Power & Piety

Hare 4
Cobras my aunt honours,
“Go Cobra, dear Cobra, Go!!”
Bodhisattva once you were;
We honour you in His name.

Honour these men villains,
Who ransacked villages;
They are now gods in regions;
Them we honour in our names.

Bunny his own flesh did offer
Haring into dancing flames;
Gaily, we send him on flames
To honour his act of giving.

Forever, he’ll be in the moon,
An award to his self-giving;
Bodhisattva we’d gladly burn,
If he weren’t vicious but kind.

That’s how we honor our piety:
We honour a one if he’s mighty;
If he’s meek and gentle, Sires,
We send him promptly on fires.

 

(Another interpretation to Sasa Jataka, “The Tale of Hare”.)

Copyright © March 7, 2019, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay

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An adults’ game

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“Let’s play a different game,
an adults’ game
that we often play inside,
mostly when night falls,
but never dare play here
where we stand together,
as Ionians or Thebans did,”
they said and threw
all their clothes on air.

First, they looked visible
with red robes, white gowns,
black belts, night gowns,
head covers, breast covers,
ball guards and head gears
and couldn’t play such games.
Now they’ve no caps, no hats,
no gowns, no robes, no bras;
nothing but their naked bodies.

They added a few more rules,
as you see in any other game,
to their fancy-dress parade:
to tan their skin with green,
their hair with yellow,
and protruded body parts
with red, pink and gold;
and to use body language alone
during their adults’ game.

Copyright © May 16, 2019, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay

Free from him

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A deity hummed her hymn with Sulasa’s win
And Sattuka’s tumbling the precipice down.

♦     ♦     ♦     ♦     ♦     ♦     ♦     ♦     ♦     ♦     ♦

You’re not free, Sulasa, you’re are not free;
Maybe, free from him but not from them.

Him you chose, I know, to be free from men;
Now you’re free from him but not from them.

When fire meets with water, it meets its end;
If it meets with cotton, then it runs to its end.

You’re so cool as water and as soft as cotton;
So, he met his end, yet you burn in them.

The hunted can sing with a hunter’s end,
But if hunting goes on, your paean is in vain.

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

King Beggar

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“I’ve come myself to hear you,”
that’s him who relied on men
but not on them, the online ones:
WhatsApp, Twitter, nor Instagram.
You know him, a King, a great one
who risked his rule and his life
when that devil turned into a hell,
like yours today, the country and all.

“I don’t know; that must be them,”
to rule a day more, and an hour,
never did he lie, ever but he sought
the devil that ruled – their life and all,
fighting with kins, inside his home,
and with his self, his dear own self,
and helped all feel peace of mind,
by blotting boldly his eyes and his life.

Copyright © April 1, 2019, 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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Divine sprinkler

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Had you met this dying tree
this old tree, this bald tree
who has lost his sap of love,
love for blooming fruits
yesteryear, at his youth!!

He would have born fruits:
ripe, juicy, oozing fruits,
more trees from those fruits,
green, blooming trees
to double the beauty of earth.

But you’ve met this tree today,
at his old, bald age
and sprinkled divine droplets,
and he vows to birth fruits
though not like at his youth.

Copyright © April 1, 2019, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay

Lovers’ farewell

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Culture screens his eyes,
warns his conscience
and cripples his hands.
He sees how lovers farewell:
they hold their hands,
their eyes entwine;
then slowly they turn –
back to back –
release their hands,
fingers farewell –
the little one, at last.
He raises his hand,
and it shrinks down,
but his eyes tip-toe;
she turns; their eyes meet;
culture screens,
and they farewell.

 

Copyright © March. 29, 2019, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay

“Na jacca wasalo hoti” (No one is low by birth)

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“Na jacca wasalo hoti”
(Birth makes no one low.)

If by birth no one is high;
nor by birth we are low,
why do you say you’re high,
and I’m like dirt, so low?

Mom says I don’t lie,
but you know you lie;
I don’t cheat, but you do;
so, you know I’m not low.

You vow me – you love,
but your eyes go so low,
hug my thighs, and oh, more!
so you know I’m not low.

I know you’re not high,
for you’re one inch low,
but you swear you’re high,
and I’m like dirt, so low.

“Kammana wasalo hoti”
(Acts alone make one low.)
Oh, I know; I know now:
you are dirt like, so low.

 
Copyright © March. 22, 2019, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay

A guilty bird

jay
Goes out,
And she comes in,
Goes in,
And she come out;
She feeds; she cleans,
And his kids all dance.

But he…

He sits and thinks;
He sits and thinks

“Is she a slave,
and am I her master?
She feeds my kids
She cleans my nest,
But I sit and think,
Only sit and think”.

Copyright © March. 18, 2019, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay

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

A prodigal son

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We dreamed, day-dreamed
To oust this shanty, shack,
Stained with cow-dung,
Infilled with wattle and daub,
Littered by a single hue
And haunted by gliding ghosts.

We dreamed, day-dreamed
To recline in a peaceful,
Concrete hermitage;
To scrape the sky high;
And to wink at blinking stars
That often toss their heads.

Smothers me, suffocates me
This satanic, concrete wretch,
But I cannot retreat,
For a wasteland has gobbled
that flourishing green,
Where now mystic leeches haunt.

Copyright © March. 07, 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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Give me thousand eyes

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Give me thousand eyes
To see you, the real you.
Oh, no, I don’t see you;
I see only a slice of you.

And that false slice of you,
Me, and all that I see now,
Just now, here, just now,
May be gone – just gone

When I blink my eyes
And see you – next.

Copyright © Feb. 20, 2019, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay