Cold January mornings
Folks start woodfires
Under the tall coconut palms.
Children barely dressed
Squat around for warmth
Arms crossed, cradling their bodies.
I half-expected them
To get up and dance
Around the flames
Like half-savages
Smoke spirals up
Blown aloft by the wind
From the burning palm branches
And dry spathes tossed in
With spiky “boovalu”
Into the covert of the feathery canopy.
Fiery sparks glitter
Sparkles burst in showers
Laughter fills the distance –
Oh what a simple primitive happiness!

Cold, in my cold dark schoolroom
I wish I were there
Sharing warmth and laughter
By the crackling fire.

Kamala Gunasekera
Mirihana

The school gate frowns
On a little boy and his mother
Standing in the sun.
A farmer sitting, on his haunches
Sees the “big man” passing by
Sneering at his posture
A labourer sweats
His calloused hands pleading
He only wants a steady supply of funds
But
There’s a pot of gold in the offing
For the swollen bellied rich.
They only have to stay calm
Greasing a sick fat palm.

U.P.W.Panadura 

The long hall,
Dimly lit,
The predominant silence
Only disrupted
By the screeching fans
Hanging from the high a roof
And tuning of pages
And scratching of nibs on paper.
She looked up
At the large wall clock
Indicating those last few minutes,
Before the years long journey
Would finally come to an end,
She wiped
Her sweaty palms and ink
stained fingers
On her trousers,
Before tying up
The bulky stack of sheets,
Onto which she poured her knowledge
Gathered through the years
In a marathon three hours.

Maya Arundhati

I can still recall
Vividly, though the encounter
Happened, when I was
Quite young
How the old and haggard
Gypsy woman, seated
Comfortably, on the pavement
Of a busy highway, instantly
Grabbed my attention
Touching and looking
Intently at my palm
Predicted me fame and fortune.
Irrespective of facing
Many vicissitudes
Throughout my chequered past
And now I being quite old
Am amazed by the stark accuracy
Of the fortune-teller’s prediction
For I have become a believer
Of, as my wise friends
Never get tired of ridiculing me
Of “superstition”
Instead of being a
Disciple of rationality

Ranjan M. Amarasinghe

See me where
the palms scrape
the skies,
where the exquisiteness
of life
cannot be deprived.
Sense me between
the sheets of dampness.
Love and adore me in the
hot waves of
a midsummer gust.
I want you around
I want you here and there
forever
meet me in an ecstasy
where we can
spend our time together

Saumya Aloysius

The young palm reader placed his crash helmet at his feet. ‘I will tell you something only you know. If correct, I can read your palm’. His reading correct, he then foretold my future path. I was palmed off, with false pledges to assist in carrying others’ burdens. ‘If your palms itch, expect money’, they said, in their safe havens abroad. My sister said, ‘you take the palm, agreeing to their demands’.
In old age, I know my sacrifices, laboring with sweaty palms,
symbolise victory.
The coconut palm rustled its fans in accord.

Faith Ratnayake