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

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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

Dad is mad

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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

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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

He looked stupid!

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He met his teacher,
A learned, erudite one
And told his aching problem,

“I have a mobility problem:
I cannot tame my fingers;
So slow they move
And when I drive them fast,
Clumsy my writing looks”.

He looked down at him.
“What? Are you stupid?”
The question was well written
In his bright, erudite eyes.

“It’s not a cognitive one;
It’s a mechanical defect,”
He couldn’t explain to him

For he felt so sorry;
He looked already stupid.

Copyright © Jan. 9, 2019, Newton Ranaweera
Image: by Mahesh Ranaweera

I felt dead!

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Did you feel dead,
Sopaka, my twin brother
When tightly you’re tied
To a rotten dead body?

Devil of night approached
With devilish night figures
Sniffing for rotten flesh
And for living warm blood.

I know, you saw, as I did
Opposites of humanity
When He broke your bonds
And you felt forever safe.

Copyright © Jan. 5, 2019, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay

Sea, are you she?

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Sea, are you he or she?
Some say ‘she’;
others say ‘he’.
Tell me
how you become
both he and she!

For them you were he,
a ‘rival’ or a ‘contestant’.
He drowned her child
to appease Poseidon,
the god of sea,
who let them go
and send a city on fire
and then played with him,
and drowned him
in vast wilderness.

But for him, you’re she,
A giver – a benefactress;
you don’t doesn’t mean
you don’t’, but you can’t
as she, who only doesn’t’
since she can’t
when Moon smiles full.

Hence, for me, as for him,
you’re she, but not he.

Copyright © Jan. 4, 2019, Newton Ranaweera

Inspiration from Greek legends and Ernest Hemingway’s The Old Man and the Sea.
Image source: Pixabay

Blow ‘sigh-tempests’

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Your ‘sigh-tempests’ and ‘tear-floods’
Are precious treasures in this desert,
Where dinosaurs in human forms
Devour trees, the earth’s treasures.

They badly bleed but men don’t see,
Or how down their tears slowly flow;
They only see the coaxing dollar-bills,
The falling, floating, handsome bills.

Cry, my son, shed more ‘tear-floods’;
Sigh, so high and blow ‘sigh-tempests’
Till wild they grow and spread wide,
And melt the monsters’ cold hearts.

Copyright © Dec. 27, 2018, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay

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