The Tenants

The Tenants, Poem

Let’s say.

Let’s say high,
kneeling down,
weeping, lamenting,
while waving
milk-white flags,
the emblem of peace,
praying,

“Give us,
just one chance more
to learn and live”.

Let’s say high,
pray and pledge,
palm on our lungs,
kneeling down.

Yeah, let’s say
high and loud,

“Allow us to live
as tenants, at least”.

 

Newton Ranaweera, March 29, 2020.
Image source: Pixabay

A single wish!

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In a police cell I live today
with fellow criminals
who may know not, as I do,
why we’ve been locked in.

Zoom in tales so horrible
from lonely, dark rooms,
maybe hellish than this cell
that we freely move around.

I see one’s feeble face
illumined with a single hope,
with a dire desire to die,
holding a loved one’s hand,

and with a faint, farewell look.

Copyright © March 28, 2020, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay

Brawly battle

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Sure, I saw that brawly battle
between a demon and our brain
not truly in the real ground
yet in my devout mind.

Snarled in roaring
black winged, dreary demon
with blood dripping claws,
through a shower of arrows.

Down fell all five weapons
like cotton on demon’s wings,
but boldly fought our brainy lion
with wisdom, his wild weapon.

Fell on his knee dreary demon
like a tamed tigress purring
and promising evils to abandon
and to guard people all around.

Thus, wisdom when weds
loving kindness
shields you, me and all, from
blood-hounding wild demons.

Inspiration from Ven. Maharagrama Ananda’s poem, “Weapon Within” (a poetic interpretation of Panchayudha Jataka tale)

Copyright © December 15, 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

Run, Chicken-Little, Run!

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Ha, ha hare, the world comes down,
Crumbling, tumbling, hurdling down;
Run swift runner, we will come behind
Saying, “Come world is crumbling down”.

Tale telling is an art of rousing flames
With oral, aural, visual, dramatic means,
And with no sense, no intent, people run
Saying, “Come world is tumbling down.

We have no sages to see why we run,
Run in waves of dying and rising runs;
Running not knowing why we madly run
Saying, “Come world is hurdling down.

Rumors run; faster and wildly they run
Than the world comes crumbling down;
With all that come behind we may run
Until we find a sage to stop this mad run.

 

Copyright © September 27, 2019, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay

Love is above dust

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O, brother, immature,
don’t sling dust and mud,
for you can never pick
those flowers, sky-bound,
by slinging mud and dust.

They stand above mud,
and dust will fling down
and dirt your own face.

They are true lovers,
whose hearts, flooded with love,
wash the dirt of their feet.
Pick those flowers with a stick
and place them at their feet.

But never sling mud
for dust will fling back
and dirt your own face.

Flowers kept at an altar
spread pleasant fragrance,
but bees that roam around,
never rock them
seeking dark honey.

So, never sling mud
for dust will fling back
and dirt your own face.

Image source: Pixabay

Continue reading

Poetry’s treasure!

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Poetry they say is only a replica: a copy
Three times far from ‘truth,’ but I see
Not one, but haunting truths so many.

Many forever munch the taste of truth,
The bitter truth of suffering and loss, and
A few dull men swallow all the pleasures,
For they have heaps of plundered treasure.

A man, who lived not in a faraway land,
Pledged to drive poets from the school land,
For the men drunk with the wine of rhymes
Rioted to topple the house of his idling band.

Now I know why rhyming is such a crime.
When men are drunk with soothing rhymes,
They know where to trace the hiding hounds.

 

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

Paraphrasing

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The idea I know is your own;
She’s your soul, and she’s your own,
But she dwells now in a different hall
Wearing willfully a different form.

Mind! you still own your dear soul;
Place, year of birth and your name
Visibly will hail you in the hall
My words and structure shall form.

If I feel too ghostly is your soul,
She should sit outside of my hall
With two guards on either of her side,
So passers-by know she’s your soul.

Copyright © June 22, 2019, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay

Straight lines

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They’ve gorgeous wings
All but trimmed;
So, they fly straight down
From top to bottom.

They are trained to fly
From top to bottom,
and, beauty they do see
Only in straight lines
From top to bottom.

See how drones often fly,
Sideways, freely they fly;
Round and round they fly;
From top to bottom
Or back to top they fly.

So, never trim my wings
For I can’ fly steep down;
Round and round I’ll fly,
Or as freely as drones fly.

Copyright © Jan. 22, 2019, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay