The One Ever With You.

 

        

    

The one whom you loved and keep loving,

The one who lived only to love you,
The one who became you, in mind and spirit,

Lives in your eyes and their looks and tears,

In your thoughts and their themes,

In your words and their meanings,

In all your prayers and their unspoken power,

In your day- to- day spell as a person of poise

And your passion for the Lord and His flair for love.

Synthesized to your soul and its rhythm,

She runs your pulse and your heart throb;

As you move and rest through your days and nights,

She makes you move and rest, as she ever did,

Par taking your preference for peace and harmony.

                                                               P.Chandrasekaran

A Worthy New Year.

  Paint your imagination with fresh colours

  To create a landscape of brand new ideas;

  Drive your ideas through untraveled zones

  To experience the thrill of the unknown;

  When the unknown becomes the known,

  Weigh its value to make the travel worthy.

  The mind for sure, can control its trip sheets

  For it would never make a marathon mission

  Towards unproductive and uneasy dead ends.

   A life lived vigorously with a will to venture

  The arduous altitudes of the upward march,

   Validates one’s Daily Sheet with all credits

   For living the way, one should live one’s lot;

   For gaining one’s ground after having fought.

                                                                P.Chandrasekaran

                                                                                                                                                                                                                       

New Year 2012.

                                         New Year 2012

                                      ==============

Every New Year sets in motion a renewed race

For relocating every one’s dreams and desires

In a new dimension, towards new directions;

The man- made calendar is a monumental myth.

Time is the veteran guardian of a well-set run

For the continuance of order and discipline.

New Years are perhaps periodical stopovers,

For revisiting and revising lessons in leadership.

The flow of time tacitly favours many free ways

For making every second lead to historic years.

The happening of a year should reaffirm the fact

That leadership is not a hierarchic phenomenon;

It is an eternal chain, where each link leads the other

In its own way, to make breakthroughs in its motion.

The leading principle of life is to help everyone lead

With each one’s vision extending to self-actualization.

         ========0=========0==========

                                                                                  P.Chandrasekaran

Christmas Song.

Christmas marks the clearance of all delusions;

The Magi were promptly shown directions clear,

By the unfailing stars of the Divine Order.

The serene glow of the Star of Bethlehem                                                             

Flowed straight into the hearts of men

Fixing the G P S  for life’s right terminals.

Deviation was never an item on the Christmas agenda.

Even the miracles performed, were not patented

For promoting the intrigue of illusions of a magic show.

Meant instead they were,

For mending the wayward sheep on a renegade path.

The Sermon on the Mount was a straightening discourse

For attaining perfection through the healing of  wounds

Caused by delusions personified.

When the visually impaired vindicate validly

The Braille version of the Bible,

The seeing should always see things

As a vaster benefit of their vision

Without winding their ways on deceptive tracks.

While walking in a crowd, watch your goal.

When you walk alone, form forthright foot prints.

The paths trodden without the  pangs of guilt ensure,

Delusion-free days and nights as Christmas guarantee.     

     -0-------------0--------------0----------------- 0--           
                                                               P.Chandrasekaran                                                   

Christmas Song

Christmas is a day of lamination

In the name of The Lamb of God;

Laminate thoughts of love to shine

Like the lovely smiles of little kids.

Let the latent goodwill ever lie intact,

With built-in layers of the lactic stuff

Sucked from the staple source of sacrifice.

Let goodness of life get stuck to the soul,

Like a child clinging to the lap of its mother.

Live latched on straight, to life’s lofty goals;

Get riveted to the leading lines of the Holy Book,

With its protective leaves, lending lifeline clues.;

Let the Christmas cheer and the Character of life,

Carry on together the benign process of blending

Like lamp and its light, like candle and its glow,

Like the flow of blood and its throb in the heart

For a progressive pattern of life’s reinforcement.

                                                                P.Chandrasekaran

Marriage Anniversaries.

         
Marriage anniversaries monitor annually,

The enhancement of the range of romance;

Romance is not just the rhapsody of love;

Nor is it a repetition of ringtone vibrations.

It is the daily thrill of learning to live together

To match and mix equations and wavelengths

In the manner of ravishing rainbow colours

Or a symphony of rhythms titillating the ears.

The juxtaposition of thoughts in a balancing act,

The management of rattling nerves and moods,

And the day- to -day exchange of endearing words

Will sustain the spirit of settling down with ease

And shower new addition joys in the years to come

To steer smile- sharing sessions for a family show

                                                                    P.Chandrasekaran.

Under Article Such and Such.

       The rat smelt the rice;
       The rice began to smell the rat.
       The cockroaches launched a rattling coup;
       The kitchen became their domain.
       The ants were unmindful of their size;
       The faster ones were the softer.
       The biting ones were a bewildering lot.
       The neighbourly cat never bothered about
       Norms of etiquette.
       The spiders were busy making
       Their cobwebs unmade.
       Behind these invasions unruly,
       Did pass on the pact and principle of co-existence
       As the unwritten article of mutual faith.
                                           P.Chandrasekaran.

Shock Absorbing.

   When friendship fails
   After mutual faith has faltered,
   Memory and forgetfulness
   Swiftly exchange sides.
   Memory begins to zoom the negatives;
   Forgetfulness buries the glorious past like a corpse,
   Million fathoms deep, underground.
   As hatred breeds hiccups,
   The cleft widens into crevices and chasms.
   The scars of  a broken friendship
   Are deeper than the wounds that caused them.
   Faith in fascinating friendship,is frowned upon
   In unpalatable, retrospective revelations.
   As the truth gets unfolded,
   There are more shocks to absorb
   That rattle and let the mind wobble
   At the rickety realization that
   Sentiments have no set lanes to travel
   For masked human relationships.
                                              P.Chandrasekaran.

The Body Language.

         The darker side of your life
         Has perhaps clipped your lips,
         Though often I wish,
         You talked with your tongue
         In your cheeks.
         Your mealy mouthed reactions,
         Monopolize your communication network.
         You are scared to throw a smile
         Lest  your lips should change their style.
         Your hands compensate
         The failure of articulation.
         You nod,shake and shrug
         Rather than sever your lips for awhile.
         Can I ever grab your gravid mind
         Penetrating through your blocks intertwined?
                                              P.Chandrasekaran.

  

The Midas Myth.

           The pebbles I gathered,
           Turned trendily into precious diamonds;
           The diamond-turned pebbles,
           Taunted my fabulous fortune,
           In a sardonic,glitter.
           I know I was no Alchemist breed;
           Nor did I own a philosopher's stone.
           But the pebbles I held in my hand
           Imposed on my ego a divining greed.
           I gathered some more pebbles
           And my eyes in avarice starved for
           A speedy, shining  galaxy,
           In my self-expanding kitty.
           This time, I scorned my petrified pebbles,
           With rage and revenge.
           But the pebbles blamed my unworthy hand
           For the jinx it deserved.
           I failed to note the missing link
           Between my hand and my wand.
                                               P.Chandrasekaran    .

My Vision Chart.

    Looking through the binoculars
    Of my photographic vision programming,
    A little bit of life looked rosy,I thought.
    The rest of it was bushy and thorny.
    I altered the direction and dimension
    Of my seeing style;
    The view finder began to waver
    And the rosy-bushy- thorny theories
    Turned around to re-orient and re-interpret
    Themselves,in a make shift.
    That I was struggling for growing up
    Was symptomatic of a ramifying,radical
    Vision activity without a rule guide;
    What was seen was less than
    What was meant for seeing.
    The more I saw,the more pressure
    It built in,for making the rosy,bushy-thorny,
    And the bushy-thorny,rosy.
    Views in fast track conversion and convergence
    Buckled under the successive stills of
    Microscopic,magnifying indicators;
    To grow is to learn to see things as they are;
    The best way to see ,is to shirk
    The irrelevant impact of seeing.
    Besides the linear and lateral look outs,
    An aerial,giant wheel,roller coaster position of seeing
    Patronizes prime levels of vision
    Before  pruning, to optimize
    A list of kaleidoscopic objects
    Fit for an eternal,aesthetic show .
                                                 P.Chandrasekaran.
 
