Starry crown

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Feast galloped into a hole
And king held just its tail
But his tummy did tell
a tale his tongue didn’t tell.

I’ve read an anti-heroic tale:
A jackal a king cat fooled
And aptly proved him a fool
Witless, tasteless, and old.

Voices hissed in her ears
To mourn, to fight for rights
Or free this bloodless tree
And flee from deceit and lie.

“I’ll wear,” lastly he did swear,
“Atop, thee, my starry crown
And sit beside thee benumbed
Adoring thy rosy, fairy feet”.

Copyright © April 23, 2020, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay

Squirrel Mom

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With her wet tail to the shore she runs
To drain sea and save her drowned son;
I see a mother run with her dead son
Seeking mustard seeds from divine men.

With pouring tears back to sea, she runs
To drain sea and save her drowned son;
Mom into her home runs through flames
To avenge red flames that burn her sons.

She runs – to and from sea – she runs
To drain sea and save her drowned son;
A mother cradle on her breasts her twins,
Frightening her restless eyes with pins.

 
Copyright © January 4, 2020, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay

Love, Lust & Dust

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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 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 © January 1, 2020, Newton Ranaweera
Cover Design by Sachin Ranaweera

Worn out Cloaks?

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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

Note of Thanks

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Note of Thanks

Tell me
from whom I ought
to begin
to thank all that
that helped to bloom this little
flower of verses
and to share its fragrance of love – leading
to dust through lust, the climax
of all our wanton desires –
with you?
I’ll begin with you, Ven. Ananda,
with folded hands against my forehead,
a
salute of gratitude,
for poetry being my only treasure
and I have no other means to thank you,
and thank you, Shafna and my WordPress fellow bloggers,
for your kind
contribution to bloom this flower.
Now my sons: thank you, Mahesh,
for
the cover design and
sponsorship and you,
Sachith & Sachin,
for personalizing my gross concepts
with concrete images, and
finally, take this garland of love
Prema (mother of my sons) for igniting my
creativity with your love.
Note of Thanks for my second poetry collection: Love, Lust & Dust

 
Copyright © October 9, 2019, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay

You’re their mother

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Father though I’m, who set their bread,
Their mother you’re; you care them all.

When night and day harder you work
While giving that love, I used to own,
To the children of mine, love fills in my heart
Greater than the day I met you first
And gets me closer and closer to your heart.

When you sit beside and kiss my head,
Fragrance of yours that’s often smelt
On my infant son’s face, makes me a devotee
Of the temple of yours, and then I feel
Not you as my lover, but a great, great mother.

Translation to Maestro Amaradeva’s ‘Though I’m their father’  (I published this , first, on November 11, 2016. I thought of publishing it again with new edits.)

Copyright © August 6, 2019, Newton Ranaweera
Image Source: Pixabay

Small Love?

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Does my love, this deep love,
My love of gratitude to this land,
The land that bore me, look sooo small?

Should I throw my love, this deep love,
Onto that space, empty and boundless,
And say so high with arms wide open,
“Fly high, and you’ll feel so cool my love;

Come, with all your men, rape this land,
Rape her, for she bore glorious sons;
Bulldoze all her ancestral roots, and
My boundless love shall keep me calm”.

You live now in, and love her if you can,
But you prove you don’t love this land;
You rape and bulldoze her honour and all
And say all around my love is sooo small.

 

Copyright © August 3, 2019, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay

When your history is a desert,

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Can you love a history;
Love those trees and its animals
When your history is a desert?

When your history is a long stretch of sand,
Nothing but burning, red, hot sand,
Rolling, circling cloud of sand;
I know, as you know, you can love sand.

How can you love the hell of these trees;
Rolling, crawling, sweeping creepers,
Sky-wedded stupas, palaces on rocks,
Acres of tanks or women with bare breasts

When your history is a long stretch of sand,
Nothing but burning, red, hot sand,
Rolling, circling cloud of sand?

 

Copyright © July 29, 2019, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay

Beauty!

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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

Seeking love in lust

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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

Continue reading

Too late, darling!

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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

English is my Muse

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My Muse you are; you I truly adore,
But I love you not, for I feel you not,
I feel only for her, for only her I love,
She’s my love; you’re just my Muse.

Sure, she’s poor, yet she’s a beauty,
A delicate flower brooks often wear,
Passers-by fear for her beauty is rare,
So she’s my love; you’re just my Muse.

A beauty in Baikal slopes I dropped;
A primrose next-door, sadly I missed,
For promises I had tempted me a lot,
Yet she’s my love; you’re just my Muse.

Though a Trojan horse you really are,
I’m faithful to you, as was Paris to her,
Ships are ready to be sailed for you,
Yet she’s my love; you’re just my Muse.

Copyright © Sept. 19, 2018, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay

Love stumbled him down

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It’s tragic when,
From mountain height,
Pride stumbles men down,
Anger stumbles them down,
Lust stumbles men down,
Though stars they are bright,
From mountain height
Into gutters so rotten.

How tragic should
It be when love,
Love stumbles men down,
Love stumbles them down,
From mountain height
To stinking gutters?

From mountain height
Love stumbled one down,
Love stumbled him down,
A star though he was so bright,
Into a gutter deep down
Since a princess he found,
A princess worm so bright
In that gutter deep down.

Copyright © September 5, 2018, Newton Ranaweera
(Isurumuniya Lovers, Sri Lanka) Credit of image to the rightful owner