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

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Elephant Rebel

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No more – no more retreat,
Right to the wall, I’ve been set;
It’s time now to fight back,
To fight back with all my might.

Ceasefires – no more,
Peace talks – no more;
I don’t trust you – anymore.

Leave my ancestral land – and go;
No – I don’t’ mind – Go!
Go – no honey-dipped wines – Go!
No – leave my land – and go.

Ceasefires – no more,
Peace talks – no more;
I don’t trust you – anymore.

No more – this colonial mantra,
“The bulkier one grows,
The stupider he becomes”.
I don’t trust you – anymore.

Ceasefires – no more,
Peace talks – no more;
I don’t trust you – anymore.

No more – no more retreat,
Right to the wall, I’ve been set;
It’s time now to fight back,
To fight back with all my might.

Copyright © Jan. 15, 2019, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay

He looked stupid!

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He met his teacher,
A learned, erudite one
And told his aching problem,

“I have a mobility problem:
I cannot tame my fingers;
So slow they move
And when I drive them fast,
Clumsy my writing looks”.

He looked down at him.
“What? Are you stupid?”
The question was well written
In his bright, erudite eyes.

“It’s not a cognitive one;
It’s a mechanical defect,”
He couldn’t explain to him

For he felt so sorry;
He looked already stupid.

Copyright © Jan. 9, 2019, Newton Ranaweera
Image: by Mahesh Ranaweera

I felt dead!

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Did you feel dead,
Sopaka, my twin brother
When tightly you’re tied
To a rotten dead body?

Devil of night approached
With devilish night figures
Sniffing for rotten flesh
And for living warm blood.

I know, you saw, as I did
Opposites of humanity
When He broke your bonds
And you felt forever safe.

Copyright © Jan. 5, 2019, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay

Sea, are you she?

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Sea, are you he or she?
Some say ‘she’;
others say ‘he’.
Tell me
how you become
both he and she!

For them you were he,
a ‘rival’ or a ‘contestant’.
He drowned her child
to appease Poseidon,
the god of sea,
who let them go
and send a city on fire
and then played with him,
and drowned him
in vast wilderness.

But for him, you’re she,
A giver – a benefactress;
you don’t doesn’t mean
you don’t’, but you can’t
as she, who only doesn’t’
since she can’t
when Moon smiles full.

Hence, for me, as for him,
you’re she, but not he.

Copyright © Jan. 4, 2019, Newton Ranaweera

Inspiration from Greek legends and Ernest Hemingway’s The Old Man and the Sea.
Image source: Pixabay

Blow ‘sigh-tempests’

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Your ‘sigh-tempests’ and ‘tear-floods’
Are precious treasures in this desert,
Where dinosaurs in human forms
Devour trees, the earth’s treasures.

They badly bleed but men don’t see,
Or how down their tears slowly flow;
They only see the coaxing dollar-bills,
The falling, floating, handsome bills.

Cry, my son, shed more ‘tear-floods’;
Sigh, so high and blow ‘sigh-tempests’
Till wild they grow and spread wide,
And melt the monsters’ cold hearts.

Copyright © Dec. 27, 2018, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay

Too late, darling!

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Crazy, you are with old men,
Crazy old men, like me,
Whose love is now numbed;
So is their body, so numbed.

Haughty you’re in my prime;
Haughty, like any other dame,
Yet you served an old man,
My master, a crazy old man.

Numbed, I don’t feel now love;
Numbed, I don’t want to love;
So, you may feel empty, darling;
Thalia, you are too late, darling.

(Thalia is the Greek Muse for comedy and pastoral poetry)

Copyright © Dec. 21, 2018, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay

Fancy, brown balloon

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I’m not; no, no, no – I’m not,
I’m not a fancy, brown balloon
Floating freely on a foreign sky,
Being lulled by fluffy clouds.

I’m still that proud, sturdy tree
Living in a land, a fertile land,
Whose soil, yet, is foreign to me,
Foreign to this proud, sturdy tree.

You watered me with your sweat,
And you fed me with your blood;
So, I know, I owe you all my fruits,
Fruits that I waste in a foreign land.

Copyright © Dec. 17, 2018, 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

Wild Poetry Plant

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Once this plant was a discarded one,
Discarded by a road side,
Trampled by the passers-by.

So, delicate flowers may not bloom
In a beauty’s hair to sit with pride,
Or with wedded ones to merrily ride.

Thus, she will birth only withered ones,
With stripped petals poorly smile,
And often having a dry, wild smell.

Copyright © Dec. 9, 2018, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay

Non-Existence

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In this narrow stretch
of no-man’s land
in a colonized land,
I live as a victim
while opposites stand
with arms in hand
to fight their battle,
the battle of opposites.

Anger frowns at Peace;
Joy winks at Grief;
Pride mocks at Humility;
Hatred does hate Love;
Desire is hot with Disgust;
thus, an army of opposites
have colonized this land,
keeping me a victim
in this narrow stretch
of a no-man’s land.

None do I love;
None of these opposites,
for Love or Hatred,
they are opposites.
Colonizers!
That’s who they are,
competing
to possess this land,
and I am but a victim
in this no-man’s land.

Nor do I love you,
Detachment, but trust you.
Do possess this land
and help me
to evict them all,
you, me, and all,
and to make this land,
a no-man’s land.

Copyright © Dec. 5, 2018, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay