Irked by your obscurity, I throw a question at you like a stone, heartless, that  flies over the Pacific Ocean and hits the corner of your right eye.   “WHO AM I TO YOU?”   You say nothing but slowly wipe your face with calm fingers, as if you are unhurt, and show them to the glaring screen.    “This.” ...

When you choose to sleep in the arms of realization love becomes a wall that is built brick by brick by brick, between one dream and another. When you choose to sleep in the warmth of imprisonment night descends drop by drop by drop over the alleys of life, between one wall and another. Either way you can choose to keep my eyelids awake. * * * RJ ( 09.07.2013 )

Vesna Drop by drop you bequeath me the entire spectrum of colours which you hide in your pregnant eyes as you move, slowly, from sky to sky. Drop by drop you accumulate all the music of the night, with your soft hands and long fingers, and your hair falls over the fairy dance of a thousand fireflies. Drop by drop ...

On Untimely Snowflakes Just before the midnight of a long-winded day when the residue of my words laying over your memory is still when your eyelids flutter, softly, for the very last time when the infinity’s dream-scape opens its warm arms wide When a strange smile adorns your lips, stealthily in connivance, let the untimely snowflake fall over your hair tenderly and ...

Movable and dispensable, “Strangers” are creatures of love who sometimes travel a thousand miles in a split second, clothed in a tiny green drop, tossing a smile into the middle of the heart every other night. They never wait for time’s smooth arrivals. They just leap from orbit to orbit moment to moment and palm to palm with intermittent stays. ...

To Wimalaratne Kumaragama   You’ve to draw parallels  between different lands different people  and different colours to see how rainbows and flowers lose their shades leaving you only  with the nudity of truth, nude as poetry sans words.   I have two questions to ask:   How bright is sanhinda when an unknown villager with a familiar face  lights a lamp in the ...

“Hail” He was never the first to shoot first to kill first to flee first to return first to con first to perform miracles first to molest democracy first to squeeze the breast of rule of law and smile innocuously. He will not be the last too. He was always somewhere in the middle, in the middle of a shady ...

Because You Blossom When I am with you I remember the fairy tale of the frog-prince; and every particle of dust layered on the pathways of my heart becomes exuberant, every grain of sand, as brown as dead leaves, lying asleep on the road, adds fresh colours to rainbows puts lip-gloss over raindrops, every little flower, known and unknown, falling from the ...

For the dew-dripper and smile-maker Remembrance is dew-laden grass. Hence I didn’t want to remember the blind moment when I first saw you and picked you up. I didn’t want to think whether you were an arc or a rainbow when you first smiled. I didn’t want to kiss your petals and see whether you smelled araliya or sepalika.   I didn’t want to count days, ...

Innocence When clouds of doubt  linger over the city of my heart,   when the shadows of fear of losing grow by the hour,   when plaintiffs and defendants clad in black and white people the courtyards of love,   when judges decree and crows fight over  the possession of leftovers,   I wish I could see the innocence of ...

To the girl of many colours You splash poetry every now and then over the faces I wear and show me bits and pieces of rainbows whose lines demarcate raindrop and raindrop memory and memory lover and lover. You take all my tears touch them with the gentlest smile and turn them into dew over the green grass of my love, freshly cut in the night. And you ask me to stop weeping… * * * ( Rasika Jayakody 21.03.2013 )

When the dust of love is settled, the lust of my pulses is gone, the crux of all my arguments shatters and dissolves into air, turning me into the scent of a pale flower, nondescript, I want you to cross the road again and return to the veranda of my memory, made of little things, inferior, like song-lines, poetry and ...

There is a blue patch of sky above my heart under which I walk beside you, clad in dirty white, holding your little finger, smiling. There are moments when I count countless stars in the galaxy of your eyes seeing the universe in tiny bits and pieces of your smiles, picking up pebbles hugging the wind as the child with ...

I lie awake, on the finest sand of memories, left from the leftovers of love, banned and banished from your heart, resting in peace and pieces. I lie awake, like the silent symphony of the ocean like the muted songs of birds like the grief of the breeze that often go unheard and unnoticed, not knowing how and why. I ...

And then it rained. I walked passing the half-hearted bridge of time, the roundabout of memories and turned right from the junction of rationality trampling the flowers of the past and the green grass of soft-spoken words lying asleep and scattered. I walked on, on and on, like the tranquility of solitude in the vicinity of gaze and poetry, and ...

“As a mother comforts her child, so will I comfort you;” – Isaiah 66:13 “How much do I owe you?” you asked and I said nothing because I owed you more. I owe you poetry, -soft, soothing and happy- to caress your hair like the wind when your mind is haunted by him. I owe you tears -happy, sad and ...

Absence  has a way of falling when the tiny green drop of your presence is missing; it has a way of raining. way of embracing; softly, like early morning flowers, nondescript, on damp roads, waiting to be kissed by passing feet, now and then   Absence then is a forbidden way of falling in love  lent and borrowed by blue ...

Eye is a language, not of words, nor of thoughts, but of endless magic that makes my fingers stray on the streets of your cheeks and stops my heart wickedly at the tender blockade of eyelids: Eye is a language not of beauty nor of pain but of beautiful pain of love that pinches mind-cells subtly with soft little fingers ...

There is grammar in love and syntax too, hidden in lines like a phantom, hard to find hard to follow There are clauses main and subordinate, conjunctions conjuring up spatial relationships between subjects and objects of love. And then there are tenses past, present and future damp with the moisture of nostalgia and flow with ease along the veranda way ...

Mist and Amila Mist must have a language, wordless, impalpable and soft, as soft as the face of a lost friend who smiled smiled and smiled in passing. Mist must have a colour as white as the whiteness that slips out of a poya night, untouched like a prayer that gets lost in the sky’s infinity, and uninviting like death. Mist must be ...

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