The sound of impossible love

When tropical sunlight 
meets moonlight's winter blush 
call it time-warp 
or time-zone curl
or misbegotten error 
of tectonic shift 
but it's not melting snow
nor the startled whimper
of surprised forests
not the rustle of surprised seasons, no
 it's really love 
unwrapping.

හිස්තැන්

පියසටහන් පිපාසයෙන් බිඳෙන මාවතකි
කටහඬක් නොමැතිව වැලපෙන ගීයකි
පියාපත් එන තුරු මග බලන කුරුල්ලෙකි 
කවකට නොනැගු වදන් පෙළකි
ආලෝකය අධික බැවින් නොපෙනෙන එළියකි
රස බලන්නෙකු නැතිව සිඳෙන චොකලට් ගඟුලකි
මත්බව යදින මිදී පොකුරකි
රටවැසියන් දෙදෙනෙකු සොයන 
රටක් ලෙස නම් නොවුන බිම් අඟලකි.

Absences

There is a road crumbling for lack of feet

A song undone by want of voice

A pair of wings waiting for a bird

Words not yet composed into poetry

Light yet un-seen because of too much light

Chocolates melting for want of tongue

Grapes that yearn intoxication

And there’s a small corner

In our many worlds

A country unnamed

For want of citizenry.

Moving sunsets

Smudged faraways 
are for the impatient 
they don’t recede as believed 
 but blur upon the decision to seek; 
but then there are sunsets 
that come seeking 
for there are hearts 
 that respect 
that touch not the touch-me-nots 
not for fear or inability 
or any reason that can be explained, 
these are hearts protecting ember 
from gushing water and howling wind – 
sunsets come a-visiting 
in the kindred ways of flame 
for two hearts burn better 
and warm the clarities of togethernesses 
that were or will be 
or simply
meant to be.

A petition to stones

So let there be stones
beautiful ones
cut by hand or time
with edges that can wait 
for moonquake and anarchy
those necessary preconditions
for bloomage and bleeding
mirrors that fracture desolate skies
and trigger
the eruption of rainbows,
stones gathered 
from every stoning
that turned broken bodies
into words
to re-cleanse
our desecrated hearts.

A short love story

A long, long time ago
from a touchstone of poetry
two sparks flew
one was Lime Green
and the other Turquoise Blue
they didn't flare and die
as sparks usually do
but encounter begged 
mortality was shelved
and spark became ink.

So they flowed 
these thin rivers 
side by side
close but without convergence
in early-day coyness
one in Lime Green
the other in Turquoise Blue,
riding over and around
impediments
to fashion words
that touched one another
in the tumble 
on inevitability
and surprise.

Death comes
and it did
leaving a blank page
at ledger-end
and a touchstone
asked:
what can be said
of limestone and granite
that fire nothing into verse
and hearts that hold back ink
in an October
made for word? 

Past Perfect

A memory-trick
like camera options
that blur
to the point of irrelevance
brush off
our uglinesses.