Little Man


One murky morning in early seventies,
Little Man, an eight-year old
Scrawny little child,
stole into an abandoned govt estate
with his two fellow thieves
and climbed a coconut tree,
for hunger flooded
his head.

That was his first space visit,
and it was not to spy on Moon
or to bring rice from Saturn,
yet to share with his two brothers
the remaining two young coconuts,
for he heard their bellies growl.
His left hand gripped the tree trunk
and the right twisted the first coconut
or tickled the nut behind,
and the nut smiled, hustled,
leapt down,
and then rolled

and knelt at the feet of a village bandit.
Either to snatch the coconut
or just to hear the child’s cry,
bandit picked the coconut.
Hunger clouded Little Man’s smile
and he said, “keep it, or I’ll fall
and die”.
The man was a bandit, yet he threw
the coconut and limped
down the sloppy land,
letting Little Man
win the game,

yet it was too late.
Either the child let his hand go
or he could not hold the tree trunk anymore,
he slipped down
and hugged the craggy mound.


Newton Ranaweera, July 28, 2020
Image source: Pixabay



Did those clear eyes
that grin and sneer at
a man’s lost eyesight
see their sister-daughters,
or brother-sons
that did his ill-fate breed?

He was the beacon,
the guiding North Star
that guided us all
when we just grouped,
but what use of those magics
if in mud he wallows?

Copyright © April 5, 2020, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay

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Worn out Cloaks?


You wash your cloak;
You love your cloak,
And keep it safe
From dust and rust.

But dust and rust
Can creep it in
And dirt your cloak
And wear it out.

Will you save it
or throw it off,
Wear a fresh cloak
And love it more?


Copyright © December 8, 2019, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay

Life’s Play


This play’s title: Love, Lust & Dust,
Aptly implies a bitter tragedy life is.
With love it begins, an ecstatic start,
And onrushes through complexities
To climax: crazy satiation with illusive lust,
When we dance ‘as crabs in a boiling pot’,
Being with all the earthly pleasures drunk,
Not knowing what dread fate is to come next,
And then ends this play curiously heroic
In misery when everything: love – lust,
Turns to ashes, and at last, to odorless – dust.

Copyright © September 2, 2019, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay



We were
the teachers then;
teachers sure we were then,
and our territory was the classroom.

they were not our rats,
the victims of our experiments;
they were the co-inquirers, and
we inquired into, and sought hints
to solve this complex riddle of life:
how we come on to this stage
crawling and wriggling in fours,
and then
dance in twos swinging our wings,
and leave the floor relying all our weight,
(maybe lightened weight by dancing,)
on three
fleshless, lifeless, crooked


Copyright © August 26, 2019, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay

Worms shall wait!


With each step: one, two, three and the next,
To the grave down thy feet thou move ahead;
Worms and all that wait there for their feast
Shall devour thy eyes, thighs and thy tiny feet.


Copyright © July 23, 2019, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay

Never she bemoans


river runs,
(you know where)
she laments.

with wind,
an admirer
so rare,
river runs.

we lament,
we own
our own

we claim
it’s that
that ever

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Seeking love in lust

Sire, have you felt love ever,
Ever, in your vast pool of lust,
Where you play love forever
With stolen mermaids of love?

When mermaids murmur love
To inflame your ceaseless lust,
Flames of lust must rise above,
Yet yearn for love turns to dust.

When will you cease this quest,
This quest for love in sheer lust
And willfully seek a lasting rest,
Turning lust into a cloud of dust?

Copyright © Feb. 07, 2019, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay

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Give me thousand eyes


Give me thousand eyes
To see you, the real you.
Oh, no, I don’t see you;
I see only a slice of you.

And that false slice of you,
Me, and all that I see now,
Just now, here, just now,
May be gone – just gone

When I blink my eyes
And see you – next.

Copyright © Feb. 20, 2019, 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

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.

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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



“Do dream, do dream,”
ear drums resound,
but dreams – are dreams,
they just abound.

A man did dream
and harpooned a Marlin;
then brought with him,
but a monstrous fin.

A dame did dream
marrying a rich prince;
she cracked her pot
and broke her dream.

A man did dream
to find an assassin
but found in him
the greatest sin.

“Do dream, do dream,”
ear drums resound,
but dreams – are dreams,
they just abound.

Copyright © August 21, 2018, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay

Inspiration from Ernest Hemingway’s The Old Man and the Sea; Sophocles’ King Oedipus and a well-known tale.

A Static Character


the village thugs
the tender young coconut
that he had picked for his lunch,
Lokka thought
(in fact, he challenged them)
the best form of punishment
for them
was to fall himself from the tree.

Four decades has passed
since that incident,
and that stupid little Lokka
(a child’s nick name: big shot)
has had numerous
experiences, in and out,
as a teacher, don, father and Boss,
and now is doing
a doctorate, though too late,
in a reputed

However, when I feel
that I take similar decisions
I took
four decades ago,
I feel I should love me more.


Copyright © August 17, 2018, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay

Tour continues: Dilemma

What is this life full of miseries;
aching wounds (psychic, physique),
parting, pains and deaths:
untimely, timely, accidental,
sudden and slow ― sometimes, so slow?

Is this life only a walking shadow?
Oh no! I’m not being cunning;
I’m not preaching or promoting,
yet I’m asking some aching questions,
for which I find no solutions.

I am looking for answers.
Oh no! Oh no! I’m not gone insane;
I’m a coward; I don’t want suicide;
I love to live; I live to love,
so don’t send me to a psychiatrist,

whom I don’t trust, for their
founding theory itself is a lie,
hastily said by a fancy, cushy liar,
by misinterpreting a miserable woman’s words,
“Many have slept with…in their dreams”.

We enter this stage in fours;
walk round and round in twos:
dancing, dreaming, and fighting
to own, to earn, for more and more,
and finally, leave the stage in threes!

So, tell me the meaning of all these,
where am I from; where am I to;
what am I doing;
why do we explore far above, but
why not we explore right within?

No, don’t quote texts mortals have written;
tell me from your own experiences;
heal my woes; I’m burning inside;
tell me; I’m asking seriously;
am I too late for a serious quest,

(as sixth century BC ones did)
right within, within me?

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

The Virgin Tour


Do you smell fishy here,
in this corner, or any other
empty, dusty smell?
It’s here mostly I’ve confronted
with fate: my friend and foe.

Listen to this record, but
don’t be a harsh judge
and tell the tale at the well,
for no other I’ll give a tour
inside this mossed cottage.

“Fate, did you raise me
from a stinking gutter
to a mountain height;
instead, from mountain height
to a stinking gutter, to fall me
again to that stinking gutter?

You should know
I’ve been
caught in a conflict;
I’m like an arecanut
with no chance for a miraculous escape,
between the blades
of an arecanut cutter;
I’ve been caught between my love
for my teacher, my life-long
friend, guiding star
my fellow students.

me versus others conflict
is doubled by my untamed
fingers in my right hand
that deny just copying
my thoughts: logical, rational thoughts,
that flow like a mad flood
that my weak finger-banks
have failed to push against,
or like an unleashed wild-buffalo
often taunts me.

my peer students have boycotted
but since I, like
Dickensian Blackpool,
cannot take any sides
have been oft, bullied
by fellow rivals
by guarding their mouths
but showering my ears,
when I am afar,
with jackals’ welcome notes,
while my star does not see
how my untamed, weak fingers
waste the flood of thoughts.

I know you’ve your own plan for me,
but give me one chance
to resist you and find my own fate.
When Sun starts plodding back home
I’ll follow him, leaving this dormitory,
and restarting my life again as a worm
in that stinking gutter”.


Copyright © August 12, 2018, 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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Doom behind Tomb


There’s a doom behind every tomb;
Anyway, we don’t see the ugly doom;
We see only the giant, upright tomb.

Let’s look at that lascivious rose plant.
She terribly suffered giving birth to,
And the new life suffered to be born;
However, we see only a pleasant plant,
And a proud rose that tosses her head.

Mother still suffers for rose is too red,
And she attracts earthy worms to bed;
We see this, but we don’t care it a bit.

She is suffering for she is badly hurt;
So is her mother who broke her heart.
Soon, her petals will rot and drop dead;
She’ll then lie while lowering her head;
Mother will still suffer with a new life.

There’s a doom behind every tomb;
Anyway, we don’t see the ugly doom;
We see only the giant, upright tomb.

Copyright © July 18, 2018, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay

Sun dies as anything else


If I may see, as you do,
Horizontal lines only,
Assuming water’s so shallow,
I’ll forget the distance to sky.

If I may not see, as you do,
Leaves grow grey
And fly straight down,
How so soon they dry
And mix with soil;

If I may not see, as you do,
The dying dews,
How Sun burns rose petals,
And how soon Sun himself
plods wearily down;

If I may see, as you do,
Horizontal lines only,
Assuming water’s so shallow,
I’ll forget the distance to sky.

Copyright © July 17, 2018, Newton Ranaweera

Where are you, my love?


On my couch this winter eve,
I’m lying alone while searching
In the far sky high above
Your image so pleasing,
Presuming it’s hiding there
Though my heart smiles
Knowing it’s a pleasant lie.

Amidst flower rains in spring
When that sweetie my loving
Did come to my hut so poor,
I felt I’d a companion so true
To pass with, the rough paths
In the wilderness of this life.

On a rough summer eve
When she sang songs so sad
Stroking my face thin so bad,
I did find here, there, above,
below and everywhere at least
One sweet song for her to sing.

Fallen dry leaves are scattered
In the compound around my hut;
Spiders’re viewing webs so thick around
my bed that mourns both day and night
and she, leaving only some memories,
has gone a long way away.

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Sweetest pain


Was seeking the sweetest pain,
the cruelest love, lust and loss,
the only aim in her hollow life?

Or was it that she wanted us to learn
flying down from sky high is as worth
as flying high, sky high, from ground?

She chose to fly straight down from high
from her cozy, velvet floor in the tenth floor
seeking the bitterest warmth from a shoe-flower.

She danced, like a moth around burning flames,
around the show-flower with flames of love,
the bitterest love, which but brought her only loss.

She lost her show-flower and soon the two pretty buds,
for the law is arriving but soon departing
in this world, deep down here.

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Strangers to Love

Trees, the brook, the rock and the fields,
All that saw, smelt, felt and heard
How we, not taking any notice of them
That stared at us with their mouths open,
Having entangled our hands, eyes and ears,
Walked along this road, the village foot path,
Dreaming and humming like bees in a hive,
Are smiling at us with a mock in their eyes.

We are now walking in the same old way,
But you are lagging far behind me,
Letting me lead you like a leader of a heard.
If they wouldn’t hear me, I would cry,
“Come, let us entangle our hands and eyes;
Let them laugh if they want at our grey hairs,
Grey eyes, wrinkled faces, and our slow walk,
But they may feel that our love is not so old.”

Image source: Pixabay