy descent
         In a tenacious march.

         In a trance,
         Tranquilized by tender flashes,
         I knelt before the nailed form,
         That blocked the nameless storm
         And buried my groundless blues.

                                            P.Chandrasekaran.



         

Flock Together.

            Put up a fair display of friendly festoons;
        Play the trump card of love pointedly.
        While coming together is an event of serendipity,
        Getting on together is a tale of ambiguity.
        Look not ever through an eye piece,
        As a standard norm of observation.
        Open the door to own your vision;
        Life is a grand mix of fruit salad.
        Get merged for a full blown flavor.
        Keep your eyebrows expanding all the while.
        Shrinking them will sever the sweetness.
        Let the melodies of life's main concert,
        Mesmerize your ears for a snake charming session.
        Poke your nose aesthetically,
        At the fragrance of fellowship orientation
        For a complete plan of coexistence.
        Thicken your feet for thorns;
        Soften them for a soothing support system
        To socialize in a symmetry,to fly in a flock.
   
                                                              P.Chandrasekaran
        

The Double Up Craze.

         The human brain is now a predator;
      As the new born is fed with
      Packaged and date-stamped  milk
      And trained to listen to recorded tunes of lullabies,
      It grows faster and freer on its own.
      The seven year old has the seventeen year's itch.
      Teen age in a double up,tracks adulthood whims
      At the touch of the mouse.
      Overtime living every twenty four seven
      Takes away years like Daily calendar sheets.
      Baldies and grey heads at forty,
      Claim a line in the senior citizen ledgers.
      An exhausted crowd of brain mauled men
      Wait in queues for their funeral tickets.
      The panther like brain,chases those born to live,
      For a stumble upon death run,
      Through their greed for faster projects of
      Automated living on their own demand.

                                                      P.Chandrasekaran