This brief encounteris another sunset where lesser known words drizzle through ruddy clouds,and you, the girl of green and blue,turn into the far-off horizon for a moment. and it is the very moment you call me a firefly,the creator of light and night,and the creature that never treadson the sod of earth,then you seea sigh of acknowledgementbrushing the dust of remembrance moving with the rolling ...
I walk, walk and walk from days to daysand nights to nights; from question to question and answer to answer; passing rivers, valleys and mountains that appear in blue and green like dots, dots and dots. I walk, walk and walk, from place to place, town to town, in unowned territories, like a gypsy child, in search of reasons ...
A mandoes not need a mapto walk. He does not needmileposts and landmarks,leather boots,pathsor directions. He needs a heart-compass,and footprints,footprints of inevitability,a sky to prayand an earth to stay. He needs air,maybe thin air,to sighwith carelessness,to disappearin little little pieces,to be felt,to be heard. He needsshades and shadowsto play hide and seektime to time,to be ...
I breathe you inand outwith eyes closed,legs crossed,in the darkest corner of my room. With a long breath,I realize,the sky and rain,the inconstancy of the universe,the fluttering nature of mind,can be reduced, little by little,rhythmically,to you.And you can be expanded,like an air bubble,growing in a lung,like a love,in an unkempt heart. With a short breath,I fathom,memorabilia of samsaara,short ...
I am here,this morning,at your doorstep; the poor poet,with a bouquet of seasonal flowers,collected from your lane,one by one,after yesterday’s rain. flowers,touched by raindrops,kissed by the grass,unnoticed by the night,unwished by the morning. My poor bouquet,wrapped in a smile-polythene,isfor youandhim. * * * ( Rasika Jayakody 28.05.2012 ) ...
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 ...
Scattered thoughts from here and there decorated the tiny table at which we sat last night. We never spoke of Gibran, Neruda, Pushkin, Rain, Wind or Earth. I knew you were tired with the strange game called love: So was I, All we needed was silence, space, kindness and tenderness. A little bit of soft imprisonment extracts from old tales ...
“These flowers will perish.” – You No, they never will, I said, they will remain, as the mischief in your eyes, that blossom and laugh and blush and look down, with a muffled smile, like a little baby, a little brat. they will turn into texts, short and long, that ramble, and half asleep ‘beeps’ that make me awaken ...
History’s footprints are ash. There are ash people, ash places, ash memories, and ash eyes. This library, the one you see, is ash too. There were ashen people here, wearing ash spectacles, sitting on ash chairs and reading ash books. Those ash books contained ashen lessons; the lessons of 1981, 1983, 1987-88-89, and onwards, ash ...
“I will light a lamp for you” – 15.05.2012 Lamps encompass never-ending darkness and life-long light. Lamps turn a tiny dot into a long shadow, and write stories – page by page. Lamps offer wavery hopes and gentle kisses to a tender flower of jasmine. Lamps burn, burn and burn, in remembrance of hand-holding. Lamps chant seth pirith from ...
Luminescence of morning’s raiment and whiteness of midnight prayers Incarceration of knitted fingers and warmth of fingertip kisses Entanglement of a soft embrace and transience of time and space Reluctance of the footsteps of a snail and signature of distance and pain Transcendence of a momentary smile and love’s faith in sanda kinduru eyes * * * ( Rasika Jayakody 13.10.2012 )
I will let you grow molecule by molecule like a dream on the first night of December. I will let you walk in the dark, cloaked in the paleness of moonlight. I will let you wait, alone, on a busy street of memories, like a tower, tall and silent. I want you to stay close like the breeze; and be distant like the sky. So, be patient Phantasmagoria. * * * ( Rasika Jayakody 02/12/2012 )
It was a paper of once-upon-a-time,made of vicissitudes,fragility and anxiety,cutting edges and shrapnels, She broughtwords and spacesto fill heart-pages,mornings and sunsets,ointment of smiles,heartache of anticipation.She brought days,days and daysand took away every night. It was a paper of torn moments,made of wheels and compartments,clipped-wings and grasping.snakes and grass, hiding in each other, She brought road signs,road ...
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 ...
“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 ...
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 in ...
Life has changed since the day it first rained. You’ve poured yourself into all my words like milk into early morning coffee. I’ve become the ‘player’ who’s hurt, but not yet retired who keeps playing on and playing out. I see the world in fragments for my imagination has run out of colours and dreams have ...
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. ...
In this hour of departure you knit all my scattered thoughts into a carefully worded text – which I will promptly save in my messy heart-folder with many other drafts… In this hour of departure you inadvertently become all the soft things on earth – like, the breeze of Marine Drive the flowers of Peradeniya and raindrops on Galle Fort ...
There will be another day and another time for us to deceive ourselves with love and fear to prefer dream over reality to differentiate smile and tear with the closest approximation of words to rediscover solitude and vanish between soft melodies and interludes into silence and to return with heart’s long lost signatures at inconvenient times. Not now, ...
