War Veterans


You think of the war veterans,
Especially the POWs who spent years
In Hanoi Hilton. You see glimpses of pain in their open eyes, 
Hard exteriors that will never move
An inch, holding the fort, the rampart
Bullet proof, while their barrel chests
Grow outward in their autumns and winters.
Here, there is no more camouflage and prowling snipers,
Only their grandchildren holding
On to their palms, asking for a Christmas gift.

All they ask for is a little respect for their courage,
To have been darting through
Plumes of Agent Orange
Lurking through blades of elephant grass,
Holding a rifle around the shoulder.
They now spend their Sundays in church,
and all they ask for is a pension,
To spend on their morning coffees,
And evening teas, and some dollars to buy
Their grandchildren Christmas gifts.

How purple are the oxygenated arteries,
That flow out of the heart,
Of men, decorated with purple hearts,
Of the type of bravery that is selfless in execution.
Now they sit sipping hot beverages,
While one by one, knock off infinitely,
To become cargo to the courier angels.
Veterans, who will never forget the war,
Sharing little anecdotes,
That get passed around, mouth to mouth.

And what else but the commemoration of the anguish
As they saw dead bodies splattered on the ground,
But overcame it, to become unsung heroes,
Who defied everything thrown at them.
Heroes that get forgotten in this American west
As they become the organic fertilizer on a cemetery
Where wild flowers grow, as if to show
To the world, the beauty that is buried beneath,
Soiled in true valor. How courage only, could
Save the deplorables, hated equally, by the enemy
And by the home turf, caught in no man’s land,
As outcasts, now waking up on loaded minefields,
Where nightmares explode like
Claymore mines, to reminisce the horror of what
The eyes gathered, as the clutter of war.




Sleep takes its toll,
As the sedentary takes over you.
That nagging sedative closes
Your eyes and opens your third eye
To a field of plentiful dreams

And you’re just like a sloth
Who can only make himself uncluttered,
Just to be immovable, like a monolith
That marks a perimeter on its base

How absolutely little it takes
To be a sleepyhead
Like a koala bear or a giant panda
Who shows us humans,
How to be fat and lazy,

And still be endeared
And loved.

Book Launch – Driftwood and All Things Colour

On the 29th of November, my wife (Michelle) and I, launched two books. They are

  1. Driftwood: An anthology of Poems (Dilantha Gunawardana)
  2. All Things Colour (Michelle Alexander) [A Coloring Book for Children]

The publisher is Sarasavi Publishers.

There are many new poems in the book, which are unavailable in the blog. I hope you will enjoy reading the poems in the book.




Overestimating Booze


Everyone likes to drink alcohol…
No, not me.

For once, all the spirits are overpriced,
Which makes man waste his day wage
On some grog, that is bitter on most occasions,
Unless, spiced up or made fruity.

As I sip an Irish Bailey, that my wife gives me
As I look at that bottle, selling a beverage that is only a step
Away from Ice Coffee, and still
Is 10 times, the selling price.

And drunk, what is it, but a little punchy lullaby
That sloths all your senses, selling spells of imbalance,
Making something nauseating appear
The following morning,

When you’re almost a clothes hanger,
Shoulders droopy, and feeling like a truck has run through you,
While your organs are like a scattered jigsaw puzzle
That is trying its best, to fit them all back.



The pharmacy that your liver encounters
Is nothing short of a waste dump.
You take Xanax to overhaul the anxiety
Allegra to ward off the asthma,
While the Coversyl you take is to keep
Your blood pressure round about the normal value.
And there is nothing to blame your disease-laden body,
But wear and tear, and a number
That keeps appreciating to time, taking with her,
All your diagnoses, of which the list,
Gets longer by the day, of how far away
You’re from, a well-oiled machine,
That needs a pharmacy, to make that serial number
Bigger every year, learning that
Little chemicals are like tiny angels,
That kill off the dangers inside your body,
To preclude the bigger winged angels,
From coming down to earth.


Sleep Sheets Bed Sex Feet Erotism In Love Toes
Sleep Sheets Bed Sex Feet Erotism In Love Toes

Through that great divide
Of balloon woman and boundless space
He climbs out through a plug
And a canal, to become
A focal point of appreciated love,
That in earnest,
Is just scissor’s cut away,
From independence,
When he will learn how to,
Squeeze out a little fluid,
From a wonderland of its own,
And learn to shoot, feet and hands,
That like typical offshoots
Probe their way into
Meaningful chemistries
Of what it is to be feeble
To the bone, and still
Be strong enough to conquer the floor,
While being felt by touch,
Gripped by one’s lust for life,
To never surrender, to anything
That rests beyond you,
Only beneath.

Only you will know your summon,
Your call to be the babe,
That traverses every degree
Of anatomical possibilities
And makes them,
Just random occurrences
Of free-movement,
Of passivity,
Of what will acclimatize
You to your own flesh,
When you will learn that,
You are just a weakling who will,
Outgrow your defenses,
And learn the strange
Art of life, in that borrowed
Suit you call your body,
And that bouncing creature
Inside the rib cage,
That will be your keeper,
Of what is worth spending
In careless wanderings,
And foolish prognoses.



The homeless man can only,
Stitch cotton bricks around him.

And march on dunes, on rocks,
And across wadis and moist beds.

While over near the Pacific Ocean, you see hundreds
Of turtles, rushing to the ocean tide,

Not knowing what lies inside,
This mammoth saline fortress.

Life is only a bounty, that in the absence,
Of foundation or roots,

Is just a movable panorama, from one
Place to another, one hour to the next,

Hunting bare-knuckled, rubber-soled,
Chasing kinder horizons.