Werewolf in Nuwara Eliya

That night in Nuwara Eliya
When Dom and I stumbled
Into the Grand, we had just re-met
And every moment was precious.
It took us ten minutes to find the bar
It was cold for Nuwara eliya and we
Needed a drink, desperately.
A single malt for Dom and a Port
For me. This was in 1993,

I turned towards the barman to place our order
And stopped, shocked. Next to us was the most
Extraordinary man I had ever seen, he was approx.
7ft tall. His ears were pointy, nearly as large as his head
A beard that tapered to a degree
His sideburns, thick, wide, designed
Angled to his mouth
A sweet smile. It was disconcerting.
Basically, your friendly neighborhood werewolf.
He bought us a round of drinks and
Seemed very glad to meet us.
We drank with him up to a point.

Said our goodbyes
And staggered outside into a sea
Of mist. It must have been midnight
the moon was full.
Shining bright with light
To show us the way
To the car-
we drunkenly
Drove the windy
Road back to the club.

Quietly distressed by the
Meeting of the man
Who looked like a wolf.



June 2017



Sweater Weather



Short days in Michigan

When the leaves turn to

colours of the earth.


The old man mowing his lawn

Wearing his slate cashmere v-neck with

holes under the arms, has never bothered

to get the thing darned.


Billy used the season to shoot

He would walk out into the woods with his Colt 45

Looked for Rabbit, Deer, if lucky, a Bear.

He wore a brown, round, wool neck sweater

that kept him warm.

It also camouflaged him really well.


No-one mentioned the time he was down by

The creek – – a body floated up, face down–

bloated and gross from being in the river for over

A week.

The sheriff hushed It up,

Billy was his son, you see.


The Sheriff wore a red lambswool sweater

to suggest authority, or perhaps, danger? and to keep visible.

He was beautiful to look at – A Cary Grant—with manners.

How us County people respected him.

The sole reason we never pursued the body story.

His word was Final.


Me, Autumn in Michigan, meant road trips—a six pack of

Molson in the car;  Ruben sandwiches and my best girlfriend.

We’d sing to Joni Mitchell and Carol King—perfect tunes for a fall sunset

that seemed to last forever. At night, Deborah Harry

blasted from the CD deck the stars shining brightly.


We did not need the moon or headlights to show us the way.

My girlfriend wore her purple sweater, made of Angora.

It smelled of Opium. I wore a cashmere jersey

in lime green.


We drove for days hitting the west coast

Got down at Full Moon Beach.

Threw our sweaters off,

and with it, our angst spinning emotions

Jumped nude into the Pacific Ocean


The water was cold.

We could very well had been swimming in

Lake Michigan—but,

It was worth it.

For the Road Trip.

2261 miles of it.

NS May 7th 2017.

Machine I loved

A low slung Volks

turbo charged, fast


did 130 miles on

the Arugumbay

Moneragala road

‘A poor man’s porsche’

my friend said.

Leonard Cohen crooning

as we looked

at the mountains

whizzing by

light poured in

the driver seat

comfortable enough to

race in.

I down shifted to third

then, back to fourth, fifth

as we turned the corner

on two wheels

the car did a one eighty

and smashed against

the hillside

we poured out

stunned, bruised, bleeding

we were ok

the car ok, too

German engineering

I thought

I loved this car

I was biased

Thank god we weren’t

driving the Prius.

NS FEB 13, 2017


Buttala, South Sri Lanka
Me, american pancakes, blue jeans.
Appuhami, rotis. sarongs.
British, Sri-Lankan children

To eat breakfast.
Daub and Wattle, Illuk Roof
wood fire
I whisk the batter

I-pod on Leonard Cohen
Croons; “Love gone wrong’
For the moment.

I am lost
earphones in music
carries me away
to another place
congruence and context
(at home anywhere)

It’s all in the making of it.


Did we love each other
to end up
so mad, hurt and shy


work overtakes love
children overtake love
phone rings overtake love
is our love not deep
for our souls

for pol sambol

Instead we shun
the longing
to be real,
to manifest

the gentleness
kind thoughtful


I guess
that’s enough
to distract our


For Anne Scowcroft. (sapphic ode)

Beautiful friend, perfect one of a kind
Speak to me on skype! Inspiration wanes fast!
Where are you? Are you there? Log on Now. So I
See your honest face.

Poetry, Prose, manuscripts done: we wait.
Excited by the launch date. Invites on way?
Do send me copy, fed-ex fast. Wings fly.
I want to read now.

When will you visit again? Board an airplane?
Leave your humanitarian work behind.
Come back to Ceylon. It needs you now, As I!
To write once again.


Dusk – magical time
I look at you
marveling at how
large you have grown
how beautiful you are.
you had a rough day
at school.

You chase them around
the playground.
you are fast
an athlete
this is when you score
your athleticism
is something they look up to
you are faster than all of them
8.1 seconds in the 50-yard dash

You stand aloof
choosing friends carefully
older friends do not call you ‘Bombai’
they chat instead –
ask questions about
Tea and Cricket.

Here we have:
McGovern and Nixon
Republican /Democrat
Badges worn. shining.
It’s all so new to you
this proud individuality
extraordinary sense of self

your older friends possess
individuality is paramount
You, your brownness
come from a place
where most are shades of colour
a strong sense of community
and you wonder, do you have to be white
to be an individual?

I open the door, walk in
Sit on the bed, purple coverlet from home
and say:
“George Bernard Shaw thought
Ceylon was the cradle of the human race
as everyone looked an original.”

This pleases you
You fling your arms
Give me a big hug.
Say “night daddy”
School tomorrow
I am sleepy.
I have another race to run
I hope to beat yesterday’s time

NS. June 2009

shake a leg, loose the past

when i drove up the steep
climb to your house
you never mentioned
the garbage.
that i had to walk by
to get to your door.
when are you going to
drop it?
the baggage a burden
lighten up the load
so we can dance;
clean on the floor
into the night
approach first light.
garbage out
step in.

For Mo.

Music and song were at the fore
Watching, waiting for the right time
to score. As was escape, mainly to
explore. The mind transcends
but, always Here. Listening, right
to the end. Now, no more.

Paintings hung. Lighting fixed. Mo: No more.
Yet, he left a legacy and taught
generously. We will continue to uphold
the privy lessons – So obviously
zen like in the manifestation – Beautiful
and precise. Behold! A delight.

Art transformed in the Gallery delight.
Jaytissa and Chandrasekera bathed in
glorious light. Mohan dictates, A bow
he takes. The end results in a gasp
of wonder. Applause. Sometimes, rain and thunder
Opening night: guests mingle, drinks sprinkle, music jazz jingles.

Many teachers had he, the three M’s danced a jingle
Mike, Mahen, and Manik. Finally, Druvi.
(Quite the shaman guiding from Minali)
Ships sailed to distant shores, adventures.
Experienced Hendrix and then some
Traversed the world mindfully done

Home south to manage a hotel well done!
With wife and a child to be.
Successfully run, all had fun
Then came the JVP
Problems arose, the hotel closed
Back to Colombo, five aunts and he.

Met at Dom’s in 1991. A gentleman was he
Gave me a pipe. Then Topy died
and Jerome sang, praise be!
And (a fool on the hill)
706 emerged, behind Barefoot, luckily.
Space to see, with music and art and hilarity.

Mo was instrumental in running the gallery
A giver, a lover, a rarity
A giver, a lover, a rarity.