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

The Lake Walk.

      

On a regular lake - walk evening

During a North Bergen sojourn,

Between a paddling of pretty ducks

And a dole of dainty doves,

Men, women with their kids and dogs,

Displayed bigger levels of energy output,

With no competitive credentials needed,

For activities to mark entries in an event ledger.

I saw pairs of people walking at an equal pace

Keeping their ego projections as a point of reference;

A few also did it, one behind the other,

In a seeming spirit of co-ordination or submission.

There was nothing sportive in the jogging promotion

Of those, burning calories for an enticing dinner.

My eyes fell upon the free walk zone of a Pomeranian

Whose leash belonged to him for a while,

When his master chose a path for himself to tread.

But the cute little puppy, tuned to his master’s mood,

Toed the well- known vagaries wedded to his age.

Between the man and his pet,

Who cut an edge higher

Or who belonged to the other,

Is a piece of truth stranger than fiction.

                                     Prof.P.Chandrasekaran.

A Breathless Watch.

    

I lost my lungs for a while;

My heart throbs hit an all time high,

At the sudden appearance of 
Down flowing waters

On a tumultuous run- away course,

Through its chosen ravines;

My nerves were rolled up for a rap show

By the waters’ racy, rapid and ritzy flow.

Seen from above, through the vapour veils,

My thoughts went misty

On my eyes looking waylaid,by vacancy.

When the veils got waned,

The mind blowing happened magnificently,

Tightening up the loose ends of my memory chain.

What I remember now is only what I saw;

And not a memoir that my fancy can draw.

The Niagara for sure is Nature’s natural show

That provides an ever stunning watch at one go.

                                                         P.Chandrasekaran

In aToronto Lane

On a resting spot in a Toronto lane,

I picked up an outlook new and plain;

There a retired man like me was found,

Sitting with a  great line of birds around.

Between his pet doves and sparrows,

The man was darting food as arrows;

The winged force was battling for a spot

To claim the crumbs from the day’s lot.

The man praised his doves as brainy birds,

Their knick- knack ways in unmixed words.

Pat swung a sparrow,to perch on his wrist

That battered his boast with a tricky twist;

Like the turtle outwitting the hare in a tale,

The sparrow’s smallness set up a new scale.

                                                            P.Chandrasekaran

The Lateral Strategy.

               The Lateral Strategy.

                                                                   

    Being straight is not always right;

    And a tall tight rope walk,is blight.

    A point- to- point path is a paste

    Sticking one’s palate to one taste.

    A circuitous move meets no outlet

    With the beginning and end unset.

    A chosen side- way travel ever pays

    With a lot of leading,lateral space.

    Become a reptile doing a racy course

    Rattling your life’s ramifying source.

    Setting a terminal before the journey,

    Steals all the suspense from the story.

    Drive yourself to many unfixed stations

    Fueled only by your burning passions.

                                       P.Chandrasekaran.

An Ode On the Hudson River.

Surfing the memory of Henry Hudson you are,

Shifting smartly,the mood of your flow as you go;

You do not sever but merge magnificently,

The dreams and fantasies of folks that live

In the cities,on either side of your borders.

The Dutch would have dared to name you

As the North River,on assumptions of theirs;

But you will ever remain The Rhine of America.

A couple of tunnels pierce through your form

Masking your presence in a hide and seek game;

Paddling of ducks on their regular diurnal cruise

Put up a show of zeal on your fluid feathers;

Ferrying in your zones for a purpose and pleasure

Fits into your flow towards favoured destinations.

The Historic Bridge hailing the grand sire’s name

Crosses gallantly your territory on a two tier traffic,

Lifting your tidal waves to new enchanting peaks.

The luminous row of towers of the New York City,

Stand and serve as stationary fireworks in a galaxy

Sprinkling sparks in fine flashes on your fleeting face.

It looks as though, the towering city owes you its wonders

For transforming timelessly through telescopic visions,

The fascinating facts afar, into fables of fantastic forms.


                                                                         P.Chandrasekaran.

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

Double Travelling .

         Double Travelling.

Can anyone ship me a G.P.S model

To track the route to Heaven and Hell?

The exit to Hell is hardly far from here

For those trading in sins without fear;

The more the sins, the faster the drive

To brave the bees from their hurt hive.

The miles to Heaven do steadily increase

When the drive detours the exit to peace.

The driver should know that he is at fault,

For not bringing his vain vagaries to a halt.

Should one sail to two oceans at one time

Causing in the calm waters,a rise for crime?

If everyone here,were to be a Jekyll and Hyde

Heaven at Hell’s,jibe would lose its high pride.
P. Chandrasekaran.