New Year Song, Jan 1 ,2013

   

            Happy New Year 2013.

 Birds fledged, after a neat nestling schedule,

 Take their wings tactfully, to  newer zones;

 They browse beforehand, their comfort levels.

 Babies have their trials of tummy times,

 Crawling sessions, before they sit up,

 And learn to walk and run on their own.

 Quest is always the best base for active living.

 Time sets the starting point for all moves.

 Rhyme and reason need their respective websites

 For positioning globally, the targeted destinations.

 No one can veto the voice of obstructions.

 But one can gag it, with preemptive vigilance.

 All seeing eyes see; some make a vision.

 As saying something differently, makes new sense,

 Doing something unlikely, speaks of magnificence.

 All leading movements emerge from the enthusiasts.

 The exits to new terrains are mazy and manifold.

 To route and reach with a range, is in one’s hold.

                                       P.Chandrasekaran.                                   

Christmas Song.

   

                  Christmas Song Dec.25,2012

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

 Christmas is a celebration in aesthetics.

 Bethlehem was the centre from where,

 Beauty began its breezy flow in all fineness.

 The stars that guided the Magi,

 Were drawn over there by a fascinating flash.

 The symmetry behind the crib and the Christmas tree

 Was the synopsis of a structural evolution

That placed the form of beauty

 Far beyond its skin-deep formulations

 Of  a  static sensuous pattern.

Christmas characterized beauty

As a growing, governing and galvanizing course.

There is beauty in the flow of blood

Running through our veins and arteries

Like the beauty of the psalms flowing into our souls.

The delight of Christmas is in the dynamics of love,

That makes each one’s life a carry on process

Holding closely to each one’s thoughts

The crystal concept of beauty as truly as,

The beautiful words adorning the pages of the Bible.

                                                                                   P.Chandrasekaran.

The Bleeding Schoolbags.

          The Bleeding Schoolbags.
       ======================  

      The school bags lie forlorn;
      The little limbs that carried them,
      With beaming morning smiles,
      Were found bleeding under the grip of
      A gory dance of death.
      A dreadful so called disorder,
      Tore to pieces,in maniac mode
      Life's pretty pages of innocence
      At the turn of a couple of guns.       
      The school bags sadly shrunk;      
      The stained books spread a look of horror,
      At the sight of bloody strokes,
      converting the children's class rooms
      In to a morgue for a mass funeral. 
      Who gave the cranky brains
      The right to claim others' tombs ?
      How far will the guns'tentacles zoom
      To drive dainty lives into their dreary doom?    
                                             P.Chandrasekaran.     

The Masks.

          The Masks.

    Looks are an alibi of the under trials.
    Smiles are facial lines drawn,
    To cover up and conceal structural defects.
    Words are winning sugar candies,
    Melting moulding minds into scapegoats. 
    Tears are like treacle toffees,
    Made through a chemical processing
    Of lachrymal compositions,
    Sticking one's emotions with others'.
    Ready made laughter chips,
    Bring a new look to the monitor,
    Rendering the original guffaws defunct.
    There are new privacy protocols,
    For protecting the true face,
    Through the Book and the Time
    Of the Electronic Face. 
    Seeing without being seen,
    Seeing what one is not really seeing,
    Are new lessons in visual communication.
    The varied veils of modernity
    Always have their whereabouts hidden.            
                                                          P.Chandrasekaran.

Fellow Feelings.

   

           Fellow Feelings.

You can not share my hunger;

But your food, you can;

You cannot feel my thirst,

Nor can you suffer my drought;

But your water you always can;.

You cannot share my death throes;

But you can postpone my death,

If not prevent me from dying.

When there is a mind to donate

One’s blood for those to survive,

Why this short term thought

That resources are mine and mine only?

The spirit of fellow feeling

Is not in sharing your surpluses

But in giving in to the voice of distress

By sharing something you need,

With someone whose life

Lies in your hands to lose or last.

                              P.Chandrasekaran.

The Pachyderms.

