In the Budding.

              A skeleton sketch is all I need
         To make my painter's brush yield;
         My old pieces of chalk
         Are dumped decently in trash cans.
         They are the restive reminders
         Of a rummaging career called for a finish.
         Aesthetic cells installed in my nerves,
         Caused knotty Narcissus twists
         Nudging now and then a creative verve.
         My paternal Parker is prompting me
         To draw fake lines fabricating those of Keats.
         The sin of committing a double disgrace
         To the Muse and Memory's monumental lines,
         Will become the Deadly, irredeemable eight.
         Still I long to own at least a one time skeleton sketch.
         One with a classic stroke of Rembrandt's renown,
         That will imbibe Madonna like mystery for a making.
         My brush at this thought,
         Would betray the blush of a veiled bride .
                                                P.Chandrasekaran.

The Do or Die.

     I know I have a thought factory with in;
     The blue collared comrades are in a row;
     They are mostly heading for a mutiny,
     Without packing the products for delivery.

     When crates of apples and oranges
     Get cleared from the orchards of my mind,
     I pick up roses from my garden
     And adorn my roof,with ripe reverence.

     When tribal thoughts chase me like wolves,
     I pelt robustly my  rustic thoughts at them
     Driving away the dangerous, chasing ones
     With my unflinching arms of battling stuff.

     When Lucifer cunningly crosses my way,
     I command his execution through lynch law;
     Vetting my thoughts as sickles and knives,
     I undo Machiavelli with no mood for villainy.

     The civil wars should adhere to the civil code
     And bravery should subscribe to the right mode .

                                                         P.Chandrasekaran.

A Self-made Stalker.

         If you were the moon,
       I would be Neil Armstrong;
       If you stood as Mount Everest,
       I would trek and reach you as Tensing.
       If you became Lord Buddha,
       I would bow before you as Emperor Asoka.
       If you were Lord Krishna,
       I would form the pages of the Gita.
       If you turned the Savior,
       I would grow as the Christmas Tree.
       If you were the wind,
       I would pass as the air that you blew
       And help you blissfully breathe
       The fragrance of my faith in love.
     
                                                          P.Chandrasekaran.

       

The Metamorphosis.

       The mind is a sedimentary rock;
     Waves of experience piled as layers
     Keep rolling into a thickening process;
     The in between is a percolating lot,
     Quick fixing the layers for a regular,
     Reorganization in a concentration camp.
     A periodical jolt between the layers,
     As Nazi- like coercion and Gandhian tolerance,
     Galvanizes into a balancing exercise.
     Sacred or sinister,caring or crooked,
     Passionate or perverted,
     The sediments characterize themselves
     Into interlocking imperatives,making each other
     Indispensable alternatives.
     Heaviness is not in the programme of sedimentation.
     It is a deposit mobilization process,
     On  multilateral expansive indicators
     Spreading the essence of experience
     Pointedly and progressively,
     Through the trans formative tunnels of thinking.

                                                         P.Chandrasekaran.

My Blanket

       

A make- shift shelter, installed horizontally,

Between my head and my toes,

A hammock inverted as instant roof,

A breathing space enough,

Well set for my nocturnal lay off,

My blanket bestows upon me,

A haven, safe, serene and secured;

Interventions of light and darkness withheld;

Dreams flow filtered in precision.

Noises of neighbourhood never enter my fort.

Even sunrise is allowed only at the lifting of

My self-styled leeway.

My home within home, with its impenetrable stuff,

Remains an Elysium,built at my will

Meeting the targets of my fancy mill.

                                                  P.Chandrasekaran.

The Vagabond.

           
                                  

I wanted to become a sage;

My simpleton spirit would not hear that.

I desired to become a leader;

My docile instinct shuddered at the thought.

I was keen to grow as a sportsman;

My flat foot flatly frowned upon the proposal.

I had a thespian trigger in my nerves;

My shameful shyness sealed the zeal for ever.

Music was in my blood, I thought;

My blood shook from the idea

As the hand of Midas, in fear of gold.

I am now what I am, harbouring other alternatives,

Hitting here and there but not getting anywhere.

                                                    P.Chandrasekaran

When the Oracle Speaks!

                     

You said you are from Oracle.

My mind was thrilled at the thought of Delphi.

I could not decipher from the grimaces of your

Lantern-jawed face, if your position meant pride.

But the flamboyance of your fingers,

Seemed to fix your software skills quite high.

Your haggard eyes revealed the fact that

You had outsourced sleep many nights ago.

 As the mouse had meddled with your mind for long,

You spoke with a rat like stench.

The hangover of a workaholic that was.

I could see that the steam of your youth

Had come to blows with the cyber muscles;

The desk tops had drained the dignity of your soul

Through a nonstop blow of web data

And progression of projects, on hand and upcoming.

When the Oracle speaks from Delphi,

It will be what is unspoken from your end.

                                                  P.Chandrasekaran