The Chic City.

  The Chic City.

Chicago is beautiful.

The falling flakes of snow are piled here,

As pyramids of white, on a routine road cleaning.

Chicago embraces the principle of coexistence.

The fall of snow, sunlight and rains,

And the fierce dance of the wind,

Vie with one another, for a front line,

Without blocking each other’s boulevard formulation.

The braving river with its unrelenting ferrying,

The partially frozen Lake Michigan with new makeup norms,

The ever busy rail lines and the freeways,

Carry on their trendy trademarks of structural grandeur.

Chicago is frightful.

The freezing winter, the frivolous, formidable wind,

The  torrents  of snow and rain in succession,

Threaten to hijack one’s peace of mind, piece by piece .

The layer upon layer body covering, calls for a bail out,

From the weather’s brutal, bullying tactics

On the day night dynamics of a devil-may-care mindset.

Chicago’s blows of horror notwithstanding,go null and void,

By its chic, beeline spirit of belligerence,

Ever endorsed by the residents’ ring tones  of chivalry.                       

                                                            P.Chandrasekaran.

It’s Bells All the Way..

    It’s Bells All the Way.

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The bells are religious.

For the Hindus,

The jingling bells  forecast

The arrival of an elephant or a line of elephants.

The temple bells tether one’s thoughts closer,

To the mood of  in- depth prayer.

The bells also pronounce  the schedule of

Gods, at their showers and meals.

For the Christians, the church bells toll

The chain of events like birth, marriage and death.

Besides marking the mind to the  Mass.

The funeral bells of course, freeze

The mind with the biblical facts of life.

The bells are psychological.

At college, as if at a click of the mouse,

They connect to newer log in sessions.

 But at school, they are the harbinger of moods

Such as fear, relief and joy .

As the morning school bell goes,

Nervous symptoms travel through the hours,

On being spotted and named for omissions of kinds.

When the last bell goes, pat moves out of school gates,

A crowd of legs on a sprint, sport free race;

A couple of limbs here and there, holding

The falling trousers and skirts,

Speak of wild ecstasy, born of relief.

The week end  and  term end bells,

Unleash a rapid flow of nimble feet,

Moving in anticipated directions,

For a meaty, merry go round.

The bells are travel prone;

They  ring at the small railway stations,

For the arrival and departure of trains,

That are mostly behind schedule;

The bells seem to say ‘buck up commuters’;

And those commuting, jostle with one another,

For a timely board in and bump out,

On and after, an erratic choice of compartments.

It’s bells all the way in everyone’s life

Being the calling bells and telephone bells ,

Ringing now and then, day in and day out,

As the reporting layers of the routine stuff,

At times rattling the inmates too,

Bringing unwelcome visitors and unnerving calls.

                                                      P.Chandrasekaran.

Quoting, Groans of Paradox.

      Quoting, Groans of Paradox.

 =========================

‘’In my country of a plethora of party flags,

  Banners, cut outs and posters,

  The statues of gods and men,

  Are richly clad or painted in gold .

  But marriage proposals here and there,

  Are broken for shortage of a sovereign.

  My country is rich, but my people are poor.

  For politics has a passion for poverty,

  As votes pour in from the woes of the poor.

  Our dams may deplete; but our scams are replete.

  There is little water for the summer’s thirst.

  There is enough though, at the bars all over .

  But my people are pathetically poor,

  Despite the daily, free flow of money,

  From the maternity wards to the mortuaries’’.

                                                    P.Chandrasekaran.

The Shoulders.

    The Shoulders.

   =============

A hanging peg I was for you,

To strap hang your stifling school bag;

You did not bother to hurt me,

Standing on a bus,during your daily commuting.

Later,I allowed you the pleasure of

Lifting your kids whenever you wanted.

I liberally helped you in porting

Your weekly procurement without a wage.

Now, down with age, you cry ,

Forgetting the fact that it is I who am aching.

You know pretty well, that when you fall dead,

You will have some one else’s to hang on,

Helping you as usual,even on your last journey.

                                         P.Chandrasekaran.

Night is a Battle Ground .

  Night is a Battle Ground .
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Night is a battle ground ;

Sleep and dreams keep fighting.

Dreams turn into  munitions

Making sleep’s defensive mechanism futile.

When peace of sleep is defeated,

Draconian dreams rejoice in victory.

The diurnal, shadow -fighting endeavours,

Deepen into  warring nocturnal mind frames,

For crossing the peaceful frontiers of sleep.

Day time thoughts have their nuclear impact,

As  vertical shoots of valor,  to hit horizontally,

The hours of sleep, with an artillery of dreams.

But a wake up from sleep, kills all dreams ,

With  the sudden pull of a dauntless dawn ,

That draws up the curtains for fresh vertical shoots,

Preparing the battleground for another night.

                                                 P.Chandrasekaran.

The Spiritual Hunt.

                 The Spiritual Hunt.

At the shrines where I went to pray,

I saw no gods around. 
They were busy perhaps,

Looking for humans elsewhere.

Their absence kept the God hunters crazy,

Hunting for things that Gods detest to see.

In the plates where camphor and oil lamps burn,

Coins and currencies tilted the balance

In favour of those, 
Who were 'liberal' in worshiping.

I struggled to fix my thoughts, in the eyes

Of the statues of gods and goddesses.

But my eyes played the truant,
Ogling at anything but divine.

The  entertaining crowds seemed to heckle

My pretended piety, emptying my soul.  

I returned home to turn to my Gods in their selfie mode.

They seemed to ask, how long could they wait for me,

To refine my stuff, and replenish my soul .

I snubbed them back and went to bed,

Preparing my soul for my morning prayer

At the temple of my choice, on rotation. 

                                              P.Chandrasekaran.