Cats and Us


Our front yard, which is a deserted plot
During the daylight hours
Has now transformed to a little
Comfort room for the neighborhood cats.

Cats of so many diverse fur coats
Brown and white, snowy all over,
Dark as night and even the patchwork
Can all be seen scanning for the ideal
Spot to lay a memento, an alibi
Of a little dehydrated poop.

And they say cats will go to any house
That is hospitable. Our front yard
Has humus rich earth and a little lawn
Which acts as a burial place
For cat excreta.

Its amazing how opportune cats are
Whether in personal comfort acts
Or preying on a little nestling alone inside a twig enclosure.
And our front yard which used
To be an aviary, is now a ruthless killing field.

And we too search for comfort care
In all the empty places. We go to empty churches
To rekindle our spirits, we lay flowers
By tombstones to remember loved ones
Gone by, we like our own solitude inside a little
Attic, which plays second fiddle
As a writing pad.

And we enter a garden filled with cat poop
Every evening after work,
Searching for a lone rose or a the promise
Of an orchid bud. And cat poop has become our duty
Towards the garden, as we shovel them out
To fill a plastic garbage bag.

Cats are what made us appreciate
What we took for granted – a garden that gives
Us so much joy. And that garden is the first sight
In the evening as we enter our home
And the last sight in the morning as we
Leave through the open gate.

Now every day, we search for cat poo in the evening
And in doing so, we inevitably water the garden and gaze
At the peduncles filled with flowers.
It seems, we have embraced the little joys
Of living with nature.

When I see a cat in the front yard
I look at it like an angel sent from God,
To remind us of the little things we neglect in our rat race,
To succeed and make a living.
It seems the cats have given us
A lot more than poop. The garden has become our
Comfort room to excrete our anxieties
And fears and to live larger than our
Own capitulations.

Now I look forward to gathering cat poop
Even sighting a lurking cat
Knowing it is only a prelude to a bigger pastime.
It’s amazing, how absolutely little it takes
To germinate seeds of happiness
On a fallow heart.


Male Sadness Homeless Person Bullied Alone Hiding
Male Sadness Homeless Person Bullied Alone Hiding


You’re just PLAIN MAD…..
You should be hanging the genetically modified
Sign around your neck – after all something
Spurred you on to become a scary cat


You’re just a scarecrow on sugar
Maddened by the very environment
That raised you – padlocks on the gate
Mosquito-proof netting on windows
And a heart that beats like a gong.


No wonder you’re anticipating more
Than what nature throws at you.
Carrying an umbrella in August
Is plain nutty and wearing a jumper
In Galle is plain stupid.


Still nothing beats
The condom you wear while making love

As you replay a nagging thought over and over
“Will the trusted condom break?”

And your wife’s on the pill.



I look at my mother
Bringing in item after item to the dinner table.
A spread as rich as a King’s banquet.
And I look at each one of us
About to grab hold of a drumstick
Or a fried prawn.

And I wonder how she feels;
She gives and gives, when giving is fighting
On its toes embattled with extinction.
And giving when performed in the absence
Of ritual or rite, is where you find the sacrament
Of charity emboldened by motherhood.

I think of the maternal motif
That leaks out the charity syndrome
And all I can feel is my mandible
Growing a snout, and my legs converging together
As my body curves into the shape
Of a question mark. In my thoughts I’m turning to a seahorse.
Still, a seahorse only gestates and rarely
Rears the young.

And I realize I’m stuck in
My own purgatory of thought.
Tormented by my inability to feel
What my mother goes through day-in-day-out.
And I finally give in, knowing
I will only be a man who can carry
A troupe of tadpoles in two out-of-body sacs.

And I look at my mother
Knowing she is everything I’m not.
A giver like no other – From uterine blood
To milking breasts and now, a banquet
Of chicken and prawns.

And I’m that wretched life form
That only knows how to glutton out in sin
On my mother’s obese feasts.



He was just a boy
Wooden in bulk, edge and bough
He was drawn from a design of pencil
– Unlike the clay-made man – on Jepeto’s drawing board.
A marionette, a type of stringed puppet.
The boy could only recite poetic lies
How the moon was made of passion fruit cheese cake
And fireflies were really pixies with lanterns
Even the fairy with turquoise hair
Couldn’t convince Pinocchio to embrace the truth.

And you listen to his story, of how he visits
The land of toys, joins a circus, finally becomes a puppet
Once again. All the time, his nose was adding inches
To every lie emptying his lips.

And what is the cost of a lie in this revolving world?
It is just a part of your conscience priming
To the next time. How the voice within
Becomes softer with time, hazier in articulation,
Diminishing in echo, with no testimony of the truth.

We all carry the curse of Pinocchio.
And time and again, we kneel in front
Of a wooden chamber to recite our fallings
The lies that we heave to come out shining
On the other end. And we go back to our lying ways
Knowing Jepetto is a forgiving creator.

We are wooden puppets, searching for our own
Blue fairies to recapture our vestigial consciences.
Only then can we sleep in solemnity,
Knowing the tip of our tongues are unadulterated,
And our voices are rejoicing,
Hurling out sacred truths.

How To Find God?

Horizon Sky Clouds Field Earth Plowing Cloudy

There are Cinderella stories
And jackpots. Still nothing beats
The man searching for God in this revolving
Waste dump. God seem to adhere
To the NIMBY signs – Not in My Back Yard –
And lives in a far-away land
Too far for the sequoia ladders
Or the rain poles or even for that matter
Jack’s Bean Stalk.

And still we try to find God
In merciless sand dunes where nothing good grows.
We do charity seeking a photo
On a newspaper, or some vanity medals,
When charity should be an honorable
Act devoid of greed and personal ambition.
We pollute the environment
And waste energy – how many people
Turn off supplementary lights or working fans
Just to give back to our turquoise world?

And how can you find God
In these hazes, labyrinths of evil?
The littering of a beautiful world
With nonchalance and apathy.

Can we find God;
In love, In Juliet’s Balcony or Mumtaz’s Mausoleum?
In miracles, the premature birth that lived
Or the burn victim that survived
In innocence, a child in Disneyland?
Or a Down syndrome adult smiling for no reason?

How can you find God in this fucked up world?

And still you find God in the tiniest deeds
In a miserly tear or a helping hand,
When no one is looking, when the scoreboard
Doesn’t keep track. Or intervening at that defining
Moment to save another from downfall.

God can also be found
As a ghostly voice inside your conscience
That knows only how to scream
Inside a sound-proof room.

Little Insects


She, the wasp that could glide
The butterfly with frock-like wings

Drawn like a moth to a flame
To a cockroach lurking

In her heart. Her cheeks blushed
And pimpled like bite marks

Of bed bugs. She hung on
Like a flea to his flesh and milked

The sap like an aphid. The waggle
Dance told a story of thorax

And abdomen. Bee stung, she climbed
Out and flew away like a mosquito

After a blood meal, burning in afterglow
As a luminescent firefly