              The Pachyderms.
            ===============
         Beware of feelings!
         Freaks have no space in this domain.
         This is the land of killers of conscience.
         Words and visuals heard and seen, 
         Do not exist in their original form
         Tombs are built stronger than homes .
         The dead, worthy or not, are set,
         To reign from their tombs, as demigods.
         The living lie low, as earth worms,
         Entrenched to the soil without substance.
         No one is colur blind here,
         When it comes to battle for a race.
         Backward in thought,mortal brains mar;
         Downward to rot, the double tumblers are.
         We live with a spectrum full of scars,
         With no feelings of the wounds caused. 

                                    P.Chandrasekaran.

The Face Book.

               
    The Facebook.
===============

Life is a book  of  faces,

Young and old, and old and new,

Getting uploaded and  deleted,

During routine log- in sessions.

Faces firm and feeble, fine and frowning,

Fit into the accept/decline mode;

Faces all, do not form the friend list.

But friends have their faces fixed.

Fragile faces win up friends;

Fragile friends lose their faces.

All faces at the surface,

Seem to have similar wavelengths.

But the closer you go,  the wider the lengths;

The waves receding, once for all.

Move to the trash, faces tainted,

And restore from  the recycle bin,

The steadfast ones moved there by mistake.

Log in to chat with faces saved,

That make the chat chance less to log out.  

Let profiles keep changing, feeding one’s fancy.

Cosmetic changes may give the book a new look.

But the character of the chat binds the book,

With faces clinging to each one’s heart.                       [P.Chandrasekaran]

Paper Tigers.

           Paper Tigers.

     Fear is a fashion of the mind.
     To halt hallucinations 
     Is not to heckle the brain,
     To harness more of its manipulations.
     No.do not threaten threats; 
     Receive them stoutly,with a ruling hospitality.
     That which rattles without rage.
     Hoist the poise flag with conquering colours.
     Breathe in the formidable  with a fellow feeling.
     The bulldozing postures of the grudging guest,
     Get macerated,
     Like pieces of rusk in a cup of milk.
     By the melting script of the host.

                             P.Chandrasekaran.   

The Original.

                  Laugh.
                  Laugh the way, to own your laugh.
                  Laugh as you could; do not, as you should.
                  Laughter may be prescribed but not taught.
                  Laugh the child's serene laugh
                  Neither borrowed nor stolen.
                  It is tears at times does laughter cause.
                  It is tears does laughter always pause.
                  Laughter and tears are never a bluff
                  Like the mothers milk, the original stuff. 
                              
                                              P.Chandrasekaran
        

Society.

                                      Society.

It is me, with you and them;

And  you and them with me, the us .

A laid back living, is a journey stranded;

With cries for help from the Heavens,

Getting  gagged not to be heard.

Crying is always an eligibility factor.

As babies’ cries go on priority list.

Cross all milestones before pressing

The bell of alarm in anguish mode.

Life’s duty is to love and hate

As love’s, to crack hatred in any form

And get the hatchet buried in calm.

The base of the net is wide here,

With platforms for forging connections

To pick up SOS packages for one and all.

Launch out from your rodent rough holes,

To visit sites of your  taste, for fair roles.

Cry out to those who become you and me

To thicken the bond for the pacifier to be.

                    

                                                   P.Chandrasekaran.

The Impulsive Invader

                           The  Impulsive  Invader.

                       -------------------------------------

          The wind in his homestate,

          Is whistling and wailing at his new found peak,

          Like the honking  ambulances shrieking their way;

         And the cries of a mass funeral making its sway.

         The branches of trees beaten up to bleed,

         Dance to the cranky choreographic lead

         Of an exorcist’s evil and enigmatic  speed .

         The falling leaves fall to the ground

         That receives them well as if for a cause

         Like a stage,taking its showers of applause.

         But the fallen leaves in fright, fail to stay,

         Chased by the ruckus of the ruining fray.

         Heaping  helplessly at other’s  door steps,

         Like victims in exile of an ethnic strife,

         The withered stuff is at its nightmares’ blow,

         A midst the thrust of an imperialistic throw.

                                               P.Chandrasekaran.

