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

-I Love You-

Love 10

How we loved, the exhales,
To the exfoliants, the chemistry,
Of what was so tender, and if not,


The little bit of daylight, between me
And you. How we let our blindfolds,
Strip our pupils, our peep holes.

While we begin the seduction,
Juxtaposition-ed fragrances, ever-closing gazes,
The mouth in extenuating circumstances,


With the sail raised, “Ahoy Sailor”!
Holding her, in sheer brevity, in ephemerality,
Ethereal lips too esurient, to miss out,

Inching towards an inclined state,
To become conscious, of a paltry breath,
A short burst of hot air, combing fuzz.


The coincidences, that we coalesce to,
How détente is beautiful, and prone to,
Empower, a euphemism, as four letters.

The oasis is lush, the springs are pristine,
The date palms are tall. The dire sense
Of water, on a tongue’s terminus,

To be quenched,

Just as much, by defeat…….

As by surrender.

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

On Father’s Day 2018 (To my Dad)


The difference, between “my father”,
And “our father”, is that, one gave me life,
In the form of a tiny, swimming tadpole, 
And stood as my canopy,
On my darkest night; while the other,
Gave me heavenly incandescence,
To evaporate my tears, and to mirror my face
With the saffron sun.

While I thank my father, on his day,
Knowing, that my mother’s breasts once forgotten,
I could only stand under your canopy, your arms open,
So unlike prayer, and those interfacing palms.
How in a world of, decoys and serendipity,
Judases and Midases, you showed me, the difference
Between faith and fate.

One is the reverence, of a heavenly occupant,
Who sculpts the Invictus in you,
And the other gives me, Cartesian coordinates,
To my eternal duel, with dyscalculia,
Metamorphosing into my GIS, every time I’m
Inside a labyrinth. Life is just about,
How I fit into my dad’s shoes, those Size 14s,
Which I wear with three thick socks.

How I could never measure up to my dad,
The lighthouse with a hundred step
Spiral staircase, a thick window
On top, from where a light shone far,
And a stentorian voice, that I could
Hear, from a distance, like the siren,
Of a lone fog horn.

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

A Sri Lankan Obituary (Humor Poem)

Sri Lanka

Lalith died of complications of the lung
Pneumonia they call it. Haemophilus pneumoniae

And water in the lungs. He inhaled sooty smog
And air conditioned with Legionella

He ate koththu roti with Staphylococci and cockroach droppings,
He kissed with Herpes and made love with a strain of Gonorrhea

He ate MSG filled Chinese for all three meals,
And had plain tea with ginger and three teas spoons of sugar.

In his life, he had two bouts of dengue – in two serotypes
But survived to be bitten by a thousands more mosquitos.

He left behind a diabetic wife, and two children
Whose past-times are attending tuition classes

And he lived his life to the fullest, saw cricket on TV,
Watched the 8 PM news and Sirasa superstar

He switched political parties 8 times, and contested
As an independent candidate in the 2006 provincial council election.

He was an armchair critique of just about everything
And a de-facto selector of the Sri Lankan cricket team

And his legacy will go on, of a loving husband
Who knew how to flush his commode and use the bidet,

And a loving father who knew how to drop his kids in school
And a loving sibling, who contested his own father’s will

And a charitable human being, who fed the street dogs
And gave a 2 rupee coin each time, to street beggars

And during the last days, he complained of having
A migraine in his conscience, it seems he finally grew one,

Just before he died. And he wished to give his body
To the medical students and wanted his children

To become members of the GMOA, just so his grand children
Could get the best of Colombo schools. He loved fair women,

And was a lifelong champion of cheap alcohol.
Anything Rockland was his choice spirit.

He found love from a paper advertisement, where he was mentioned as fair
And handsome; and yet he grew darker due to climate change.

He was of a Govi caste, although the only agriculture he knew
Was an agricultural shot of a cricket ball over cow corner.

Never did he hold a hoe or udalla, while the only whore he knew,
Was his wife inside their bedroom, or Santa shouting from a chimney, “Ho Ho Ho”

And he had a horoscope and a lifeline that predicted a long life.
And now at 58, he leaves his loved ones behind.

He called his wife “Hallo”, and phone calls “hello”
And all his friends “macho” and any Indian “Ado”

He lived in a country, where personal hygiene is a luxury,
Street etiquette a rarity, body odors are aplenty

And crows are a ubiquity. How he too was called Kakka
For his dark complexion. How he loved to smile, to appear fairer.

He took Allegra for his allergies, Viagra in his naughtier 50s,
He knew cheap motels, ironically called Solid,

He was full of compassion, to the dogs, chased
A dream, like a dog’s tail, and lost.

He lost his virginity, under an umbrella at Uswattakeiyawa.
He was a Tuk-tuk king, calling it a rickshaw,

He was a dipshit with horses, a dickhead of decisions,
A dirtbag at paying a restaurant bill, or simply going Dutch,

And still, he saw himself, as Mr Darcy to his wife,
How his pride bothered him, in those moments of

Cunning-linguistics and cliteracy, and still he died,
Shaped by his own prejudice, his preference,

A man with a rare capacity,
To go, with one woman, the whole distance,

Love, his redeeming grace.

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

We Are Who We Are

How the wedding day, had two shifts,
We danced in both. In the dayshift
To a Christina Perri number,
That, the first and only dance,
And the other, to the silence of
The night. The little we knew, about
The dance moves, the choreography,
And still we did something
That night. How when we were small,
We would let our fingers, be
Planted next to a candle, making shapes of
Beasts on the adjoining wall, and
Now 30 years later, we merged our shadows,
The silhouettes that possessed, many blends to it,
Each one a polaroid moment,
Far though, from a Hollywood portrayal
Of rose petals and scented candles.
We were the anomalies of our time.
How we let our bodies discover the secrets
We hid for so long, the hiccups
Of a larynx, and the little noises, they make.
How on kerosene flames and bantam sounds,
We embarked, kissing ear lobes, a bifurcated chin and
A cushioning neck. How beautiful for the body to
Hiccup, saying, you get to make me happy.
We heard, the owls hoot that night, while one fire
Fly crept in, and still we remained aglow in physiognomy,
Like lit street lights, till the wee hours of morn.
I woke up at dawn, to a garter
On the floor, reminding me, that
Mandorias and halos are disposable.
I remembered fumbling onto ecstasy,
Like a Sarah Mclachlan song, reminding me that
Rubicons are to be crossed. I had made
Love to a woman, ironically called Alexander,
Who history says died nearing in on 33, a fraction
Younger than Jesus. My wife was too 32,
One our wedding day. How she mined my ore,
When I could only ponder, “Oh Sweet Jesus”,
How a tungsten filament was lit
That night on top of a street lamp,
Startling me, at how the mandoria,
Around me was now gone, forever.
How 33 too, is
The international code for France,
Where love is a little death
Or a beautiful agony, while here
In Sri Lanka, it’s called serendipity.
How I became like penicillin,
On the marriage bed, our petri dish.
How we are furnished with the serendipity,
Of knowing, we don’t have to muffle noise,
Inside our love shack.
I guess, the best thing about love is,
Navigating the space-less,
Letting the customized fittings,
Of our plumbing, mature,
To the mercurialness of touch.
How we no longer measure, making love,
To a sacrament, or a syndrome;
We have now passed,
Our savage honeymooning years.
We now make no big deal,
On what transpires on the marriage bed,
Self-aware, that the art of love,
Is not just about, gifting an alibi to memory,
As poets, time and again, profess,
It is just as much, a rehearsal,
For the next time, we kindle.
Posted in Love Poems, poem, poems, poetry, Uncategorized

A Life Lesson in Kindness

Kindness 2
From Botany bay, to
A business called Botanik,
To the Botanical prints
That fall off life size models,
We hear the whispers of
The dryads, those that occupy
Trees, as guardian angels.
We water the roots, and add fertilizer.
We are gardeners of an orchard,
The “shoot and root” beauties
That sequester carbon,
To erase our wasteful footprints.
We cannot see the tip
Of the tallest tree, the redwoods
Nor can we figure out, why
The Baobabs are withering now,
Yet we know why bamboo, forms
A circle, a grove, a thicket.
We are all abreast, like plants
That give a boost to dire hope,
The tap root, that tells us,
We are stuck in one earth,
And a flower on top, that
Reminds us, beauty is not frugal,
Neither is it, in excess. A garden,
Multiplying as blossoms of antheses,
Is where the eye triumphs.
How a bloom has a place
And time, like human blossoms,
That slowly wither, to age,
And then fall off, and the few,
Who die in full bloom, plucked
By God’s hands.
Death, is our way of knowing, that we,
Are all, one day, broken tungsten filaments,
And still, we rise above inertia, inside our auras,
An extravaganza, of breath and beat.
How the show doesn’t stop,
Until the fat lady sings.
Still beneath the cosmetic, is
The heretic, a heart that keeps
On battling a world, that tells us,
We should not care, or give a damn.
Yet, we turn argon, into oxygen.
A temple, where pilgrims arrive,
And pilgrims leave, as acts of kindness.
We tribute our obese hearts, for the
Offerings of human touch. We are only
Catalysts of kindness, not
Just mere proteins, that scaffold,
On marriage beds, but enzymes,
Gifted with the beautiful chemistry,
Of transformation; not just as substrates,
But also, what is held beneath;
A substratum, on top of which,
We build a pantheon. A single clone,
In this cradle of humanity.
Posted in Love Poems, poem, poems, poetry, Uncategorized

Writer’s Grief


I guess there are too many of us,
Like prawns in the ocean.

Every prawn has something to give,
Not just a little curved body.

The crust is the skin deep,
But we are deeper, than a water well,

The roped buckets we send,
Down the lexicon well.

We are all crustaceans selling our crusts,
Dreaming of the hour, the day,

One can embellish a large dish,
A stage on its own merit,

A journey, of being sold by a roadside,
To the center of a porcelain enclosure.

The once prawn, now the vital statistics,
Of a giant lobster.

Posted in poem, poems, poetry, Uncategorized



How graduation in education,
Is going up a scale, while in love, it is
A staircase down a dungeon, 
From first base curiosity,
To second base fumbles,
To third base in the backseat
Of a car, while fourth base awaits
With palm prints and talon marks.

While an advertisement with Kim
Kardashian, comes on a TV,
Inside a gay nightclub.
Just imagine, the music rocking,
Men anchored on other men,
And the few, who are looking at the screen
Wandering what the fuss is about,
Kim Kardashian.

How little we know about
The wiring of a gay man, who
Loves a flat tushy, when straight
Men drool, gazing at Kim. Still they both
Cup tushies; how beautiful that a man can hold
Another man in a dance floor,
While the straight man, dreams
Of Kim, what Kanye gets
To do to her.

It is never about the
Front or the behind, with Kim;
They are both extraordinary.
Only, there are things, that happen to a body
When you see Kim, face or poopy-face,
Selfie or belfie, facial bones or tushy cheeks.
How beautiful, that remote aesthetic beauty,
Can do, what the presence of matter,
Cannot; they kindle dreams,
You carry to your grave.