Posted in Love Poems, poem, poems, poetry, Uncategorized

To The Nefarious


The Party Pooper is the one
Who spoils the party. Fact not myth.

Sometimes we are so blinded, wearing blindfolds
We cannot see the truth at the end

Of one’s nose. Lies only make Pinocchio
And lies, next to Geppeto, looks a lot like

“Thou shall not bear false witness”
The storm-makers, they come and go

Lies hurled out with the nasal wind,
Banishing boats and boats-men,

To lonely islands. Still I will make this island
My Camelot, my utopian design,

I will come for you like the blade of the tide
Hurling giant wrecks out of the ocean floor

I will thirst for the bunched coconut fruits
Banish them like stumpy Lilliputians

The truth, my truth, comes out like an echo
Clawing every ruptured tymphanic membrane.

There are no arks for the nefarious, they are
Wiped out from history, like cowards are,

Those who loot man for no reason,
Just so that they can rule and ruin,

Brine surrounds me here, salting my legacy
Every passing word. The nefarious, will

Gloat of their petty victories, until there is no breath
To exhale. Death by pomp, is a tragic death,

When there is nothing left to regather,
But exploding organs inside a puny body,

Bursting out like a balloon parade.
Every boom, a cheer for Lucifer.

Posted in Love Poems, poem, poems, poetry, Uncategorized



Bacterial sexual reproduction
Is called conjugation – how they
Are able to exchange genetic material
in cell-to-cell contact.
While in man, there is a different
Kind of conjugation, when cusp
And curve meet, toying each other
Until there is a tectonic slippage
When it is said that, man has engaged
In conjugal activity. Nowadays,
Even prisoners have conjugal rights
That’s the adult version of a sleep-in,
Or perhaps a rare occasion
When a prisoner feels like a woman’s champion.
So why do we, in this modern world
Flee conjugation? Solitude does
Beckon, like a lightning strike or a bout of thunder,
Perhaps its menacing to know that conjugal
Means letting go of all the possibilities,
For the to-be-accidents,
To happen. You always wish, your story
Is a fairytale or maybe a screenplay
And still you come to realize that tokens are bigger
Than treasures, that strand of hair
Of your wife, that sticks to your face as you wake up,
Her kiss that wipes it all clean,
Her fragrance called Love story
Which makes her irresistible. Conjugal
Is like the big bang; you and her
A collision of planets and gold rings
In that memory-entangled catalysis
Of clay and clay, dissolving touch
To a gooey-oxytocin charged
Aftermath. And dark matter
Is what keeps you and her alive,
Unlike the out-of-body light, sparking
At touch. We are 20% conjugal at most,
And the remaining 80%, is what
We don’t cherish, the dark matter.
Marriage we realize, is the inverse
Of the Pareto’s principle – 80/20.
Dark matter it seems, preserves us
While conjugation, is what we all do,
To let our bodies know,
They can scintillate.

Posted in Love Poems, poem, poems, poetry, Uncategorized

New York (In response to today’s poem-a-day from Academy of American Poets)

I got inspired to write this poem after this poem-a-day from the Academy of American Poets. My poem is second and Jenny Xie’s poem is first.

Landscape America Skyscrapers Metropolis Manhattan
Landscape America Skyscrapers Metropolis Manhattan


Jenny Xie

His tongue shorn, father confuses
snacks for snakes, kitchen for chicken.
It is 1992. Weekends, we paw at cheap
silverware at yard sales. I am told by mother
to keep our telephone number close,
my beaded coin purse closer. I do this.
The years are slow to pass, heavy-footed.
Because the visits are frequent, we memorize
shame’s numbing stench. I nurse nosebleeds,
run up and down stairways, chew the wind.
Such were the times. All of us nearsighted.
Grandmother prays for fortune
to keep us around and on a short leash.
The new country is ill-fitting, lined
with cheap polyester, soiled at the sleeves.


New York, New York

The customary place, everything comes
Into place – America. That untradeable part of you,
That serene shore. The oar takes you to,
Greener pastures, the green card implies.
Sedated by a little glance at stars and stripes,
Everything black holed there on,
Your past, your paper-thin chronicles, just an object
Near an event horizon. You get to start
With a new slate, wear canvas shoes, Converse or Air Jordans,
Talk big like you’re now in a capitalist mecca,
Where shoe shine doesn’t get you any respect.
Here, everything gets assembled by the traffic,
By the apartment numbers and 90 degree intersections.
In this cosmopolitan hub, which is a melting point,
The latino man stays aloft with Jesus power,
Bowing to phrases of latin, the romance language that gets
A few mentions in holy mass. Here what
Separates the son of God and the migrant man,
Is how many times, you get to come back from
The dead, because here in the Big Apple,
Rising, like Boss Bruce’s song, is the modus operendi,
The number of scarred gun-shot wounds
Inside your track suit, is keeping record,
Of how many times you’ve risen. Resurrection is,
Just another Latino man named Jesus,
– pronounced Hesus -, playing a game of
Houdini roulette, winning most times,
While a man called Fydor looks on,
With a blank face, utterly bemused.

Posted in Love Poems, poem, poems, poetry, Uncategorized

My Grandmother’s Last Days


The cigarette slowly burns.
There are no sounds in the surroundings,

Solitude is a gay old time
Defined by the altruism of cigarette.

Inhaling the nicotine, I look around
At my garden, the honeysuckles

Deadly yet beautiful, the anthuriums
Like sails on top of a boat,

The orchids, as mauve as the decorated
Courage of an American soldier,

And as I burn, I know that a cigarette
Is just a transient habit, a pastime

That makes me aloof. Like the last
Remaining mango in the mango tree,

Eyed by the squirrels, glowing
Like a moon in the sky, luster

Reflected off her peel. I remember
My grandmother, in her last days

Just like the mango, still a source of light
Enlightening me with stories

From her past. There was nothing
To do but listen to her weak voice

Knowing that the end was nigh.
She was like that lone mango on the tree

That fell with a thud, to the awaiting ground,
The jaws of death, like squirrel teeth

Had gripped into her fragile heart
And taken a fatal chunk.

Posted in Love Poems, poem, poems, poetry, Uncategorized

Ice Cream Vendor


In Sri Lanka, there are many types
Of Ice Cream vendors.
First, there is the omnipresent
Cargills and Elephant House
Vendors, that play some melody
Like “Fur Elise” to attract
Children and adults alike.
Still I miss the “Walls” vendors
That used to be, two decades back.
I guess I’m in no certain terms,
Attracted to what “Walls” symbolizes,
That day in Kandy, when I met
The woman of my dreams.
She, I, and everyone in our trip bus
Bought “Walls” ice cream
With a nutty covering and
Ice Cream in the middle. Aren’t
We all like an ice cream bar?
We are nutty on the outside
Gazing at the one, who becomes immeasurable
In love carats, and the sheer coldness
Of being a solitary island, taken
Away by the warmth of the surroundings.
We are all ice creams, many
Flavors defining us. What matters
At the end is not the marketable
Flavor, but how easy we are to melt, to thaw,
To move those glaciers in the heart,
What flows from heart to outside,
As the melted flow-through
Of undiluted kindness.