   
    

The Uxoricide.

      In corporeal terms
     The charred mortal remains looked
     As a bundle of burnt wood.
     Feelings of woe,neither owed nor owned,
     Fixed the issue as closed.
     Truth stood incinerated.
     There was no submission of faith
     Either uxorious or filial.
     When the mind turns into a morgue,
     Passing away becomes more a prerogative
     Than being born.
     That one can choose one's funeral,
     At the behest of one's conjugal blues,
     Labels the better half as a badger
     Beside and from behind.
     Here, the bereaved husband
     Sang his ready made fake requiem,
     Lamenting the loss of some one
     He hardly ever tried to love.
                                           P.Chandrasekaran.
   

The Unholy Waters.

 
      Long before the lunch hosted,got digested,
      A limb of the host was lost;
     The summer waters of a rain fed tank
     Silently swallowed innocence,
     Like a sinister,static monster.
     The quicksand like alluvial avarice
     Asked for more,not like Oliver's famished brand,
     But like the Leviathan greed of Lady Macbeth.
     An act that would ask for all the holy waters
     To get the stains cleared.
     A sluggish pond claiming to have drowning zones,
     Reflected the deceptive dimensions of destiny
     Like gods posing to have a flair for
     Killing budding lives for sport.

His Master's Voice.

       Man thinks,
      God speaks with a divine voice
      In an oracle intonation,
      Through carved frames and hallowed flames,
      Scented fumes and sanctified sweets,
      Soothing hymns and stereotyped sermons.

      Coiled wicks dipped in oil
      Burning Godly gigabytes,
      Seem to connect man's ID
      To the celestial website though.

      But God never speaks or chats.
      He has no dialect for dialogue.
      He is the current of the Aside,
      The soliloquy of every soul,
      The master of the art of monologue
      Making the spirit set in a role of silence
      His is the voice speaking and spoken to
      As the vibration of the vocal chords.
                                           P.Chandrasekaran.
      

Pipe Dreams.

      Did Helen of Troy make Faustus immortal
    With the Kiss he asked for?
    Between the kiss and Heavenly bliss,
    What did Faustus really ask for?
 
    Did Cleopatra breathe the nobleness of life
    In Mark Antony's machismo embrace?
    Or wast it just the wishful thinking
    Of a third of the Roman triumvirate?

    Yesterday's taboos have become today's traditions..
    Sharing the bed beyond the conjugal boundaries,
    Is labeled now as live-in-relationship
    Winning the nod of judicial heads.

    The stripped secrets of self bound moments
    Are processed and outsourced
    As tinned trading stuff,for a profit margin.

   Love and nobleness
   Were lost as pipe dreams in madcap transactions
   Registered in blood,
   Between the German philosopher and the super mammon,
   And remembered as romance,
   Between the Roman brave heart and the Egyptian ecstasy.
                                                              P.Chandrasekaran.

The Closer Gains.

 
        Intimacy at times,
        Becomes an intimidating factor.
        At closer browsing,
        Smiles grow into reptiles.
        Scented words and cynical raids
        Periodically intercept the romantics of
        Relationships intimate, but irrelevant.
        In the cordial act of coming together,
        Pains overtake peripheral gains.
        The perception of personal agenda
        Leads a pointer to see within,
        What is being seen; and to read
        In between, what is being said.
        Revelations mark re- fixing
        The blue print dimensions of
        Being or staying at close quarters.
                                              P.Chandrasekaran.

No Admission.

       Why don't you open
      The stone door of your mortal home
      And shut me in?
      Am I so uninvited that
      You should keep me waiting
      For an entry ticket?
      Or,am I knocking at
      My own inhibitions?
                      P.Chandrasekaran.

Pass Pass.

       The cry of birth can be construed

       As a mark of protest at the throes of a changeover;

       The sudden agoraphobic slip

       From the gestational support base,

       Sounds formidable for the newborn.

