Too late, darling!


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

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


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

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



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.
That’s who they are,
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

A poem born in a kitchen

I would love a poem that’s born in a kitchen
And slyly creeps as fumes through the chimney,
with a true tale of its creator, who softly sings,
Being aptly wrapped with her joys and mourns.

I would love a poem that’s duly born in a field
And mixes with breeze through sweat and mud,
With a true tale of him who sings while at work,
And dreams to live a better life with fellow folk.

I would love a poem humbly born in a cozy room,
But in dedication to them as a flower in full bloom.

Copyright © Dec. 2, 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

Tribute to her Titanic love

(This is a tribute to a little birdie that died for her love.)

Too tiny is your heart
For your Titanic love,
So you are dying now
By drowning in love.

Oh, little, my little birdie,
Live! try hard to live;
Take my tattered heart,
And in it, you must live.

Your Love’s already dead;
I know, that hurts your heart,
But don’t drown in your love;
Let me die, so you may live,

For your love is truly divine,
And you must live your love.

Copyright © Nov. 25, 2018, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay

Just another sense!!

If I had another sense,
A sense of foreseeing
My life, just after this one,
merrier would I be,
maybe, worrier I would be.

Were I again to be born here,
In this vast Ocean’s tiny pearl,
Among mortals,
Ah! among acrobatic mortals,
Who eat with one –
But sleep with another;
Who run with one –
But hound with another;
How happier would I be;
Ah! to live among such magic!!

Were I to be born not here,
But on another poor land
With no such divine magic,
Among monotonous immortals,
Who eat with one and sleep –
Ah! a poor sight! – with the same;
Who often run but never hound;
How dull that life would be?
Sure, too worrier I would be,
For having, then, such a sad sense!!

Copyright © Nov. 23, 2018, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay

Conscience for Sale


Here, buy this conscience,
Useless nonsense;
I wish I had no sense,
So I could kill my innocence.

Come, water’s now troubled;
Innocence is just a bubble;
Exploit this troubled bubble,
And sell conscience for a ‘double’.

Copyright © Nov. 14, 2018; Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay

Come, join this symposium


Come, join this symposium;
Let’s talk what means,
To you, me and all,
This life that tickles us up,
Early morning, wants us to eat,
Lie, love, fight and then sleep,
And again, and again,
tickles us up
To blindly indulge in this
Empty circle of life.

I’ve explored my own life,
For already five years now,
Fifty years of my life;
“Too long,” you may think,
But that’s too short for me;
I feel nothing in this life, now,
But void, an empty void,
Unfathomable, airy void,
Which alone I won’t explore,
So come join this symposium.

In this conscious exploration,
Often, I stop to divert
My line of empty thoughts
And to feel a sigh of relief,
At a luscious, beauteous place
Where I met my life-long love
All my fights to own that love,
But soon I come back
In that heroic line of thoughts
To see an old, tired woman.

Come, join this symposium;
Let’s talk what means, to you
Me and all, this cycle of life,
In which I see nothing, now,
But void, an empty void
Unfathomable, airy void,
Which alone I won’t explore,
So join me, in this symposium.

Copyright © Nov. 10, 2018, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay

Guilt: Just sit and eat

I feel guilty
of being able to
just sit
and eat,
just sit
and eat.

They sweat
from morning till night,
yet can’t sit;
they don’t eat;
they only sweat
from morning till night.

Is this my fate
and their fate
where I just eat,
yet they don’t;
I just sit,
yet they can’t?

I feel guilty
of this fate
that lets me eat,
just sit and eat
whereas they sweat,
yet can’t sit,
and don’t eat.

Copyright © November 3, 2018, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay

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