Bury The Hatchet.

      Bury The Hatchet.

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Deep grows, love's chasm;

When steep goes its spasm.
To woo and then to rue,

Ruins one without a clue.

The mismatches of life are a midway hump,

Making the romantic wheel break and bump.

A half- made medley  of  mortar, rough and rife,

Never keeps the base fit, to beat  the  daily strife.

‘True love never breaks’ may be a tantalizing maxim.

‘No love withstands serial pressures’, is a fact so grim.

Looking for rhyme and reason among the haunting ghosts,

Leaves one pining for patch up dreams and trendy toasts.

When boiling tempers move to a mad, breaking point,

The broken crumbs of a wafer biscuit course fail to flaunt.

If being together, breathes the art of living for each other,

Living together looks up ever, as a proud peacock’s feather.

There is a lot here for each one, to forget and forgive,

Than to remember  the rust, for the ego’s  itching drive.

Each day, fresh  rhythms of soothing lifestyle will bloom,

As  the hatchets are buried for the light of the full moon.

                                                                     P.Chandrasekaran.

  

The Unattached.

       The Unattached.

I came here as I had to;

Neither with a passion nor with a programme.

My days and nights did not care for me;

Nor did I bother about how I moved about ,

What I saw before and beside, leave alone,

What followed me from  behind.           

At times, I hopped like a toad, passed like a cloud,

Crossing my path from left to right, or right to left,

With sudden diversions bringing shock waves.

I know I always travelled into zones, that do not belong

Anywhere here, where, my body moved  about  with alien steps.

Living within oneself never makes  sense to those,

Who foresee their living environment, looking for cues and clues,

That would make it solely belong to them .

When one belongs to oneself, the world is too much for them.

For those to whom the world means more than all,

It is seized, cut to shape, making ground for power games,

Without space for others, to make a claim for a share.

Are n’t  they  too much  for the world that they crave to own?

Living within myself, nothing belongs to me save myself;

Though I know not what I see and how I move about,

I will leave  from here when I have to,

To somewhere that  I will not belong to;

For I know that I am ever, the unattached.

                                                           P.Chandrasekaran.

The Seasons.

                  The Seasons.       

                          1             

Nothing can irk life more than biting cold.

It puts the  routine’s route  much on hold.

Colder receptions hurt harder than chilling snow.

Benumbed bodies battle for a movement;

Frozen thoughts cripple cerebral circuits;

Nights turn pythons, swallowing  rat like days.

The slumbering Sun stifles diurnal targets.

Darkness reigns three fourth of twenty four seven.

Snow storms and hurricanes  steal the show.

The non- stop viral invasion  warps all hopes.

The inhospitable days and nights  impound

Body and mind for a beastly battering round . 

                             2

Waiting in sweltering  heat  for warmer  inlets,

With thoughts whipping as cat of nine tails,

There is nothing to give; nothing to share;

Endearing evenings get  stiffly jammed

Between  burning days and bullying nights.

The tropics envy the colder regions for their breather

During  their sunny days of surprising sojourns.

Heat is Hell with no preceding alarm bell ;

The sun burnt skin needs identity more than care.

Let not Nature’s prejudices  make parity bare.

For Summer’s voice is full of a seasoned snare.

The victim’s want for warmth is weakened by wrath

When the wind blows hot and the waves steam,

Life’s  leading precepts are  caught mid stream.
                           3

There is a lot here, to bestow upon others.

A lot to own as well as to share.

Nothing to bemoan or berate, in a process.

Prosperity is no myth to mystify the mind.

It  spurts  and grows in a leap,

Like spreading and penetrating light,

That takes  darkness deftly out of sight,

Cheering  up those, seeing things right.

Those who see the soil as a source of wealth

And not as a beckoning burial ground ,

Spring up as greener pastures, garnering  hope

To steer  mankind with strength of  joy.

Living means, being followed on a path

With a warranty for weigh bridges

Assuring right gains at the right time.                             

                       4

Fate makes the final moments fall

However  one’s goalposts grow tall .

The falling things fall with a felicitous thud.

The supporting soil stakes its claims.

Colours change as things fall in a free flow.

It is not that leaves alone change colours.

The smile on a falling face is full of winning grace.

The changing sense of smile is a fit of fine finale.

Life in pains or gains, the fall is a form of gratitude

For pleasures enjoyed and the pressures relieved.

The Fall is a fruitful, firming up fair play

That makes all things fall for a sure stay.

The earth’s seasons are made up of a solid four

That keep life’s happenings hail wail and more.

                                                                P.Chandraaekaran.