       To feel that the world is too much,

       Was hardly in the programme of the womb.

       Why didn't the umbilical cord withhold the fall?

       The smile stamped at the last breath may be understood

       As the silent expression of gratitude for the help line

       Facilitating a fleeting exit from

       The suffocating bodily confinement.

       The premeditated release of the spirit

       Becomes a fascinating formulation.

       To keep the spirit stuffed in flesh,

       Was scarcely in the scheme of things.

       Why didn't the solid frame

       Surpass the passing away predicament?

       The cry and the smile together,
       Symbolize a note of cohesion
       In their cock a s noodle contempt
       For the temporal tie up
       In between the falls one and two.
       Like many a fruit that falls from the tree,
       Gets split into sweetness and seed,
       The fall of life from its terrestrial hold
       Breaks into breath and body.
       While sweetness and breath settle down
       As abstract infinities,
       Seed and body seek sojourn
       Under the soil's  shelter .
       The cry and smile alternatives
       Keep changing their tunes in a pass pass rhythm.

       P.Chandrasekaran

      

The Summing Up.

    Life's fallacies line up like a rigmarole,
    In the rough and tumble of a living row.
    The fantasies of childhood fail to further in adolescence.
    Teen age glories become tissues of lies.
    Romance developed like a baby in mother's womb,
    Recedes like some mothers' gestational diabetes.
    Even adulthood amusements have an undercurrent
    Of anemic backlogs.
    Mismatch of marriages,like a child and its sullen looks,
    Manipulates exotic printouts of daily delusions.
    Roses are made but not grown.
    Ageing surrenders to the rancid course of mulling
    In matter-of -fact reminiscences.
    The terminal collection of silly nothings
    Transforms into flowery wreaths and rich requiems
    With a bonus of frills and filigrees
    For the decorative map of each one's life line.

    P.Chandrasekaran. 

The Real.

             In a mist,
          I mistook two stones for beads.
          It was my maiden mishap;
          A melee of my dreams
          Down loaded by my hallucination.

         In a fit,
         Bulldozed by my past,
         I chased shadows in a mystic race
         Tracing my tardy descent
         In a tenacious march.

         In a trance,
         Tranquilized by tender flashes,
         I knelt before the nailed form,
         That blocked the nameless storm
         And buried my groundless blues.

                                            P.Chandrasekaran.



         

Flock Together.

            Put up a fair display of friendly festoons;
        Play the trump card of love pointedly.
        While coming together is an event of serendipity,
        Getting on together is a tale of ambiguity.
        Look not ever through an eye piece,
        As a standard norm of observation.
        Open the door to own your vision;
        Life is a grand mix of fruit salad.
        Get merged for a full blown flavor.
        Keep your eyebrows expanding all the while.
        Shrinking them will sever the sweetness.
        Let the melodies of life's main concert,
        Mesmerize your ears for a snake charming session.
        Poke your nose aesthetically,
        At the fragrance of fellowship orientation
        For a complete plan of coexistence.
        Thicken your feet for thorns;
        Soften them for a soothing support system
        To socialize in a symmetry,to fly in a flock.
   
                                                              P.Chandrasekaran
        

The Double Up Craze.

         The human brain is now a predator;
      As the new born is fed with
      Packaged and date-stamped  milk
      And trained to listen to recorded tunes of lullabies,
      It grows faster and freer on its own.
      The seven year old has the seventeen year's itch.
      Teen age in a double up,tracks adulthood whims
      At the touch of the mouse.
      Overtime living every twenty four seven
      Takes away years like Daily calendar sheets.
      Baldies and grey heads at forty,
      Claim a line in the senior citizen ledgers.
      An exhausted crowd of brain mauled men
      Wait in queues for their funeral tickets.
      The panther like brain,chases those born to live,
      For a stumble upon death run,
      Through their greed for faster projects of
      Automated living on their own demand.