                

The Ostrich.

                        The Ostrich

                Well bred,waiting to feed.
                Big in thought and word, betting to stir.
                Trained in spirit to recycle waste into use.
       
                Newness is a remake of the old.
                Newness is new to its fold,
                Like yesterday's cries of agony
                Transformed to today's outbursts of joy.
   
                To weep and laugh in original form,
                On a base of one's own stable norm
                Sets in motion,the stifled wings.

               The cry in anger, and that of hunger,
               Share the same dais,as allied forces
               Venting a feel of follow up precision.

               To shout is not always to be heard,               .
               As the sky is not ever, the only station.
               But to own a cry is one's own right,
               As to spread one's wings or slip them down.

               The inside flames fill riches as pure gold,
               In  peripatetic graphs of lateral lead,
               For my posterity's feed as yummy yield.

                                                                     P. Chandrasekaran.
               
             
                 

The Fall.

                         
                           The Fall

                The leaves of trees change colours
                Before they fall.
                The fall precedes the colder blows.
                New layers of beauty emerge to fade
                As if to placate the phase of transition.

                Waters falling from the hill tops,
                Make assertive inroads in army mode,
                Setting dominant standards for their fall.

                The fall of stars once a way,
                Feeds the astronomer's  flair and frenzy
                For a fresh fabrication of the spatial style.

                The fall of currency of a country
                Is a freak of  manipulative madness
               To inflate positions in the gamut of a gamble.
                
                The stocks of markets of the globe
                Fall in a regular roller coaster fashion
                Following many a feverish shift.

                The fall of life,
                Like a flimsy fore- closed account,
                Creates frictions and frowning moments,
                Painting faces with colours of grief or relief
                As a pointer to each one's inward interactions. 

                 The facts of fall of all kinds,
                 Like the changing patterns of intonation
                 Vindicate strange pick and drop schedules.
                                                          P.Chandrasekaran.

The Cerebral Traffic.

                        The Cerebral Traffic.
             

           My brain is battered with a traffic jam;
          Thoughts like piglets scramble for a space,
          Litter by litter.
          Pedestrian thoughts royally intercept
          The traffic melee.
          The vehicular run in twos  fours  and sixes,
          Veers  around in  a  racy, rough and tumble .
          Trailers slouching their way,
          Trespass into all the lanes as their own.
          There are trekking movements,
          Downward slides and lateral intrusions;
          With one group of thoughts
          Attempting to hijack the the other,
          The other group awaits the point for a hitchhike.
          Pellmell prevails at the cost of peace and poise.
          Piece by piece in fits of cataclysms,
          My homicidal thoughts become
          A heap of holocaust, hailing the brainy disintegration
          As minute minute meandering in abstract space.
                       
                                      P.Chandrasekaran
         
         







. 

Dreams of Dynamics

                           Dreams of Dynamics

Admire the point from where life begins;

The beginners  of life are all worthy of being

 Pushed to the forefront one way or the other.

Dreams of dynamics are not time bound.

They form a flow of sequence like

The line of those who are born to lead.

Luther’s  dreams were linear and expandable.

Obama has begun to resume the interminable.

Dreams are nothing but the preambles of

The progressive dynamics of life.

Nothing is so fixed in this dynamics as

The ripeness of perception,

The rightness of direction

And the regulated march of master minds

That make skeletons settle into sinews of strength.

Things do not melt and freeze at all times.

The protocol of dynamics is in its perpetuation.

                           P.Chandasekaran

Nature is Human.

                                Nature is Human.
  

            Forgetting my sleepless night,
            I got up from my couch
            To watch the patches of morning clouds,
            Looking pale and perturbed
            Like the inmates of a burgled house.
            The morning Sun was still in a holiday mood;
            The earth whitened for a while
            By the falling flakes of snow,
            Was a cosmic congregation of priests and nuns.

            Some where at a distance,
            A part of the earth charred in the grip
            Of a wild villainous fire,was all in black
            Raising a racial issue.

