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.