                                                      P.Chandrasekaran

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

Friends in Four Phases

                 

                      I                                        

          Friends,

          Childhood cheerers,

          Fascinating, friction-bound, full of pranks;

          They are a bickering lot.

                    ll

          Friends,

          The yahoo gang of youth,

          Boisterous, bullying but binding to a front;

          They are full of yummy tasks.

                   lll

          Friends,

          The supportive sub plots

          Accelerating adulthood as fuel and force

          They pass out life’s litmus test.

                   IV

          Friends,

          The reminiscent walking sticks

          Supporting the bending years of aging

          They follow as inseparable instincts.

          Names and frames change;

          But friends firm up for a life time

          As corporal, cognizant and spiritual comforters,

          To carry on together as  catalysts, changing life's course.

                                                         P.Chandrasekaran

The Carrier Prototypes.

               The cradle is an inverted parachute
           Insulating the infant, like the mothers womb;
           A lulling limousine journey to the sleep terminal,
           A respite to the mother's lap for a while;
           The outdoor perambulator parades innocence
           With fairy tale scenes filling the fancy of the kid.
           The palanquin is a pomp of power,
           Like an age-old trunk box stuffed with
           The timeless arrogance of authority.
           It makes beasts of burden of men,
           For animating  lifeless loads born to rule.
           The hearse like the womb, justifies
           Carrying as an act of caring.
           From the cradle to the hearse,
          The acceleration accrued is not accidental.
          It is a pattern clear, of experience in power steering.
          Why should a temple elephant go must
          At god's own premises and steer its way
          To trample upon the mahout that drove him?
          Who should carry whom also fixes the hour
          For who to drive,to steer and to wield power,
          The carrier prototype norms framed from time to time,
          Include schedules of the power game ever in its prime.

                                                                     P.Chandrasekaran
       
         

God's Profile.

              For some God is just a portrait,
              Available at zero premiums.
              For many at the lower slabs,
              God is a fate builder and destiny driver.
              For those at the mid post,
              God is an answering machine.
              For a few at the higher rungs
              Of honest mind fixing,God co-exists
              At equations human and friendly.

              This closer ,kinetic mind clinging,
              Like a crowning catch in cricket,
              Connects divine website to human access.
              Minutes of ecstasy, meet the whole time goals.

              God is a tacit transformer;
              The inherent alchemist, effecting
              The perfect chemistry of coming together,
              Through His integral coding system
              With pre-set well meaning itinerary
              For emergency landings and takeoffs,        
              Letting the human intent to choose
              Its own route and rendezvous.

              While the willing play with Him,
              The not willing are made to knock at His doors,
              As and when He wills them to.

                                                             P.Chandrasekaran.

Yesterday,Today and Tomorrow

          The past is a parasite;
          It eats away the present
          Through a spray of memory pests.

          The present is a prophet;
          It prescribes precepts with potholes
          For a fairy tale tomorrow.

          The future is a fiction in foresight;
          It is locked in myth and mirage
          Bound for delusive happenings.

          Wisdom should withdraw from
          Trendy concepts of time,
          Helping us taste life,for the taste of it.

                                                      P.Chandrasekaran 

In Praise of the Elements.

                            .                

           I love the life-giving soil

       Because it makes me toil

       To receive its ripening reward

       For life’s labour, labelled hard.

       I meekly adore the lofty sky

       For my hopes, that largely lie

       In the directions marked high;

       I proudly salute the invisible air

       That makes me breathe fresh and fair,

       For a purpose pruned to progeny’s care.

       I worship the water’s holy grace

       Cleansing dirt at a regular pace

       To give my mind a secured space.

       I would fall in awe before the Lord of Fire,

       Not for fear of his flames and fumes of ire,

       But for promptly lifting my spirit much higher

       To my mortal remains held in a pyramid of pyre.

                                                           P.Chandrasekaran

The Dozen Faces of Death

     
                                       

           1} Death anticipated is:-

               Ambulances honking all through the way.

           2} Death waitlisted is:-

               Waiters’ patience wasting away

           3} Death marked in hit list is:-

               Encounters  empowering the agents of death

           4} Death engineered is:-

              Mercenaries manifesting their macabre might.

           5} Death committed is:-

              The failure of the art of living on all counts.

