Little Man

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One murky morning in early seventies,
Little Man, an eight-year old
Scrawny little child,
stole into an abandoned govt estate
with his two fellow thieves
and climbed a coconut tree,
for hunger flooded
his head.

That was his first space visit,
and it was not to spy on Moon
or to bring rice from Saturn,
yet to share with his two brothers
the remaining two young coconuts,
for he heard their bellies growl.
His left hand gripped the tree trunk
and the right twisted the first coconut
or tickled the nut behind,
and the nut smiled, hustled,
leapt down,
and then rolled

and knelt at the feet of a village bandit.
Either to snatch the coconut
or just to hear the child’s cry,
bandit picked the coconut.
Hunger clouded Little Man’s smile
and he said, “keep it, or I’ll fall
and die”.
The man was a bandit, yet he threw
the coconut and limped
down the sloppy land,
letting Little Man
win the game,

yet it was too late.
Either the child let his hand go
or he could not hold the tree trunk anymore,
he slipped down
and hugged the craggy mound.

 

Newton Ranaweera, July 28, 2020
Image source: Pixabay

Starry crown

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Feast galloped into a hole
And king held just its tail
But his tummy did tell
a tale his tongue didn’t tell.

I’ve read an anti-heroic tale:
A jackal a king cat fooled
And aptly proved him a fool
Witless, tasteless, and old.

Voices hissed in her ears
To mourn, to fight for rights
Or free this bloodless tree
And flee from deceit and lie.

“I’ll wear,” lastly he did swear,
“Atop, thee, my starry crown
And sit beside thee benumbed
Adoring thy rosy, fairy feet”.

Copyright © April 23, 2020, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay

Doomed heart?

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He may lie to the whole world;
Rob he may the entire world,
But have you truly noted one
Escaping from his faulty heart?

He may pick a delicate flower,
And create a castle sky high,
But have you seen a man ever
Mending his crumbling heart?

He may win the entire world;
Lords may kiss his velvet feet,
But can he ever, truly heal
His doomed, aggrieved heart?

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Upstream, you did swim!

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Upstream, you did swim,
Sprinkling love on envy,
And ousting fame and name as sputum,
But we’re paddling and battling downstream.

Upstream, you did swim,
Partaking from love of owning,
And tuning paeans seeing others dining,
But we’re paddling and battling downstream.

ඔබ ගියේ උඩු ගං

ඔබ ගියේ උඩු ගං
වෛරයට, පෙම් ජලය ඉසිමින්,
කිත්, යසස්, කෙළ පිඩක් යැයි හඟිමින්.
එහෙත් අපි තරඟයක ගළන ගඟ සමගින්.

ඔබ ගියේ උඩු ගං
වෙන්වීම, නියත බව දකිමින්,
දන්දීම, මහඟු මග ලෙස ගනිමින්,
එහෙත් අපි තරඟයක ගළන ගඟ සමගින්.

Copyright © April 12, 2020, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay

Magics?

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Did those clear eyes
that grin and sneer at
a man’s lost eyesight
see their sister-daughters,
or brother-sons
that did his ill-fate breed?

He was the beacon,
the guiding North Star
that guided us all
when we just grouped,
but what use of those magics
if in mud he wallows?

Copyright © April 5, 2020, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay

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The Tenants

The Tenants, Poem

Let’s say.

Let’s say high,
kneeling down,
weeping, lamenting,
while waving
milk-white flags,
the emblem of peace,
praying,

“Give us,
just one chance more
to learn and live”.

Let’s say high,
pray and pledge,
palm on our lungs,
kneeling down.

Yeah, let’s say
high and loud,

“Allow us to live
as tenants, at least”.

 

Newton Ranaweera, March 29, 2020.
Image source: Pixabay

Fantasy fish

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Craving to own
a fish alone,
begot he as his tool
a mid-day brawl.

His son and woman
bellowing, “Amen,”
butted their neighbours
bereft their armours.

Fate, his faithful mate,
marched, but in haste,
parodying him of a mule
and driving us to school.

Lost he his fight
his terrific sight,
his woman and son
and his single loin;

Oh! for a fantasy fish.

 

Copyright © February 4, 2020, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay

The most crooked

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An egret wore, milk-like white
and sat still, with eyes down cast,
but shot his devilish, eyeballs out
if a fish ever hugged, his holy feet.

“They may wear milk-like frocks;
necks may grow long like rocks,
but I’ve never, ever seen
fish-gobbling ones, observing sil.”

Soon he drew a heavenly pond, and
enticed and gulped the shoal of fish,
but a crafty crab, sat hiding in the pond
packed that bully into a pond of hell.

He that pecks, antique tree trunks
and honors so high, his crafty work
bows so low, beneath, a banana tree.

 

(An interpretation of Baka Jataka tale, which is a story about an egret that fooled a shoal of fish in a pond and gobbled them all but was fooled by a crab.)

Copyright © December 26, 2019, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay

Worn out Cloaks?

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You wash your cloak;
You love your cloak,
And keep it safe
From dust and rust.

But dust and rust
Can creep it in
And dirt your cloak
And wear it out.

Will you save it
or throw it off,
Wear a fresh cloak
And love it more?

 

Copyright © December 8, 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

Not Me!

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This me you drew
is not me;
your me wears my face,
but your heart;
so, this me you drew
is not me.

Let me
draw me
as I see me,
for only ‘me’
may draw me
as me.

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

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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