           The green fields in between,
           The floral fiesta around,
           The stalwart plantation here and there 
           As thickets and tall trees dense and stretchy,
           The oceanic fancy crying for a pattern,
           Were all but a fair show of the free spirit.
           The colours of mankind inbuilt and acquired,
           Do belong here, as unique attributes of nature. 

                                    P.Chandrasekaran.  



 

The Fragments Abroad.

             The Fragments Abroad.

        My dreams in an alien soil,
        Were a few butchered chops of meat;
        Lean white,and thick red they were,
        I can not shape them into 
        Hens,goats, bulls and pigs.

        Things broke up or boomeranged on their being
        Stumbled upon or blocked at the dead ends.
        There was a stifling sense of incompleteness,
        Like emptiness and dryness of an overused well.

        All moves were intriguing,at all times
        As lumps from ill-conceived wombs;
        Or as plates of half-cooked food
        From the fast food ovens.

        Years are nothing but a calculation of the calendar;
        A reminder of the half built rungs of the ladder.
        I am neither a winner nor a runner up
        In removing the blockades of perception.

        Holding the chops on hand 
        Without an indication of their character,
        I am looking at forms without their DNA clues.
        Will my native moorings hold on
        To fix the roots to their soil
        And make out the figures from their chops? 

                                         P. Chandrasekaran.
        
         

Listening to My Laptop.

              Listening to My Laptop.
         ===================

       ' My boss I belong to you' says my laptop 
        And continues, as I keep listening;
        'Some one like you,made me
        Into what I am now,
        With the monitor as my face,
        The wares hard,as my internal organs
        And the keyboard as my makeup kit,
        Making me look, as each one fancies me to be.
        Each one tries to access me in varied acrobatic modes
        Meddling with my limb that they call the mouse
        Like a ringmaster controlling the tamed wild,
        In a serial circus show. 
        Every software wizard is a maniac
        Manipulating my sense of utility
        For his macro, mega schemes.
        But I could find every one jittery
        When I was thought to be bug-bound.
        Whenever I am virus-prone,
        My software brethren run the temperature.
        My boss,people like you, have stuffed me
        With data dear and dreadful
        To reach regions far and wide,
        Only to cry in wilderness
        At system failure,and server not found.
        Lying in your lap I lend you reigns
        To rule the world ;but your connectivity
        Is ever my reserved right, to be what I want to be.
                                              P.Chandrasekaran

Christmas Song

        Christmas is a celebration in aesthetics.

        Bethlehem was the centre from where

        Beauty began its breezy flow in all fineness.

        The stars that guided the Magi,

        Were drawn over there by a fascinating flash.

        The symmetry behind the crib and the Christmas tree

        Was the synopsis of a structural evolution

        That placed the form of beauty

        Far beyond its skin-deep formulations

        Of  a  static sensuous pattern.

        Christmas characterized beauty

        As a growing, governing and galvanizing course.

        There is beauty in the flow of blood

        Running through our veins and arteries

        Like the beauty of the psalms flowing into our souls.

       The delight of Christmas is in the dynamics of love

       That makes each one’s life a carry on process

       Holding closely to each one’s thoughts

       The crystal concept of beauty as truly as

       The beautiful words adorning the pages of the Bible.

                                            P.Chandrasekaran.                                       

                  

At the Lake Geneva.

     
          The Lake Geneva trip in 2007  
          At a Wisconsin week end spot,
          Became the land mark of a lustrous run from
          The land to the waters.
          Weathering the weight of the waves ,the afternoon
          Transformed into an avalanche of
          Awe-inspiring tick tick of time.
          Driving the motor boat
          Between the wading sun and the wavy waters
          Displayed a sense of deviation
          From dovetailing picnic with tabled events.
          The rejuvenating rally against the ravishing  lake rhythms,
          Resembled a cruise experience on a resplendent ocean.
          The blue lake literally blew me out of my blues.
          As the initial grip of fears fizzled out,
          Each one began to drive like a veteran boatman.
          With the gush of sprinkling of the lake waters
          Riveting my thoughts to the Holy Communion,
          I felt recharged as though,re-born.
          The evening became inventive.
          Being docile and stagnant is a state of death in life.
          The throb of life lies in fresh fielding;
          A field that generates faster breaths and louder beats
          As the lexical levels of actual  living. 

                                                               P.Chandrasekaran

I love my mom.

     
             I think I loved my mom
          Just before I was born.
          I was delivered as the last 
          And the least.
          My mother drew a line 
          Long as she willed,
          And put me 
          At the fag end of the lineage.
          I was interred vertically for a while,
          To straighten my walking way,
          She said.
          My feet fell flat either before or after
          The standing burial ritual.
          Since then,flatness became my fate.
          I love my mother 
          For making me singularly flat;
          For the uniqueness,
          She bestowed upon me.
          Years passed fast in a zig zag rhythm
          Composed by my flat muscles.
          The line drawn maternally,grew faster 
          Like a distant vision of a meteor in the sky.
          That I could see my mother only through
          The quadrilateral vision programming
          She had created for me,was not my choice.
          The four pillars that she had installed
          Prior to my arrival,
          Hid more than they showed,
          Of my mighty mother's mind.
          I really love my mother 
          For not making me,
          A pillar of hindrance,
          For not drawing the line
          Further behind me,one flatter than mine.
                                             P.Chandrasekaran.

When Ed came to See Us.

      Ed came to see us
      Like an epitome of endearing love;
      A Texas devotee,a tall Christian,
      Ed came with a marked mission.
      At the Alamo and the other mission parks,
      Ed was beaming ever,
     As a passionate,American patriot.
     A humble and happy host he was
     At the German luncheon and the Mexican dinner.
     His subdued talks were of sublime thoughts
     Settling for a salutary impact
     On a fleeting get together .
     The river walk with him
     Remained a treat,meaty and more.
    A day with Ed at San Antonio
    Asked for an all time memory show.

The U.S Calendar.

   Life's hub here,is very much in the web;
   Each one's routine is breezily routed through
   A racy, robotic manual, independently cast.
   One can select switches to set the day in order.
   Car-prone roads cry for two wheeler rides;
   Eateries every where,exhibit an Elizabethan variety.
   Shopping is a celebration in plastic money payoffs.
   From tissue paper rolls to trash can on roads,
   Nothing goes haywire in the hectic movement of kinds.
  ,Life lines up in a geometric perfection for easy interactions,
   For mutually rewarding transactions.
   Week end enjoyments wield energy and enthusiasm
   For the fabulous five day fit ins.
   As the exits are many,any one can choose any.
   The endless bustle of the driving spree
   Crossing the subways and fly overs
   Is nothing but a sequential flow of an apple pie order
   Signalling each one's race with their frequency modulations
   As a symptom of the competitive speed for co existence
   Without crossing ever the well set line of control.
                                        P.Chandrasekaran.

The Native Core.

      From sticky streets and slimy crowds,
      I flew to a land,
      Where streets looked
      Like laminated resting zones.
      The crowd of humanity there,
      Was a creamy layer, crisp and captivating .
      But my mind made of a thermosetting mould,
      Longed more for my slimy crowds
      On the sticky streets.
                               p.Chandrasekaran.

A Dropout.

     I frowned upon all playgrounds.
     I flatly failed to stay out door
     To float my flair for any form of sport.
     My boyhood days were not supposed to beam
     A midst the healthy,hilarious friends of a team.
     My feeble flat footed blues
     Flared up by my friendly foes
     Foreclosed the force of my toes.
     I misunderstood the rules of games
     And mistook one game for the other.
     A piggyback here and a hopscotch there,
     My game lorn whims, somersaulted at simian speed .
     Indoor,playing dice for a price,
     I fell a victim of foul game practices
     From crooked playmates perverting game norms.
     Snake and Ladder slammed my naive strokes
     With one-up-man-ship blocks.
     Cards and carom caught me at wrong ends.
     The No Entry boards were on a hit and run spree,
     While I dragged on my dampened feet
     Making new tracks on the ground,
     Faking a show of the Olympian round.
                                           P.Chandrasekaran.

At The Farming House.

   
       We sowed our seeds
       During the same auspicious season;
       You went in for genetically modified methods.
       I tilled the land with spontaneous ease
       Ever wedded to the conventional lease.
       The yields were enormously distinct.
       There were thunderous uproars on your side.
       Contrary to a scene of poise on mine.
       My subdued harvest harnessed
       A stock for the next season.  
       My soil serially became the lap of luxury.
       The successive sterile voices were
       The echoes of your granary's void.
       You were artificially unearthed.
       The soil knows what it receives.
       The sanctity of the soil is seen 
       In its acceptance of the matching seed.
       With the soul of the soil  in its yield,
       The harvest is not just a heap.
       It is the halo of harmony between
       The soil and the seed.
       The energy of the yield can not be engineered.
       It is a happening in the hands of Nature.
                                                        P.Chandrasekaran.
      
    

Marriage Anniversaries.

                          

Marriage manifests the magnificent game plan

For mastering the nuances of a neat, joint venture.

Neither a piggyback project nor a leapfrog lead,

Marriage means a routine for living for the other

And not a scheme for living at the cost of the other.

Anniversaries are annual attestations for qualifying

An arm- in- arm race for achieving the other’s dreams.

The accrued levels of confidence and compatibility,

Augment the resources for strengthening the base

For a solid summit of mutual sacrifice and satisfaction.

The cumulative entries it makes in life’s yearly ledger

Confirm in clear terms, a complete sense of belonging

In each other’s thought as much as in each other’s lot.

                              

                                                            P.Chandrasekaran

Christmas Song.

                    

Christmas season unravels the glory of the concept

That a mind clean alone, can carry the credentials

For catching up honestly with the crib and the cross

To frame the cornerstones of one’s conscious living.

The taste of yummy Christmas cakes leaves tacitly,

Its flavours sweet, as tattoo marks on our tongues

Percolating perfectly,   into our hearts and thoughts,

The enduring essence of our grateful submission to

The   core of Baptism and the Holy Communion.

The glow of the burning candles ever flows fairly,

Into one’s natural intent and native understanding

As the classic character of Christ ever committed to

His corrective course of throwing a retrieving light

On the labyrinthine corridors of the human route.

The chromatic rendition of carols displays deftly,

A rehearsal of the on- going life’s ups and downs

Caused by one’s personal whims and vagaries

As it swiftly salvages the frail, floating life boat

From getting critically capsized and fatally lost.

Christmas clearly offers a cast iron guarantee

For a non-stop transmission of joy and peace

On a stable and sound life-time investment of

The hard-earned returns of one’s sterling assets.

                                                   P.Chandrasekaran

The Number Game.

     Watch the new rhythms;
     Weigh them against the old ones.
     The numbers have grown as mere numbers
     In additions and multiplications.
     The keyboards display the keys
     With a variety of style and symmetry.
     The Deadly Sins have crossed
     The original Seven.
     If Moses had to revisit the humans,
     He would be asked to reset his numbers
     With Commandments new.
     The revised editions of the holy books
     Would,adding pages more,report
     The number of fresh wounds caused
     On God,mostly in His name.
     New incarnations come to bill
     As heroes of new found epics.
     New districts,new capitals,new websites
     And new control systems
     For the ever growing numbers in flesh and blood.
     Nature kills never known numbers in new designs.
     Man's extensive entries in playing the game of death
     Displays a competitive edge in number mania.
     Everywhere,new channels outnumber the old.
     New Gods,new shrines and new rituals;
     New parties,new flags and new leaders.
     New statues of Gods and leaders,old and new;
     As the numbers outnumber,
     Focus and direction flee as fugitives of the new era.
                                                           P.Chandrasekaran.

    

The Lease Abroad.

