Note of Thanks

lamp-554841_960_720

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!

globe-140051_960_720
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

flower-335341_960_720

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!

book-3259352_960_720
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

composing-2391033_960_720

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

road-1034082_960_720

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

Dad is mad

night-1851685_960_720
Night is black and black is bad;
So, night is bad and black is sad.
Day is white and white is dad;
So, day is dad and white is glad.

But day’s death is night’s mirth,
And night’s death is day’s birth.
Thus, day is son and Sun is dad;
Night is mom and Moon is glad.

You wear black when you’re sad;
He wears white when he is bad;
White or black we should be glad,
And ne’er feel bad, but dad is mad.

 

Copyright © Jan. 17, 2019, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay

Elephant Rebel

elephant-1822636_960_720
No more – no more retreat,
Right to the wall, I’ve been set;
It’s time now to fight back,
To fight back with all my might.

Ceasefires – no more,
Peace talks – no more;
I don’t trust you – anymore.

Leave my ancestral land – and go;
No – I don’t’ mind – Go!
Go – no honey-dipped wines – Go!
No – leave my land – and go.

Ceasefires – no more,
Peace talks – no more;
I don’t trust you – anymore.

No more – this colonial mantra,
“The bulkier one grows,
The stupider he becomes”.
I don’t trust you – anymore.

Ceasefires – no more,
Peace talks – no more;
I don’t trust you – anymore.

No more – no more retreat,
Right to the wall, I’ve been set;
It’s time now to fight back,
To fight back with all my might.

Copyright © Jan. 15, 2019, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay