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.