Mother Love


She ran; madly she ran,
asking for mustard seeds,
only some, a little,
a handful of mustard seeds
to cure her son.

She ran; madly she ran
from one house to another,
where none had ever died,
asking for mustard seeds,
from a family of immortals.
“She is mad; her endeavor is mad;
it’s as futile as that squirrel mother’s act,”
onlookers thought; none spoke,
but she ran; madly she ran.

She started at dawn
when dew was glistening,
and bubbles were dancing
to the tune of oil lamps.
She ran; madly she ran,
passing the dying buds and roses,
burnt by the scorching sun,
but still she ran; madly she ran.

She ran; madly she ran,
with no food, with no drink,
with disheveled hair, loosened clothes,
while tears of blood were pouring
from her aching, motherly breasts.
She ran; still she ran, madly she ran.
“Sister, your run is mad;
we are mortals but not immortals,”
they said, but she ran; madly she ran.

She ran; faster she ran;
madly she ran,
until the sun died,
the life giver and killer died,
and till houses and trees wore
black veils to mourn for his death,
she ran, madly she ran.

Suddenly, her tears stopped;
she stopped, but with her son,
the lifeless flower,
still in her arms.

Sketch by Sachin Ranaweera


Let me sing my natural song


Lend me thy ears;
have mercy on my tears.
I’m a lonely old bird,
now in a cage,
a beautiful cage, made of pure gold
with so many doors, all but closed.

It’s true that I am singing,
but it’s the song
you want me to sing;
it’s not but my natural song,
the late autumnal song, the swan song.

Now my shrill whistle
may make your heart blissful,
and you may sigh a sigh
of love and of relief,
but I sigh a deep sigh,
a sigh of regret and of burden
because I cannot sing
my natural song.

You have hung the Nobel bell,
the bell of peace
around my tiny neck,
but I cannot ‘mew’
or wag my tail as does a kitten
because I’m a bird
who likes to sing
his natural song.

These golden plates,
golden spoons, golden beds
or your ball dances,
you dance for my pleasure,
cannot make me happy
for I have no appetite for any.

Without the freedom of heart
to sing my natural song
that springs form the depth of my heart
all those pleasures aren’t worth a penny.

Photo: Pixabay



I know this is gonna lie

motionless, emotionless, lifeless,

may be today, tomorrow or at any time,

while working, while walking or talking,

when its corroded, eroded rustic machine,

lacking supply of red oil, a block of its entangled wires,

cries louder: click – clock, click – clock, click-clock, click…

and suddenly, too suddenly, without letting anyone know,


Photo: Pixabay


A Poetic Debate

compare-643305_960_720A debate between two Williams
the Topic was old realism
the place I can’t remember
but there were three members
Williams stood for each hemisphere
Having great records as a spellbinder
and knowing the art of ending walls
Dionysus stood for both poles
In the old one
he gave one
more chances
but had no chances
this time, for such monkey dances

You oft escaped into unspoiled villages
and wrapped damsels in fancy images
You wandered only in corrupt places
and drew images of weary faces

You drew children as innocent flowers
and danced with them for many hours
Your children suffered from deficiencies
men were venomous as poisoned trees

You were so ensnared by all those -isms
You mean humanism criticism or tourism
Nay feminism and all those notorious -isms
Sure however except elitism and escapism

Stop your whining I love you both alike
you draw images as godlike or ghostlike
based on what you’ve seen how you view
your stances you need to view and review


Cuckoo Chick Little


A cuckoo chick little, cute very little
awoke from a dream, but not very peaceful.
He shivered in fear recalling the warning
by mother crow kind about his shrill cuckooing.
She promised him that the training of his voice
would make him caw, and he would feel rejoice.
Fear of torture made him try a silly attempt
not knowing that it would make him just repent.
A herald’s call of caw for a sudden attack
kept war heroes ready without any setback.
This tempted cuckoo chick, to try a sudden flight;
the rest I can’t say because it’s a sorry sight.

Drawing by Sachith Ranaweera


I won’t be a beautician either


(Final Part: Poetic Choice)

The greener, flowery path with a long line,
and a dreamy, fairy castle in its far end
will lead me to be a clownish beautician,

who may cover any spoiled city of stench
with a magical carpet with full of soft fur
and being at a distance, adore its grandeur;

who may, being enchanted by big ransoms
of money or comfort for body and emotions,
create a dreamy, fairy and fancy paradise;

who may hide elimination of an entire nation,
highly hailing how it controls over population,
‘nd spoon feeding listeners with honey-dipped lies.

Hence, the choice for me is plain and simple
I’ll never be a satirist to rot my own soul,
or an escapist beautician, a fancy, cushy liar.

However challenging and difficult it may be,
a brave and bold tragedian, I will choose to be;
the nobler the purpose, the bolder my pen will be.

Photo: Pixabay


Should I be a tragedian?


(2nd Part: Poetic Choice)

The potholed road in the mid will lead me to be
a tragedian, who may ruthlessly be ridiculed,
or viciously be poisoned, if cannot be enticed,
for seeking or bravely revealing the agonizing truth;

who dare use their voice for those of Medusas,
whom his atrocious story has turned into worshipers,
with long-nosed and hairy-chinned, rude gossipers,
deceitful snake charmers and distorted spell-binders;

who may strip the blind veils of cultural fetters,
and compel men to see how T-Rexes are devouring
women, children and diverse other tiny creatures,
who need to exist to double the beauty of this globe;

who may ever be ready to shed warm tears of blood,
or fearlessly dare trouble any man-made trouble,
and when the whole world rapidly hurls down upon,
stand immobile considering it as an empty bubble.

Photo: Pixabay


I’d never be a satirist

(1st Part: Poetic Choice)

A crossroad I’ve reached,
where three roads meet,
which lead to three directions
with many different diversions.
Beauty, Tragedy and Satire,
name posts are hanging higher,
and I have to make a choice,
the right choice,
only one choice.

The first road will lead me to be
a satirist, a wordsmith very rude,
you met in Thesmophoriazusae
or in Shadwell’s perfect stupidity.
As part of a deliberate plan to hurt,
with an utterly rotten line of dirt,
a truly an innocent, honest heart
and get rot my own heart and art,
I can send to the history of dustbin
not for him committing a grave sin
or any pure, serious social offence
that he can’t seek any fair defence,
but, I don’t need any Greek to hide,
for refusing to stand in our own side.

Photo: Pixabay


Stereotyped Humanity


Photo: Pixabay


Our Vegetable Love


They said –
we had sex
beside the brook –
atop the rocks
beneath the trees –
inside the caves
while sitting –
but mostly standing.

The irony is that – we never had sex
touch of any bumps – or at least a kiss
coz a fence and a brook – stood betwixt.

“Innocent,” said she with head low;
I with head high, then she with high,
with palms together – kneeling so low,

but they
turned our green vegetable love
into a brutal slaughter house.

That’s how it is,
mountains are often made
out of mere mole hills.

Photo: Pixabay