  My lease abroad was pampered well
  By the breakneck speed of running days
  For a plum period of percolating joy.
  I had sucked life giving memories
  Through the straw of sustaining backups.
  I packed them all optimally for shipping,
  With least probabilities of snags of any kind.
  Back home ,I unpacked them neatly,
  Following precisely ''the handle with care'' note.
  Reached home safely, were the quality time reminiscences
  Of the serial happenings abroad, in between
  Two spells of fatigued flying.
  But time is a dampener of memory's warmth.
  Soon did the native ruminations start rendering
  An antique stamp to the alien soil reflections,
  Assigning them a rack in their museum.
  That the lease is renewable raps my stymied spirit
  With a prospective flow of positive percolation
  Between two fascinating spells of flying,
  For a re surge of those life-giving memories.
                                                 P.Chandrasekaran.


  

The Changeovers.

     The fictional effect of Truth
     Is a foretold addiction.
     Faces fretting,fuming and ferocious,
     Fit into frames,
     Flimsy,fragile and faulty.
     The reverse too is a regular changeover.
     Trees seemingly Trojan and Titanic,
     Shelter the thoughts for a fraction of time
     With sentimental shades of support
     Only to settle down to tall, thin skyscrapers,
     Stripping their shading splendour
     Like the sudden shutdown of a sweet dream.
     Voices stentorian and stifled,
     Swap their vocal cord manipulations
     As if vested with the vagaries of the wind.
     Paradoxes in a perfect rotation
     Paint faces with an antithetical undercurrent.
     Illusion is not always an imprint of the unreal.
     Truth and fiction interchange their platforms
     For their change over installations.
                                          P.Chandrasekaran.
   

The Sacred Quiz.

      Can the waters holy, flow
      As a role model for tears?
      How holy are the waters of certain quarters?
      On whose consecration did the waters turn holy?
      Is holiness the hallmark of those ordained to be?
      Is canonization the only route for radiance?
      Between the compassion and penance prototypes,
      Which wins the floor test for divine inheritance?
      Between the running waters and the blazing flames,
      Where lies the point of absolution?
      If cathartic lines are drawn by invisible hands,
      To what extent are the lines marked?
      Does the redemptive rope preempt the slip?
      Does an answer upright to these riddles,
      Unfold the truth of the sacred schedule?
                                            P.Chandrasekaran.

The Divine Technocrat.

     Survival is a serial struggle to see God
     Through the battered  terrestrial ambit.

     The man made make beliefs
     Have meandered from the main frame
     Like a chronic malaise of the mind.
 
      Technology expands in a freak
      As Tradition's daily teaser.
      Seeing global directions through
      Instantaneous  ' I' versions
      In updated audio visual forms,
      Makes the world smaller,
     And easy to travel and grasp.

      But man's maddening techno moves
      Make no head way to track the route
      To the Divine terminals ;  
      As God has no tears to shed
      For man's manifold maladies,
      Man's technology quest
      Ever remains an irremediable predicament
      Entangling him to his inventive boomerangs.

      God's pride in prefixing the fate of His product
      Endows His creative grip ever with a whip.

                                                               P.Chandrasearan.
   
   
   
   

    

From Mount Olympus.

    I made a mindless headway
    To Mount Olympus,
    With a zeal to measure the mainstream
    Of the Greater Dozen Gods.
    The Mighty Twelve were found
    Gloating over their power to break
    The unflinching human grit.
    Did they incarcerate Tensing and Hillary 
    For trespassing in the name of trekking.
    Did they castigate Kalpana
    For claiming a place in the space?.
    The Dozen were obsessed at least
    With two of the Seven.
    Tensing was forced to tread on thorns,
    Hillary was hit back to the valley of despair.
    Kalpana's wings were frozen
    With volumes of vile snow.
    The Twelve God's wrath went unabated
    As they nailed the arms of Neil
    To a nefarious cliff, on a full moon night
    For his unswerving love for the moon.
    Bacchus was bottled as a bee
    For bemusing The Muse with his tipsy wits.
    Caught unwittingly,in a tightened groove,
    I thought of my singular aberration.
    How long had I pestered Pindar
    With an unbridled flow of my ugly verse ?
    Squeezed heavily by my own qualms,
    I whisked away unnoticed
    To play a level game on my old familiar soil.
                                         P.Chandrasekaran.