Season of Jacks!

Season of Jacks

 

This is an attempt to metaphorically celebrate the presidential election season, during which shrewd politicians exploit politically innocent majority public.

Not Me!

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This me you drew
is not me;
your me wears my face,
but your heart;
so, this me you drew
is not me.

Let me
draw me
as I see me,
for only ‘me’
may draw me
as me.

Copyright © September 4, 2019, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay

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Inquirers

modern

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

But
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
sticks.

 

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

Give me thousand eyes

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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

Fly, butterfly, fly

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Fly, butterfly, fly, but slowly fly;
Being drunk with astral dreams,
If you try, and fly high, sky high,
Wings will break, and you’ll die.

Fly, butterfly, fly, but not so high,
But low and slow, so you may know,
The stars you see are not so nigh,
yet if you try and fly high, you’ll die.

 

Copyright © Dec. 12, 2018, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay

A fancy old fool

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A fancy old fool;
that’s who you are.

Borrow ears from an ass
and hang yours on his ass;
hide eyes in your ass,
and borrow ones from an owl,
for you don’t hear,
nor you can see
what’s happening here
(in this world).

Tell them others’ tales;
shout in their ears,
and repeat you are honest,
but tell nothing but lies,
sweet, honey-dripping lies,
for that’s what they love
that’s what they want.

Be as slippery as a fish
and as cunning as a fox;
but don’t bellow like a bull
or roar loud like a lion,
for you prove
you are a fool
just an old, fancy fool.

Copyright © October 26, 2018, Newton Ranaweera
Image source: Pixabay

Entrance and Exit

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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

Dreams

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“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.

Strangers to Love

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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

Beauty

mirror image - beauty

She saw a Venus in her table mirror,
mirror that reflects images as they are,
or so close to their original form,
though a replica,
yet
she believed in what her lovers said,
the enthusiasts of her breasts
that did shield her heart often hurt,
that she is a Venus where Sun rises.
She tossed her head in pride
and her hair untamed
fell her dear Attic vase,
which broke
into pieces
and
was swept off.

Its red red rose, her darling red rose, she touched in the morning,
watered and whispered her secrets to,
the secrets of her broken heart,
flew off, broke its wings, shivered and soon lay dead.
Then she peeped into her mirror to see her disheveled hair,
wrinkled face, sunken eyes, hanging, worn out breasts, and her
bloated belly; the lies her lovers told her rang in her ears,
and she let her mouth freely pour out all that stench
she had smelt years to please those that came to her
seeking her aging body.

Image source: Pixabay

Bubble Dreams

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I was there yesterday;
I am here today.
I was with them yesterday;
I am alone here today.

We long for things,
to see who we love
and to touch what we love.

We count months,
days, minutes and seconds;
time slyly reaches
and the moment appears,
when we see
who we longed for
and touch
what we loved.

Yet,
time slips
so sudden
letting us keep
only fragrance and
fragmented memories.

Next,
time rolls faster;
things go farther and farther,
when the memories of
who we met,
what we touched
fade away,

and
turn into bubbles
that float in the air
and then blow off

keeping only a void
in the air.

 
Image source: Pixabay