Blurred Dreams

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Moon walked a step ahead
my mother’s moon, and hare
behind me tip toed
to guard me, and to dismay
creeping and crawling ghosts.

My hare they hunted down,
and highlands and lowlands
they painted on my moon,
blurring my rainbow dream
and leaving me all alone.

 

Copyright © November 24, 2019, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay

Return!

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This tragi-comic tale,
or poetry plodding to the wild
and running back to classroom,
is not new but a historical tale
that started with a heroic battle
between reason and emotion,
and Plato, a pseudo rational man,
banishing her into exile, to the wild,
to suffer, repent, purge her emotions
and to come back to classroom anew.

With her three sisters in exile,
an internal battle she did
to oust her emotions
and to be a cool, rational teacher,
yet her lovers wanted her not to smother
but to overflow with emotions,
come back to the classroom
and water us, the ‘withering plants
with deep emotions’.

Grammar Translators then
‘crowned’ her, ‘garlanded’ her
and made her
their Muse,

yet Audiolinguals,
(parrot trainers),
schemed with structuralists
and behaviorists and sent her back to the wild
to suffer
for forty years.

Brumfit, Carter, Long
and Widdowson;
(CLT’s heavyweights)
with Hirvela and Spack,
(writing pedagogues)
defended her;
and her sisters in their case;
and Faulkner, Hanauer and Leggo,
her illustrious sons and daughters,
hold her now high above their head,
yet some, not many, but some,
I still hear,
whisper, “She’s so low”.

Copyright © November 19, 2019, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay

Note of Thanks

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Note of Thanks

Tell me
from whom I ought
to begin
to thank all that
that helped to bloom this little
flower of verses
and to share its fragrance of love – leading
to dust through lust, the climax
of all our wanton desires –
with you?
I’ll begin with you, Ven. Ananda,
with folded hands against my forehead,
a
salute of gratitude,
for poetry being my only treasure
and I have no other means to thank you,
and thank you, Shafna and my WordPress fellow bloggers,
for your kind
contribution to bloom this flower.
Now my sons: thank you, Mahesh,
for
the cover design and
sponsorship and you,
Sachith & Sachin,
for personalizing my gross concepts
with concrete images, and
finally, take this garland of love
Prema (mother of my sons) for igniting my
creativity with your love.
Note of Thanks for my second poetry collection: Love, Lust & Dust

 
Copyright © October 9, 2019, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay

Run, Chicken-Little, Run!

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Ha, ha hare, the world comes down,
Crumbling, tumbling, hurdling down;
Run swift runner, we will come behind
Saying, “Come world is crumbling down”.

Tale telling is an art of rousing flames
With oral, aural, visual, dramatic means,
And with no sense, no intent, people run
Saying, “Come world is tumbling down.

We have no sages to see why we run,
Run in waves of dying and rising runs;
Running not knowing why we madly run
Saying, “Come world is hurdling down.

Rumors run; faster and wildly they run
Than the world comes crumbling down;
With all that come behind we may run
Until we find a sage to stop this mad run.

 

Copyright © September 27, 2019, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay

Rising from dust

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Yes, from dust I rise to clouds.

The rosy clouds I fancy around
may not be true but an illusion
I see out of my hallucination
for I rise from the depth of dust,
where I often slept with dusty cats,
on an empty mat in a rickety hut.

But I feel, I see I’m in clouds,
a temporary pleasure of floating
among rosy clouds, a fantasy,
which but I love ever to be in.

 
Copyright © September 23, 2019, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay

Love is above dust

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O, brother, immature,
don’t sling dust and mud,
for you can never pick
those flowers, sky-bound,
by slinging mud and dust.

They stand above mud,
and dust will fling down
and dirt your own face.

They are true lovers,
whose hearts, flooded with love,
wash the dirt of their feet.
Pick those flowers with a stick
and place them at their feet.

But never sling mud
for dust will fling back
and dirt your own face.

Flowers kept at an altar
spread pleasant fragrance,
but bees that roam around,
never rock them
seeking dark honey.

So, never sling mud
for dust will fling back
and dirt your own face.

Image source: Pixabay

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Stop, Sun!!

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Is that because you know meeting ends
With lovers’ parting
That you don’t farewell with tears of dew
Your lover’s parting.

We loved to see dew drops every morning
Not knowing then
You were weeping for your lover’s parting
By Sun’s summoning.

Stop him, that ‘unruly’ Sun,
And love him to your tummy’s content
As Zeus, a night roaming lover, did once
To be with one.

 

Copyright © September 4, 2019, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay

Life’s Play

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This play’s title: Love, Lust & Dust,
Aptly implies a bitter tragedy life is.
With love it begins, an ecstatic start,
And onrushes through complexities
To climax: crazy satiation with illusive lust,
When we dance ‘as crabs in a boiling pot’,
Being with all the earthly pleasures drunk,
Not knowing what dread fate is to come next,
And then ends this play curiously heroic
In misery when everything: love – lust,
Turns to ashes, and at last, to odorless – dust.

Copyright © September 2, 2019, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay