A dream
I am
Woven with pattern of love
and the frail threads
 of memories
I come
to find
that insomniac
You are

Happy dreams

Sun smeared
we laid
a whole day of jazz
tunes have
sound bruised my
mind

Now in the shadows of heavens
beneath the dark sheet of the night
pierced randomly
to make tiny twinkling patterns
your pulsing heart beat
heave upon me

Like a lost wave
on her
shore

pulsing heart beat
I listen to
against my own

Then you break the hush

You
smile
 in your dreams

Tourists are a peculiar species

The following is a poem and the PS by Yehuda Amichai. An Israeli poet, Don't ask me which side I stand on that issue. But the poem talks of tourists . And is more applicable to Sri Lanka these days .

Quote

Visits of condolence is all we get from them.
They squat at the Holocaust Memorial,
They put on grave faces at the Wailing Wall
And they laugh behind heavy curtains
In their hotels.
They have their pictures taken
Together with our famous dead
At Rachel's Tomb and Herzl's Tomb
And on Ammunition Hill.
They weep over our sweet boys
And lust after our tough girls
And hang up their underwear
To dry quickly
In cool, blue bathrooms.

Once I sat on the steps by agate at David's Tower, I placed my two heavy baskets at my side. A group of tourists was standing around their guide and I became their target marker. "You see that man with the baskets? Just right of his head there's an arch from the Roman period. Just right of his head." "But he's moving, he's moving!" I said to myself: redemption will come only if their guide tells them, "You see that arch from the Roman period? It's not important: but next to it, left and down a bit, there sits a man who's bought fruit and vegetables for his family."

Unquote

Where we write from.

We write from our

 memory traps

millions pores

in our cortex

We write from

our muse

that invisible place between 

the shoulder blades

the hazy blur

between you and the pinchpoint

takes shape of a word sketch

between  oh so perfect

parallel lines

We write from our

beliefs

the lead burrow

deep in the pit of our belly

But never

never from the

heart

that’s a misconception

an excuse

So.... verbs?

So
Heaven .
              You  said , while you slurped last bitter drop
              of the cheap
             double espresso shot
is a verb

So
Love.
 is a
verb too
             there you again
              scuffling your shawl

So.
here contemplating
sit I
on the proper syntax of the three word parade
I was about to mumble
‘fore all this