There is a dark islet in a silent corner of the sea, which does not have a name or age, an islet that you see and pass, every now and then, but do not utter a word. It is an islet that does not ask questions and seek answers, but waits in silence for years and years, till you pass ...
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 ...
“I am not the remedy for your madness” she says disdainfully, looking blankly at her screen. “Yes, You are only the madness” I would reply. Then, all the moments of doubt and fear and anxiety transform into a speck of dust that gets disappeared (easily) in the process of trespassing. Love starts flapping its wings at inauspicious ...
If and when we meet again you will see nothing in my eyes. No sign of love no scar of pain no spark of lust. You will not see my long gazes repetitive phrases infinitesimal verses. There will be no past to recall no present to remain no future to rebound. You will just see nothing but nothingness that longs for you. * * * ( Rasika Jayakody 24.11.2012 )
I remember a moon, an eclipse and a night,and a walk on the green grass in the dark,while I was waiting for the magic dawn, that night,the moonlight was softly caressing my clasped hands. There is a time when the monsoon flies awayand hearts reluctantly turn into barren lands, It is the time for you to arrive, with a bagful ...
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 ...
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 ...
When love is the traveller man and woman turn into road, memory-leaves grow into trees decorating the wayside, and hearts, often, stumble over rocks. When love is the traveller words toil and moil without a minute’s rest while meanings stand frozen, flowers are reborn with sanctity and blind faith becomes the soil… When love is the traveller you and I ...
The child in me still believes that every moon is something to cry for. The child in me still thinks every wall that has rough edges is a sign of protection. The child in me wants to say every padlocked moment is safe and unbreakable. The child in me likes to paint every heart-shaped object ...
Flirting is taxonomy where classification is needed for definition. Flirting is the age old game where seeker seeks seeking and hider hides hiding.. Flirting is heart’s assertion that rules are made to be broken… Flirting is imprisonment that is soft and freedom that is hard… Flirting is the only signature to every conversation that never ...
You too passed away today. Like every man and woman, every magical dawn, every rain and rainbow, you too passed away. There will be no floral tributes, no tokens of appreciation, no retrospection, but, a silent apology and a whisper in your ears, “go.” You will remain, in a long string of names, and your smile ...
Uthpaada, Thithi, Bhanga the three words that console me after each and every conversation with you. I can’t remember the day you were born in my heart; was it the day I recited a poem over the phone at midnight? and you listened, half asleep, “when the first love dies, it is like a sea-bird plunging from the wheeling heights ...
Meditation is waiting between one smile and another and staying aloof from words and love-chronicle. Meditation is being still between eye and eye that gaze the gaze of affection, without rush frailty and insecurity. Meditation is tied hair, neatly combed and carefully kept, without giving way to occasional mischief and frill that necessitate breaking of silence. ...
A storm can hide many things,raindrops that had been kept in cupped hands residue of a thousand poemsand the flowers that had samsaric fragrance . but we still have to travel,like ripples,along the transitory lines of life,to unknown lands. You can always call me a traveler,a reckless one,who is left with a heavy heartcovered with dust of many ...
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 ...
“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 ...
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. ...
Rain is a deft-fingered flower arranger. It is the music of a snake charmer that lingers on and on and on. The sky’s renunciation. The earth’s embracement. Rain is a wet cloth, a muddy shoe and a short text. The dawn of the twilight and the twilight of the dawn. Sometimes it is the opening note of a love song ...
The azure of the October sky the wit of a newsroom chat the breath of a newly born plant the scent of a butterfly lip, what else can you give me? what else can I give you? The delicacy of a grain of sand the redness of a morning lipstick the freedom of an evening stroll the nocturne of late ...
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 ...
