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.