           6} Death executed is:-

              Judicial sanctions getting sanctified.

           7} Death declared is:-

               Putting a nail on life’s coffin.

           8} Death reported is:-

               The Fourth Estate parading its flair for poetry.

           9} Death mourned is:-

              The writing of elegies on an experimental basis.

          10} Death celebrated is:-

               Dispensing happily with unwanted,undesirable lives.

          11} Death honoured is:-

               Gunshots hitting the height of skies.

          12} Death experienced is:-

               Serene Silence stealing the show.

                                                               P.Chandrasekaran

                        

Exchange of Melodies.

   Marriage is a song in praise of one’s woman

  Who adores her man meeting her mindset;

  It is a verse in the form of vibrant voice chat,

  With rhythms relocating each other’s dreams.

  Skirmishes here and there set the ball rolling

  For an instant access to trouble shooting shifts.

  Pyramids of give and take,become big pointers

  To the process of perfecting a peer programme.

  From the founding base of widening perceptions

  Of all the ‘what,how and why’ of coming together,

  Rich tunes celebrate with supporting song sense,

  The twin gender grasp of a holistic heart rendition.

 Wherever exchange of melodies monitors frequencies

 The music of marriage mellows down its discrepancies.

                      

                                                                             P.Chandrasekaran.

Hallucinating Expressions.

  Expressions that do not mean what they appear to mean. 
  Guess what they mean?

1} Dutch courage is not the courage of the Dutch.

2} Sleeping policeman is not a cop asleep.

3} Shot gun marriage is not the one celebrated at gun shot

4} Portuguese man-of-war is not a soldier from Portugal.

5] Wet blanket is not one drenched in water.

6} Black widow is not a woman in black, without her husband

7} Fruit cake is not a bakery product.

8} Wooden spoon is not a kitchen utensil.

9} Grass widow is not a widow selling grass.

10} A five-o-clock shadow is not one caused by the setting sun

Answers:-

1} Drunken courage.
2} A road hump
3} An emergency marriage necessitated by

the bride’s pregnancy. 4} A jelly fish 
5} one who takes out fun from a situation

6}  A North American poisonous spider 
7} An eccentric person 8} The last place in a race

 or competition. 
9}  A woman whose husband 
lives away most of the time.

10} A slight growth of hair on the skin of a man several hours after he had shaved.

                                                                                  P.Chandrasekaran

Timeless Towers.

                               

                                     

        Walking along the crowded lanes of a place called town,

        I  was  looking  for  beauty  in  the  midst  of  tall  buildings

        That were mere matter-of-fact shelters,

        Made up of the sweat of masons and their task force;

       The absence of a mind-moving magnificence in a frame

        Denotes the death throb of the aesthetic order.

       That  a  body  without  the  soul  is  not  a  welfare  state

       But a wretched work house for hapless zombies,

       Is what I picked up from my town- strolling point.

       From within, did my sub conscious voice speak out

       The truth, in a stentorian, soul – sustaining   style.

       Anything not designed to suit the soul

       Stands to serve as a lamp post

       Without hitting the pages of history for long, to be known.

       It is the dreams and delights of an architect of finesse

       That transform shelters into monuments

       With a fascinating fitment formula for the soul,

      To cherish and steer the dynamics of beauty

       In forms that outlive the flow of time.

                                                                             

                                                    P. Chandrasekaran

A Call Girl's Aside

                   

               I am like a reusable roadside litter bin,

          Where men dump their vulgar spirit in;

          Vigorously they play their indoor games,

          Without registering their given names.

          Never do I recall any of their fragile faces

          Fleeting as they are, fixing their grimaces.

          Forms of men come and go in my dreams

          Like a crumbled structure’s broken beams.

          I have to act in a series of robotic romance

          Behaving as if I was, in an unending trance.

          Men come to see me just as a trunk less form

          Pushing my thoughts into a traumatic storm.

          Missed calls always abound in my mobile phone

          As I lie days and nights, like a lifeless cold stone.

                                                                         P.Chandrasekaran