A fancy old fool

A fancy old fool;
that’s who you are.

Borrow ears from an ass
and hang yours on his ass;
hide eyes in your ass,
and borrow ones from an owl,
for you don’t hear,
nor you can see
what’s happening here
(in this world).

Tell them others’ tales;
shout in their ears,
and repeat you are honest,
but tell nothing but lies,
sweet, honey-dripping lies,
for that’s what they love
that’s what they want.

Be as slippery as a fish
and as cunning as a fox;
but don’t bellow like a bull
or roar loud like a lion,
for you prove
you are a fool
just an old, fancy fool.

Copyright © October 26, 2018, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay


Truth is suffering

This pleasure is an illusion;
Now it’s with me,
But soon it will be gone;
Suffering may remain alone.

This pleasure is a mask
That I love to wear
In this life’s comedy
That I consciously live.

But I know; I hate though
Life is suffering;
Suffering is truth,
And truth is suffering.

Copyright © Oct. 15, Newton Ranaweera
Image Source: Pixabay

Regaining Our Territory


Ecstatic we felt
when that culprit,
the enemy of poets,
enemy of emotions,
who had a head
but not a heart,
being drunk with gold,
tricked us by crowning
and garlanding us
with Olive wreaths,
for the services we did.

he stole into our classes,
our long-held territory,
while we were in a trance,
and soon banished us,
claiming we had no lessons
to root out emotions,
(lower order thinking),
of the future rulers
of his stupid Republic.

Since then
we have been roaming
around classes,
populous L2 classes,
but we are not let in,
for they say we lack
higher order thinking.
Come, gather round;
let’s break the monstrous
clutches of Plato
(who couldn’t oust
his own emotions);
Let’s break into
our territory
and water those
withering plants
with deep emotions.

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

Life is a River

Since I am busy doing my studies, I thought of reblogging this poem, which I originally posted on Dec. 10, 2016, so I can continue my contact with you, my fellow bloggers.



Life is like a rolling river
In birth, and growth, and death similar.

Their life begins as tiny fountains
In dark, deep caves in high mountains,
Whose laborious labour drives them down,
And with a splash of cry, they fall to the ground.

They creep; they kneel, then stand and run,
Which often looks as smooth and fun,
Yet the song they sing in a melancholic strain
Should reveal their untold agonies and pain.

Smooth or rough, they ever go down,
Down, down, into the depth of sea,
Down, down, into the death of sea,
Where rivers or life are no more found.

Photo: Pixabay

Posted on Poet’s Corner on Dece. 13, 2016.

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Is this me?


Am I looking at me,
or is it me that I see,
that’s staring at me
with wrinkled cheeks
and sunken eyes
in this corroded mirror
in front of me?

I saw me so young
just today morning,
but this me that I see,
in this corroded mirror
In front of me,
is not me, he’s not so young;
is this “me” then an illusion?

Why my eyes not see me
as I want them to see me?
Are my eyes too old
that they cannot read me
or is this “me” not true at all?
If this “me” is not true,
are my sons not true, too?

I know, now I know
he rightly said,
Atta hi attano natthi
kuto putta, kuto dhanam?”

Trans. Even self is not one’s own. Then how can he brag that he has sons or wealth?

Copyright © Sept. 29, 2018, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay

English is my Muse


My Muse you are; you I truly adore,
But I love you not, for I feel you not,
I feel only for her, for only her I love,
She’s my love; you’re just my Muse.

Sure, she’s poor, yet she’s a beauty,
A delicate flower brooks often wear,
Passers-by fear for her beauty is rare,
So she’s my love; you’re just my Muse.

A beauty in Baikal slopes I dropped;
A primrose next-door, sadly I missed,
For promises I had tempted me a lot,
Yet she’s my love; you’re just my Muse.

Though a Trojan horse you really are,
I’m faithful to you, as was Paris to her,
Ships are ready to be sailed for you,
Yet she’s my love; you’re just my Muse.

Copyright © Sept. 19, 2018, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay

Pluri-hive of love


In my lovely hive of pluri-love,
Men shall be the worker bees,
Whereas women shall duly rule
All bees of this pluri-hive of love.

In every hive of this lovely hive,
Three worker bees shall love
Their lovely queen of pluri-love,
Who loves or withhold her love.

Hives can be made with clay;
Men shall only a loin freely wear,
Yet, their chest they keep bare;
Its queen can wear or stay bare.

She will live in her palace of clay,
Which each man can duly reach
with new moon to serve her love,
Yet she may love or deny her love.

When entering her manor of love,
His loin shall lie on latch of her door,
So the other two lovers may know
Pluri-Queen is in a moment of love.

Copyright © September 16, 2018, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay

Cannon seekers


The one
with the cannon,
(the militarily stronger)
in his self-written ‘history’
(by hiring poets and painters)
to be the civilized, ideal,
superior and the perfect;
the one without a cannon
was considered as ‘lack’,
so inferior,
and was said to feel,
as Freud himself did,
from ‘castrated effect’.

He still says she is so jealous
as NNSs often do, of his tongue,
to own which they both
do need to complete
which is as ideal as
Plato’s republic.

Tell me not what they lack,
tell me, yet, what they own;
tell me what you lack, instead,
for you are just a unicorn
(‘mono-‘, just ‘mono-‘
is an apt modification
for all you have)
whereas they have two
or sometimes more,

so in their history,
your possession
shall be only a

Copyright © September 14, 2018, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay

Entrance and Exit

The child and the old
are not two but one.

One enters; the other exits,
so they lie on a parallel line:
the first at the entrance
and the latter at the exit,
viewing yet not knowing
they are just the same
though they wriggle
at two opposite axes of the line.

One crawls, then kneels,
then rises but only to fall;
the other just bends, and
bends, then crawls and
finally, creeps through the exit,
the tragic denouement,

which the child may choose,
but he avoids only to learn,
hiking through a crooked ascend
through trial and error,
the error of his wanton choice,
and then rolls stumbling
down a steep precipice,

but only to the opposite axis,
the exit that he should exit
in fours, which he avoided first.

Copyright © September 9, 2018, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay

Wilderness within


I looked for the one so unclean
That often steals into my garden,
Which I want to keep ever clean,
And grows wildly growing weeds.

He’s grown wildly growing weeds:
Anger, greed, lust and boredom,
Which are now knee-high grown
In my garden I want to look clean.

I looked for all around my garden,
Friends, kins and next-door men
All I did smell looking for the man
who grows wildly growing weeds.

I have come to the turning point,
Where I trace a familiar footprint,
“Find within” tells this great hint,
“The one that grows wild weeds”.

Copyright © September 6, 2018, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay