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

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

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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

Tell us, ants


Tell us dear ants, how you’d run
One after another in a raw
And work for a common goal,
keeping unity among yourselves.

After achieving your goal, tell us,
If you would stay very cool
With no fight to claim the credit
And live calm without any profit.

Tell us, if you’d live together there
In one house as we often do here;
If your house’s made of clay alone
As we prefer doing with ours here.

Tell us, how you’d elect your queen;
If she would work with you all
Or just stays home with her legs up
And presses more taxes on you.

Tell us, if you’d watch mega dramas;
if they are made in your own place;
and if food prices rise sky high
while you kiss the stars on the screen.

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Mourn more for the moon

On a night when darkness floods,
And we are groping for an edge,
We mourn more for the moon;

At a noon when sun scorches us,
And we’re direly in need of a shade,
Sure, we vow we love night more.

Now my love is eyeing on my lines,
Fancying they’re some lines of love,
So, I love my love were not with me.

When I feel so lonely without love
And do need someone to sit by me,
I’d love my love’re sitting beside me.

That’s how fate plays with our life.
When we are in want of something,
It leaves us and flies far, far from us.

Copyright © July 23, 2018, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay

Good Wine Needs No Bush

Buddy, in this stall open for toddy,
I’m selling not any wines but toddy,
Toddy, only toddy, for I’ve no vines
‘Round the thatch-eves run’ for wines;
I have only palms in my warm farm.

Image source: Pixabay
Copyright © 2018, Newton Ranaweera

My Own Funeral

I went to the funeral of mine
To spy on if I were treated fine,
To see if my wife and my sons,
My brother and his fellow dons
All were wearing white gowns.

Fine speeches dipped in wine,
A single line from a poem of mine,
A farewell song sung by dames,
And silence with the rising flames
Were the ones I had in my dreams.

None did I see waiting in a line
Or any speeches dipped in wine,
Funeral songs nor pretty dames,
Sons or brother, or rising flames,
For it was one in a line of dreams.

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Fools say it’s our karma,
An unforeseen dharma
We two, nocturnal lovers,
Feast with bats, cats and owls
that succumb to this dharma.

I’m not him, that famous one
That stopped Sun
And did play with them;
Nor you are another’s town
I’ve stolen into for illicit wine.

Then why we meet and feast
On sturdy, hardy bowers
Made for nocturnal beasts
and hover, long night-hours
if it is not for our karma?

If it is truly for our karma,
True love should be that karma;
Or else, since karma is a baggage
That often comes in a brigade,
Men’s meaningless taboos
Should be our karma.

Image source: Pixabay

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What is this peace?


What is this peace that you say;
That you inflate every day?
Have you ever seen it in your bed,
Or there’s an ulcer in my head?

Do you want me to stay calm
When a beauty kisses my palm?
Should I clap and say hurray!!
When my darling does oft, delay?

If you often demand me to listen
Do you think my oracy may glisten?
Can a tree lose, its age old roots
And learn to wear, borrowed boots?

Since pirates have looted my treasure
Can I recite poetry for your pleasure?
So where is this peace that you say
That you inflate so hard everyday?

Copyright © June 12, 2018, Newton Ranaweera

Image source: Pixabay