I’ll Quit the Books

Double I’ll grow, he says, if quit the books,
Throw the books and head towards brooks,
I will quit the books, leave this forlorn queue,
Rush to a wood, and lie beneath a yew.

I’ll quit this queue that runs to a bookshop,
Retreat to a wood and dwell on a hilltop.
I’ll quit this bookshop, the dusty graveyard,
The rusty bookstore, the tempting junkyard.

I’ll quit the books and retreat to a wood,
Sit beneath trees, teachers in my childhood,
Lie beside brooks and listen to their hymns,
The blissful tunes that finetuned my whims.

In green wood, the “Green Ever” bookstore,
I’ll be merrier than in this junkyard, for
Double heart will grow, brighter mind will glow,
Softly the wind will blow; to a wood I’ll go.

Inspired by William Wordsworth’s “The Tables Turned”

Copyright © March 12, 2021 – Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay

A Romantic Evening

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Twilight – the whip-cracker of – Night
…………..Reaches the beach;
Sky sets – Venus – the evening light,
And to welcome her lover – Sun,
She wears a rosy, glassy gown.

Flirted by her rosy, glassy gown,
Sea furls his knightly, vaulting waves
…………and he does crown
Them with flickering, fiery ringlets
And sets a royal bed for the union.

Flirted by her rosy, glassy gown,
Sea-gulls glare; they miss their watch;
Whales stare through … scarlet screen;
All miss their work; all stop their work,
And leaving world to them, all….go home.

Copyright © September 11, 2020, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay

‘Prize Skills’

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I know he croaks, croaks and croaks.
Like a croaker on a rainy day he talks;
He croaks, and I hear his prolonged croak,
Yet why dry dung his throat does choke?

Croak! I know, his croaking is a flaw,
But another’s flaw now begins to glow;
Croak! Croak! I do hear his guttural croak,
Yet why dry poo his throat does choke?

Whizz… a bloodhound flies sky-bound.
There! a dead swan thuds on the ground;
A king a wanton archer inaptly did crown;
Aha! this monk now proves king a clown.

 

Copyright © April 15, 2019, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay

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The greatest gift!!

hare
Wipe your eyes my son,
Stare, just stare, at moon
When it’s full and bare;
See! you’ll see a hare.

He leaps into a fiery fire,
You see my son that pyre;
It’s a painting by a sire
Dwells in the sky higher.

This hare’s a great giver,
Who didn’t ever, shiver,
To leap into a dazzling fire
And give his life to a crier.

There’s that greatest gift
Sire gave to hare so swift;
When sky its veil does lift,
You’ll see that greatest gift.

Copyright © March. 16, 2019, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay

Seeking love in lust

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Sire, have you felt love ever,
Ever, in your vast pool of lust,
Where you play love forever
With stolen mermaids of love?

When mermaids murmur love
To inflame your ceaseless lust,
Flames of lust must rise above,
Yet yearn for love turns to dust.

When will you cease this quest,
This quest for love in sheer lust
And willfully seek a lasting rest,
Turning lust into a cloud of dust?

Copyright © Feb. 07, 2019, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay

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Dad is mad

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Night is black and black is bad;
So, night is bad and black is sad.
Day is white and white is dad;
So, day is dad and white is glad.

But day’s death is night’s mirth,
And night’s death is day’s birth.
Thus, day is son and Sun is dad;
Night is mom and Moon is glad.

You wear black when you’re sad;
He wears white when he is bad;
White or black we should be glad,
And ne’er feel bad, but dad is mad.

 

Copyright © Jan. 17, 2019, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay

Fly, butterfly, fly

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Fly, butterfly, fly, but slowly fly;
Being drunk with astral dreams,
If you try, and fly high, sky high,
Wings will break, and you’ll die.

Fly, butterfly, fly, but not so high,
But low and slow, so you may know,
The stars you see are not so nigh,
yet if you try and fly high, you’ll die.

 

Copyright © Dec. 12, 2018, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay

Come Ye, Empty Pots!

Empty Pots
Come ye, empty pots, stand in a fine line;
Here, I’m awaiting to smother your mind;
Oh, Master, I know master, no emotions,
No poetry, but facts, with less reasons.

Oh, Master, I know master, no emotions;
Just 2%, I’ll smother them with devotion;
Criticality and creativity are false notions;
So, illiteracy shall shine in full promotion.

No poetry, in this class, for any reason;
Oh, Master, I know master, no emotions;
Come ye, empty pots, this is not a treason;
I’ll smother thy mind for future promotions.

Copyright © Nov. 29, 2018, Newton Ranaweera

In Defence of Truth

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Yes, those hush voices soon grew restless
And hatched a plot at a table with bottles
And hid in a bundle of firewood in guise
of a nine months’ pregnancy by that wise
And went to him when surrounded by men
and the ransom made her cackle like a hen
In a hysterical voice to say, “Yes, I’m him.”
Nature’s magic played by extending a limb;
Her pregnancy turned into a dried bundle
Of firewood, and plot into an empty bubble,
Out of which came running squeaking rats,
Stripping black veils of night-dwelling bats,
Proving nature’s magic does stand for truth.

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Good Wine Needs No Bush

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Buddy, in this stall open for toddy,
I’m selling not any wines but toddy,
Toddy, only toddy, for I’ve no vines
‘Round the thatch-eves run’ for wines;
I have only palms in my warm farm.

Image source: Pixabay
Copyright © 2018, Newton Ranaweera

My Own Funeral

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I went to the funeral of mine
To spy on if I were treated fine,
To see if my wife and my sons,
My brother and his fellow dons
All were wearing white gowns.

Fine speeches dipped in wine,
A single line from a poem of mine,
A farewell song sung by dames,
And silence with the rising flames
Were the ones I had in my dreams.

None did I see waiting in a line
Or any speeches dipped in wine,
Funeral songs nor pretty dames,
Sons or brother, or rising flames,
For it was one in a line of dreams.

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😊 Smile 😊

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Smiles😊, opens his mouth wide and he does smile😊,
In the festive season, it must be everyone’s style;
Here! There! and everywhere, these people smile😊;
On these city walls, I cannot see anyone hostile.

Loyal is his neck to his body and face well shaven;
His well round belly is a sign he eats only bacon;
Shape and style hail highly that he is not a craven;
How happy they should be who live in this haven!

There! a bag of bones salutes a man with a smile😊;
I can hear what he says standing there immobile,
“You politician, salute us now with your, fake smile😊
When elected, you frown us; that’s your natural style”.

Image source: Pixabay

Helen

Helen by Mahesh Ranaweera

Helen, my darling, sister,
The emblem of sinister,
An unfaithful character
That brought horrid disaster.

The burning flame of desire;
Slyly earned Paris’s sapphire;
A brand never does expire
That many dream to aspire.

You are another caricature
In an epic not so miniature.

Image by Mahesh Ranaweera

Twin Swans

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Beauty is doubled by adding beauty,
Hosts and guests with their gorgeous hue,
How so serene, so tranquil this scene to see!!
Green when doubly mixed with white and blue.

Where did you leave dear sister, twin swans?
Mind! she is gladly waiting for your return;
Spell on thee every hour in fact she mourns;
Return to her dear, without going to Saturn.

In Mud Mind Wallows

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He breaks his chains so far to go
So swift, so slick and very subtle;
Wallows in mud so glad and gay,
Returns to cave; slyly does dwell;

No spell can tame if leaves his cell;
If wants he comes, if not, he runs;
No form, no shape, no blood at all,
Quivers this fish if thrown on land;

His ways are wild, sometimes so mild;
At times he’s stable, but oft, he’s fickle;
He mourns if hurt and grows so wild;
If tickled so soft, reacts with a giggle.

This pot fragile, will soon be thrown;
It’s a useless stick when mind is gone,
So tame and train him, now, so bold;
Will delay bring us, peace or gold?

Drawing by Mahesh Ranaweera

Humanity is weeping.

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Do you hear this soft sobbing?
That’s me, humanity, within,
guarded by gender and colour,
the weird viceroys of culture.

Do you see how I’m suffering?
This pink dress that I’m wearing
looks sternly at each step I keep
and makes me silently weep.

Do you feel my skin is rough?
Split and see if blood is tough
and it is black, green or white;
or I don’t’ feel when I’m hurt.

Image source: Pixabay

Reconciliaton

Temple flowers
On a blissful spring morning,
when I wedded this sweetie, then twenty and flirting,
I was blessed by birds with their melodious chirping
and a ‘host of flowers’ merrily blooming.

On a sizzling summer day noon,
I saw a spooky snake chase a house rat in a cartoon,
and a harsh stifling wind topple a sand castle down,
and the tigress standing, wearing a fierce frown.

On a dismal autumnal evening,
when grey leaves were fluttering down, while grieving,
and the rosy dusk was cheering the tired sun declining,
I saw her at the door-step cheerfully waiting.

In this chilly, intense winter night,
I saw a geckos’ fight, then flight, through dimmed light,
their swift halt and entwinement in a bundle too tight,
and felt our souls vow of their unity in delight.

Conflict

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Conflict is not a monster that sets us apart;
conflict is but a benefactor disguised so smart.

No conflict, no drama; no drama, no conflict.
Can the action move forward, with no conflict,
from exposition to resolution, through climax,
or the hero become at least a little more complex?

Had those feudal serfs not challenged the gentry,
and you wouldn’t bravely challenge your spouse,
wouldn’t mansions still suffer without our entry;
would there be suspense for the mice in your house?

If everyone says, ‘Yes’ and no one says, ‘No’,
if everyone begins to love and no one hates,
then everything will just halt or leisurely flow;
will you then see different colors, shapes or states?

Without a friendly conflict between bow and string,
if you shoot in haste, without holding it in leisure
and gently releasing it, will it to its target fling
and you get any treasure or simply any pleasure?

Photo: Pixabay