Autumn: Tragic Fall


Sprang open Spring a box of rainbow rains,
And Summer rains led to your gold grains;
Juice oozes from your yellow, mellow grapes,
You play a kingly show with curvy shapes.

Morning mist floats, dancing through trees;
Fragrance of fruits sails, prancing in breeze;
Bees buzz and birds hum, granting us bliss,
And night flurry flows hissing me with a kiss.

Fall, after a great rise, comes a worst fall,
And shows your fall my mirror on the wall;
Green turns into gold and now into grey;
I hear a grown-up lamb’s cry from the brae.

Copyright © September 14, 2020, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay


Beauty! What’s your shape,
your height, size or colour?
I don’t see beauty in white,
in a sky-bound tower
or an idly swimming hippo.

White reminds me death;
I see people coming to see me
in a dead white winter day,
wearing pale dead white.
Some say light comes with day,
and light is white, so white is beauty.
But lovers love not light or white;
they love moon yet not noon.
I hear when night rains black
lovers say they get their clothes
all wet.
I looked at a girl with full of love
in my eyes, but she tossed her head
and raised her nostrils with nausea.
I felt I was a cow dung at her feet.

And then I wrote a three-word letter,
“I like you,”
rolled it and boldly dropped it
when my girl came behind,
and a letter soon flew onto my hands,
“Short Sweetie,
dark brown you may be,
but I love you.”

Copyright © July 19, 2019, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay

Your heart is a flower

You are a flower,
often guarded by drones;
your heart is a flower,
yet tell me, my sister,
do you feel any love?
Do these drones,
fly fast from one to another,
show you any love?

Meet Ambapali,
a name for a great flower
in the Grove of Mangoes,
whose beauty attracted
princely drones.
You’re her great grand-daughter;
ask if they did shed
a single drop of tear,
a mirror that reflects love.

Did those princely drones
see her tears within;
did they take any care of them,
that were shielded
by her eyes; their sapphires?

Will these drones that sing
songs of love for your love
be there tomorrow,
by your side
to sing such sweet songs
to you?

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Beauty of Night

Rise the welcome songs
From all four corners
For the light of light;
Farewell songs too rise
From the same corners
For the beauty of night.

The more we see
Light of light,
The less we see
Beauty of night.
If night were not
Intensely thick,
Would light look
So heroic?

Do only night owls
That love beauty of night
Is it not Moon,
your most loved,
That loves most
The beauty of night?

Rise the welcome songs
From all four corners
For the light of light;
Farewell songs too rise
From the same corners
For the beauty of night.

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mirror image - beauty

She saw a Venus in her table mirror,
mirror that reflects images as they are,
or so close to their original form,
though a replica,
she believed in what her lovers said,
the enthusiasts of her breasts
that did shield her heart often hurt,
that she is a Venus where Sun rises.
She tossed her head in pride
and her hair untamed
fell her dear Attic vase,
which broke
into pieces
was swept off.

Its red red rose, her darling red rose, she touched in the morning,
watered and whispered her secrets to,
the secrets of her broken heart,
flew off, broke its wings, shivered and soon lay dead.
Then she peeped into her mirror to see her disheveled hair,
wrinkled face, sunken eyes, hanging, worn out breasts, and her
bloated belly; the lies her lovers told her rang in her ears,
and she let her mouth freely pour out all that stench
she had smelt years to please those that came to her
seeking her aging body.

Image source: Pixabay

Twin Swans


Beauty is doubled by adding beauty,
Hosts and guests with their gorgeous hue,
How so serene, so tranquil this scene to see!!
Green when doubly mixed with white and blue.

Where did you leave dear sister, twin swans?
Mind! she is gladly waiting for your return;
Spell on thee every hour in fact she mourns;
Return to her dear, without going to Saturn.

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

Am I immune to beauty?


Am I immune to beauty or half blind
that I see no beauty
but only change and loss in plenty?

Yet, if there’s any beauty,
why my beauty has lost her hair?
Does wearing fake teeth or fake hair
add anything to her beauty
or rubbing body lotion to her wrinkles in plenty?

If there’s any beauty,
where’re those who gently tapped me when met?
I have lost those people nearest and dearest
to me; they are the prettiest and fairest.
Where’s then any beauty?

Where’s any beauty,
when the innocent are killed in thousands,
and the Troy is aflame before us in reality,
and the Muses are adoring Trojan horses
for petty, not pretty, political reasons?

Beauty that you say is only illusion
that pops up its face to rouse your sensations,
and then drive you to further delusion.
Suffering, change and loss are in promotion
while illusory beauty is constantly in motion.

If you still insist that there’s any beauty,
I see only this beauty,
the beauty of change, and loss, in plenty.

Photo: Pxabay

Man behind Camera


You see a pretty, village damsel,
unspoiled and untouched,
not the inquisitive child beside;
nor her guilt-ridden conscience.

You see her bosom full of youth,
wrapped in a dotted, pink cloth
yet not her worries or sorrows;
nor her belly, an inch below her bosom.

You see far-stretched, golden fields,
double bent with paddy,
but not how hard they toiled;
nor their sacrifices, no words can tell.

If you keep the camera aside,
with its lenses of magical colours,
you will see the truth
behind her beauty and all.

Posted on Poetry Corner on November 11, 2016. Link:

Is beauty truth?

‘Beauty is truth, and truth beauty.’
What about ugliness then?
Is ugliness untruth?
It’s like saying pleasure is truth,
and truth is pleasure.
Is sorrow untruth then?

Sole existence of sensuous pleasure
is a great idea, of course.
How beautiful the world would be
with no death or decay, nor sorrow,
with only love but not hate!

Anyway, could beauty be truth
if truth were stable
and beauty were fragile?

(posted on Poetry Corner on Oct. 27, 2016. Url: