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"sri" poems
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Dec 21, 2019
Dec 21, 2019 at 11:08 AM UTC
The World NEEDS HelloPoetry (Please Make A Contribution.)
Afghanistan needs hellopoetry Albania needs hellopoetry Algeria needs hellopoetry Andorra needs hellopoetry Angola needs hellopoetry Antigua and Barbuda needs hellopoetry Argentina needs hellopoetry Armenia needs hellopoetry Australia needs hellopoetry Austria needs hellopoetry Azerbaijan needs hellopoetry The Bahamas needs hellopoetry Bahrain needs hellopoetry Bangladesh needs hellopoetry Barbados needs hellopoetry Belarus needs hellopoetry Belgium needs hellopoetry Belize needs hellopoetry Benin needs hellopoetry Bhutan needs hellopoetry Bolivia needs hellopoetry Bosnia and Herzegovina needs hellopoetry Botswana needs hellopoetry Brazil needs hellopoetry Brunei needs hellopoetry Bulgaria needs hellopoetry Burkina Faso needs hellopoetry Burundi needs hellopoetry Cabo Verde needs hellopoetry Cambodia needs hellopoetry Cameroon needs hellopoetry Canada needs hellopoetry Central African Republic needs hellopoetry Chad needs hellopoetry Chile needs hellopoetry China needs hellopoetry Colombia needs hellopoetry Comoros needs hellopoetry Congo, Democratic Republic is in need of hellopoetry Congo, Republic is in need of hellopoetry   Costa Rica needs hellopoetry Côte d’Ivoire needs hellopoetry Croatia needs hellopoetry Cuba needs hellopoetry Cyprus needs hellopoetry Czech Republic needs hellopoetry Denmark needs hellopoetry   Djibouti needs hellopoetry Dominica needs hellopoetry Dominican Republic needs hellopoetry East Timor (Timor-Leste) needs hellopoetry Ecuador needs hellopoetry Egypt needs hellopoetry   El Salvador needs hellopoetry Equatorial Guinea needs hellopoetry Eritrea needs hellopoetry Estonia needs hellopoetry Eswatini needs hellopoetry Ethiopia needs hellopoetry Fiji needs hellopoetry Finland needs hellopoetry France needs hellopoetry Gabon needs hellopoetry The Gambia needs hellopoetry Georgia needs hellopoetry Germany needs hellopoetry Ghana needs hellopoetry Greece needs hellopoetry Grenada needs hellopoetry Guatemala needs hellopoetry Guinea needs 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needs hellopoetry Rwanda needs hellopoetry Saint Kitts and Nevis needs hellopoetry Saint Lucia needs hellopoetry Saint Vincent and the Grenadines needs hellopoetry Samoa needs hellopoetry San Marino needs hellopoetry Sao Tome and Principe needs hellopoetry Saudi Arabia needs hellopoetry Senegal needs hellopoetry Serbia needs hellopoetry Seychelles needs hellopoetry Sierra Leone needs hellopoetry Singapore needs hellopoetry Slovakia needs hellopoetry Slovenia needs hellopoetry Solomon Islands needs hellopoetry Somalia needs hellopoetry South Africa needs hellopoetry Spain needs hellopoetry Sri Lanka needs hellopoetry Sudan needs hellopoetry Sudan, South needs hellopoetry Suriname needs hellopoetry Sweden needs hellopoetry Switzerland needs hellopoetry Syria needs hellopoetry Taiwan needs hellopoetry Tajikistan needs hellopoetry Tanzania needs hellopoetry Thailand needs hellopoetry Togo needs hellopoetry Tonga needs hellopoetry Trinidad and Tobago needs hellopoetry Tunisia needs 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196
My country a land like no other. just like my mother i wouldn't want another so special to me in different but in every way i shall bring forth dignity not tommorow, but everyday to developement we shall strive keeping the momentum alive we shall qualify, for everything there to justify. Sri lanka, the name that spells my honour, in the life cirlcle. Just a small miracle.
0
Jul 14, 2010
Jul 14, 2010 at 1:40 AM UTC
My Country-Sri lanka
I pull open the door And hunt for food in the dim orange light. "There's nothing inside" Well, actually, There is something: Months old cream cheeses precariously stacked atop each other, Several mysterious bottles of brown sauces, Dried out leafy vegetables, But nothing This lazy *** can eat without preparing. I push close the door, Leaving my stomach rumbling and empty, But filling my mind with Dreams Three-fourths of the dull gray door is covered With colorful ceramic magnets From my dad’s corporate adventures To Batangas, Bohol, Bacolod, Davao, Hong Kong, Singapore, Malaysia, Macau, Nepal, Vietnam, Sri Lanka, China, Dubai, Pakistan, Saudi Arabia Sudan, Egypt, Ethiopia, Canada, Greece, and Australia. I examine each magnet’s contour and shine, Letting its foreign dust seep into my fingers. I dream that soon I will return all those dusts to their lands And bring home more magnets of my own.
0
Dec 28, 2013
Dec 28, 2013 at 9:50 AM UTC
Refrigerator
.*England... no wolves... oh well... the next best "spirit animal"..? Bacardi! no wait... Whyte & Mackawy?! no... **** what could it be... and believe me, Maine **** cats share a disposition of curiosity with this feral creature... this Robin Hood... what animal is it? hmm...* it was supposed to your generic, bog-standard Saturday afternoon, i was given the pleasure of cooking dinner... Xacuti chicken curry with         star anise & nutmeg from the Goa region of India and   a curry from Sri Lanka... absolutely beauties...    evidently...     all that heating of the spices on a pan and then blending them in a coffee mill... seriously spread like a forest fire... not too long... well, by the time i finished all the prep for the second curry, and was already letting it simmer... to my honest disbelief...    and this was mid afternoon, about half six -    bright as ******* daylight... who's this?          hello?         you like the smell i see? god...     what a pristine healthy example of the feral - and the most beautiful eyes... had to take a picture...     so i asked again?   does it really smell that good that it has given you the kind of cheek and audacity to risk climbing out from your safety prior to nightfall?    **** i heard before that i am a good cook...    but you, dear fox -    have paid the biggest compliment, ever.
0
Aug 25, 2018
Aug 25, 2018 at 6:01 PM UTC
Fox & Curry
oh right...     back in h'america it's called patriotism - but 'ere, over, Here - it's called nationalism... back on the old continent where and when all politics is far-right mantra and then you have your Victoria and Abdul - love the curry... but like the **** said... i'd prefer the aura and sauna of the... don't get me wrong: i love the food... but watching the Indian caste system?    of Indians employing slaves to build their upper-middle-class homes? more tanned? oh, you mean the Sri Lankan or the Bangladeshi poor ******** sorry... i thought all slave owners were white...       no?               oh...                                  alright... **** you then! because? next time you ask... i'll do what the Nazis did to the ******** i'll twist the star of David sideways... exposing the prayer mat and an opened book... and, as far as i am concerned, Islam is equivalent to the bubonic plague... now...    compare the geographic literature and spot the quarantine areas on a map that constitutes Europe. i'd rather die... than fiddle with a phallus for a taste of the Arabian quasi harem orchestra of... absolute... ********   Arabian women? fat hands... their hands are too fat...      they have to inter-breed to get rid of their         farmers' market of fudge fingers and knuckles... Arabian women expose what is the most **** aspect of a woman's body... their hands... Arab women have pork chops for fingers... and i'm not even sorry making this observation...     fatty extensions that you wish could at least succumb to the esteem of a pork head terrine. Arab women can wear their niqab, or whatever the hell they wear... one problem... FAT..... HANDS... FAT.... FINGERS... hell, hide them... these women are worth half the erection's worth in the *********** market of feminine hands... Arab women are no possessed with geisha hands... porcelain architecture... they're not tender... slight, polite... the hands of Arab women are the hands of European women... who have a legitimate sway on arable land, that is fertile with either potatoes or cabbage; well... fat fingers eager to harvest ginger (roots) - what can i say... no matter the diamond, or the European ***** the hand is still looking readily available to milk a ******* camel.
0
Sep 2, 2018
Sep 2, 2018 at 8:32 PM UTC
karma
oh right...     back in h'america it's called patriotism - but 'ere, over, Here - it's called nationalism... back on the old continent where and when all politics is far-right mantra and then you have your Victoria and Abdul - love the curry... but like the **** said... i'd prefer the aura and sauna of the... don't get me wrong: i love the food... but watching the Indian caste system?    of Indians employing slaves to build their upper-middle-class homes? more tanned? oh, you mean the Sri Lankan or the Bangladeshi poor ******** sorry... i thought all slave owners were white...       no?               oh...                                  alright... **** you then! because? next time you ask... i'll do what the Nazis did to the ******** i'll twist the star of David sideways... exposing the prayer mat and an opened book... and, as far as i am concerned, Islam is equivalent to the bubonic plague... now...    compare the geographic literature and spot the quarantine areas on a map that constitutes Europe. i'd rather die... than fiddle with a phallus for a taste of the Arabian quasi harem orchestra of... absolute... ********   Arabian women? fat hands... their hands are too fat...      they have to inter-breed to get rid of their         farmers' market of fudge fingers and knuckles... Arabian women expose what is the most **** aspect of a woman's body... their hands... Arab women have pork chops for fingers... and i'm not even sorry making this observation...     fatty extensions that you wish could at least succumb to the esteem of a pork head terrine. Arab women can wear their niqab, or whatever the hell they wear... one problem... FAT..... HANDS... FAT.... FINGERS... hell, hide them... these women are worth half the erection's worth in the *********** market of feminine hands... Arab women are no possessed with geisha hands... porcelain architecture... they're not tender... slight, polite... the hands of Arab women are the hands of European women... who have a legitimate sway on arable land, that is fertile with either potatoes or cabbage; well... fat fingers eager to harvest ginger (roots) - what can i say... no matter the diamond, or the European ***** the hand is still looking readily available to milk a ******* camel.
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92
What's wrong with the people and their religion? People are living like they have no religion. I think the whole world is addicted to the drama. Only attracts religious hatred and to things that'll bring you trauma. but if you only have love and respect for your own religion Then you only leave space for discrimination And discrimination only generates hate And when you hate then you're bound to get irate. From overseas we try to stop foreign influence that break our unity and smile for each other. But we still got racists here with no common sense. Why forget the fact we all belong to the same mother? Madness is what you demonstrate And that's exactly how anger works and operates. We all need love to get it straight! Take control of your mind and meditate and let your soul gravitate! Christian, Muslim, Buddhist, Hindu and others too. Let the religions unity and love flow! Open your eyes and awake! You all are Sri Lankans for God's sake!
0
Dec 14, 2013
Dec 14, 2013 at 11:51 AM UTC
Where is the unity?
sit with me before the dance in my little thatch hut on a mat of yellow reeds together we’ll string garlands marigolds, jasmine, roses to offer at His petite, azure feet with glossy red kisses we’ll serenade our Sri Krishna weave peacock feathers through His perfumed tresses the Yamuna river is lit up with lotus lanterns and vrindavan incense we have adorned ourselves in the finest silk saris and red *** *** dots we are ready with aching, ardent hearts to dance with the Lord come into our eager, hopeful arms darling Giridhari
0
Aug 6, 2014
Aug 6, 2014 at 12:43 AM UTC
Nandalala
As I sauntered on banks of Yamuna at night. I saw a man old, bent, with stick in dhoti white. Tardily, step by step as he came nearer to me. With joy I smiled as our own beloved Bapu was he. With tears in my eyes I asked, ' Bapu you are still alive! , those three bullets holed your chest, how did you survive? What happened to you? Where were you all these days? What you ate? How you lived? Now where do you stay? Condition of your beloved land is deteriorating day by day. Countrymen have left your path, they have gone astray. Your image, your killers are trying to malign and degrade. Berating your ways, encouraging means which you forbade. Hitler's advocates on chariots are traversing Nation's length. Day by day Fascism is gaining ground , gaining strength. Disguised as followers of Sri Ram, deeds of Ravan they do. Riots and killings are frequent, women and minors are targeted too. Terrorism nourishing on terrorism, cruelty at its worst. Targeting anyone, anywhere, time and again bombs burst. Once a land of peace, land of sufism, land of saints, now ****** Innocent souls being killed without restraint. Regionalism is being encouraged and taking roots. Unity of the Nation selfish politicians reduce and dilute. Corruption is increasing everywhere and in all spheres Even highest office of respect could not keep itself clear ' Passing his hand over my head he smiled and said ' I am just a spirit, long ago my weak body was dead. Daily with expectation I rise and daily with despair I die Daily my hope is shattered and daily with grief I sigh They may have killed me but now I live in numerous hearts They may write me down in history yet my message will dart. See this flag, colour saffron is dear to me, colour green I love. between them is colour white, colour of peace, colour of dove. Nation divided in three hurts me more than bullets three From casteism and regionlism country should be free. Communalism should not be allowed to raise its ugly head. With sword of constitution Fascism we need to behead ' Three sound disturbed the calm, beloved Bapu fell on the ground I went to help but Bapu vanished with words 'Hey Ram' echoing around Determined that this time his innocent blood will not go waste. I collected his non-violent blood in my pen like ink with haste.
0
Nov 2, 2014
Nov 2, 2014 at 3:08 AM UTC
A meeting with beloved Bapu(Gandhi)
As I sauntered on banks of Yamuna at night. I saw a man old, bent, with stick in dhoti white. Tardily, step by step as he came nearer to me. With joy I smiled as our own beloved Bapu was he. With tears in my eyes I asked, ' Bapu you are still alive! , those three bullets holed your chest, how did you survive? What happened to you? Where were you all these days? What you ate? How you lived? Now where do you stay? Condition of your beloved land is deteriorating day by day. Countrymen have left your path, they have gone astray. Your image, your killers are trying to malign and degrade. Berating your ways, encouraging means which you forbade. Hitler's advocates on chariots are traversing Nation's length. Day by day Fascism is gaining ground , gaining strength. Disguised as followers of Sri Ram, deeds of Ravan they do. Riots and killings are frequent, women and minors are targeted too. Terrorism nourishing on terrorism, cruelty at its worst. Targeting anyone, anywhere, time and again bombs burst. Once a land of peace, land of sufism, land of saints, now ****** Innocent souls being killed without restraint. Regionalism is being encouraged and taking roots. Unity of the Nation selfish politicians reduce and dilute. Corruption is increasing everywhere and in all spheres Even highest office of respect could not keep itself clear ' Passing his hand over my head he smiled and said ' I am just a spirit, long ago my weak body was dead. Daily with expectation I rise and daily with despair I die Daily my hope is shattered and daily with grief I sigh They may have killed me but now I live in numerous hearts They may write me down in history yet my message will dart. See this flag, colour saffron is dear to me, colour green I love. between them is colour white, colour of peace, colour of dove. Nation divided in three hurts me more than bullets three From casteism and regionlism country should be free. Communalism should not be allowed to raise its ugly head. With sword of constitution Fascism we need to behead ' Three sound disturbed the calm, beloved Bapu fell on the ground I went to help but Bapu vanished with words 'Hey Ram' echoing around Determined that this time his innocent blood will not go waste. I collected his non-violent blood in my pen like ink with haste.
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40
There was a young man from Ceylon                                    Another man from Sri Lanka Whose turkey went on and on                                                Penned an original tanka Each piece on his plate                                                             With himself he was pleased He dutifully ate                                                                         But his friends they just teased Till every morsel was gone                                                       And called him a silly old....wally Turkey in soup, turkey in curry,turkey in sandwiches when in a hurry,turkey for breakfast,turkey for tea, fed up with turkey soon I shall be. Ways to eat turkey different and clever, man this turkey goes on for ever. Can we have something else now please, put the rest in containers to freeze.
0
Dec 27, 2012
Dec 27, 2012 at 3:46 AM UTC
Turkey days
You partied hard when you could Gold mini skirt and heels But underneath the glamour Were guts and nerves of steel Home was fun and jolly japes A lively social whirl But work was war zones, scary scrapes For our brave reporter girl You found yourself in Libya Met the mad dog's stare He liked you, it was a feather in your cap You made your name out there Sri Lanka's where you lost an eye To shrapnel flying in the dark They thought you were a Tamil Tiger Hiding in the grass Back home someone told you off for smoking Quick came your reply Don't concern yourself, I promise you That's not how I'll die In Chechnya you made it out Escaping with your life As mortars fell you legged it Eight days over mountain snow and ice East Timor was your finest hour Fifteen hundred people protected by too few You refused to leave, they were saved That was down to you Luck ran out in Syria You feared another massacre, tried to warn the world So the shells once more homed in on you And killed our brave reporter girl
0
Mar 3, 2012
Mar 3, 2012 at 6:26 PM UTC
Marie
Enero Kinse, Dos mil Kinse Sa Villamor umindak daan-daang estudyante Paglapag ng eroplanong Sri Lankan Mga sasalubong naghiyawan Pagbukas ng pintuan ng sasakyang lumilipad Skull cap ng Santo Papa ay nilipad Pagpanaog sa hagdan ng eroplano Sinalubong ng mga sundalo at ng Pangulo Pinatugtog himno ng ating bansa Ganundin ang himno ng Vatican sa Roma Dalawang batang ulila sa kanya sumalubong Matamis na pagbati sa kanya ibinulong Sa Pope Mobile na walang panangga sumakay Ang Supremo ng Simbahan todo ngiti at kaway Kahit gabi na kayraming tao bawat daanan Hanggang sa Apostolic Nunciature na pagpapahingahan. -01/16/2015 (Dumarao) *Pope Francis Fever Collection
0
Sep 21, 2019
Sep 21, 2019 at 9:41 PM UTC
Unang Araw ni Papa Francisco sa Pilipinas
In 1972, Nixon shook hands with Mao and the world turned its back on Taiwan. In 1972, Ceylon changed its name to Sri Lanka, Okinawa returned to Japan, and Jane Fonda became Hanoi Jane. In 1972, twin Olympics were held, hungry tigers on wooden skis dashing down the white slopes of Sapporo, while the streets of Munich ran red with the blood of slain Israelis. In 1972, Elvis was still the king, Elton wasn’t quite the queen and Prince was still a quiet teen. On September 21, 1972, Philippine president Ferdinand Marcos placed my grandmother’s homeland under martial law. I was born that day while my grandmother wept.
0
Jan 5, 2021
Jan 5, 2021 at 9:17 PM UTC
1972
i'm bored of love, and bored of loving you, equating it all with cats and Carthage... whatever... something meowed something stressed a sound requiring a human artefact; yawn. a six pack never made a difference anyway, tiresome Ibiza either; so fatty ooh ooh and the required hash tag worth of Soho, so the **** fits a king-sized bed puff-up of cushions. well, let's face it, a completely detached, Sri Lanka Orff Corfu, twang twang Haiti!
0
Jun 14, 2016
Jun 14, 2016 at 11:01 PM UTC
Ibiza
Swami You have driven us all mad with Your bewitching Love we gather in confused circles spinning senselessly like gopi maidens without Sri Krishna in their arms Over the barren dust bowl hills of Parthi the wind sobs and red eyed rainclouds weep Your Holy name even rays of the sun scan the earth for a chance to fall once again upon Your tender Lotus Feet Beloved Lord roll away the gravestone from our hearts the funereal shroud that hides our immortal truth Lift the white veil and gaze into lovestruck eyes eternally wedded to You
0
Mar 17, 2014
Mar 17, 2014 at 12:52 AM UTC
Inseparable
The abysm of the unbodied Infinite; A fathomless zero occupied the world. A power of fallen boundless self awake Between the first and the last Nothingness, Recalling the tenebrous womb from which it came, Turned from the insoluble mystery of birth And the tardy process of mortality And longed to reach its end in vacant Nought. As in a dark beginning of all things, A mute featureless semblance of the Unknown Repeating for ever the unconscious act, Prolonging for ever the unseeing will, Cradled the cosmic drowse of ignorant Force Whose moved creative slumber kindles the suns And carries our lives in its somnambulist whirl. --By Sri Auro,Book I,Canto I
0
Mar 16, 2016
Mar 16, 2016 at 8:14 AM UTC
Dawn
She sings, unites beautiful melody with a naturally melodious language The end result being how I don't have a clue what she's saying chanting the mantra given to her by the bearded sage in the terry cloth bathrobe who told her "your mind is a vast field where elephants gather to play" before conferring the mantra She lets the Sanskrit words roll over her tongue a vernacular of formidable power effecting even those who don't speak a word such was I, Sanskrit illiterate, but the repetition opened the lotus flower of my heart the baby blue visage of Sri Krishna materialized from the words she was singing I took away his flute and blew a line from an old Jethro Tull song she thought it enchanting but Krishna was not happy to see his vaunted woodwind in the hands of a mere mortal he stepped up to me, polite as can be he says "if you don't give me my instrument I will be forced to cut off your hands, and then what do you think will happen to this poem?" I stood my ground, possession being two thirds of the law I blew the flute solo from Genesis' "The Musical Box" (having known it by heart) the blue boy asked several times for me to give him that almighty flute each time I told him "No! You'll have it soon enough" apparently not soon enough (For he felt a pair of garden shears slice firmly through his right hand the same set of shears severed his left he dropped his stylus and papyrus to the ground toppled over, landing smashly with a great crash within a matter of time he bled out from the stumps where his hands had once been attached Krishna picked up his flute and said "what a pity" and vanished into thin air it all ended quickly as it had begun and the sweet lady never stopped chanting her mantra in fact her back had been turned before Krishna even showed up it was a great shock to find her gentleman friend's lifeless and handless body on the ground She shed a tear I was no less miserable and sad wished above all else that I had been a real poet so I could have finished the man's life work)
0
Aug 29, 2016
Aug 29, 2016 at 5:21 PM UTC
A Convoluted Occasion Even For New Delhi
She sings, unites beautiful melody with a naturally melodious language The end result being how I don't have a clue what she's saying chanting the mantra given to her by the bearded sage in the terry cloth bathrobe who told her "your mind is a vast field where elephants gather to play" before conferring the mantra She lets the Sanskrit words roll over her tongue a vernacular of formidable power effecting even those who don't speak a word such was I, Sanskrit illiterate, but the repetition opened the lotus flower of my heart the baby blue visage of Sri Krishna materialized from the words she was singing I took away his flute and blew a line from an old Jethro Tull song she thought it enchanting but Krishna was not happy to see his vaunted woodwind in the hands of a mere mortal he stepped up to me, polite as can be he says "if you don't give me my instrument I will be forced to cut off your hands, and then what do you think will happen to this poem?" I stood my ground, possession being two thirds of the law I blew the flute solo from Genesis' "The Musical Box" (having known it by heart) the blue boy asked several times for me to give him that almighty flute each time I told him "No! You'll have it soon enough" apparently not soon enough (For he felt a pair of garden shears slice firmly through his right hand the same set of shears severed his left he dropped his stylus and papyrus to the ground toppled over, landing smashly with a great crash within a matter of time he bled out from the stumps where his hands had once been attached Krishna picked up his flute and said "what a pity" and vanished into thin air it all ended quickly as it had begun and the sweet lady never stopped chanting her mantra in fact her back had been turned before Krishna even showed up it was a great shock to find her gentleman friend's lifeless and handless body on the ground She shed a tear I was no less miserable and sad wished above all else that I had been a real poet so I could have finished the man's life work)
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41
Remember me? You once called me the apple of your eye And now you don't call at all. I can't say we both look upon the same set of stars because we don't. And I can't say we both look at the same moon when I see it from my bedroom window because I know it is daytime there. Remember when you taught me to love the ocean as we sat out together on the rocks while you caught fish and I caught ***** How we would fish until the sun sank into the water and the tides and the moon rose? Do you remember? All of those times you said "I love you" all the times you hugged me so tightly How if anyone would ask about me you'd hold me under your arm and say, "This is my daughter!" with the biggest grin on your face. Do you remember? All the stories you used to tell about the first scrambled egg or the higgledy-piggledy wangra Are they still there? Or has the heat of the Sri Lankan sun and the hum of the ceiling fan let these memories drift away? Have you forgotten me? I let you back into my heart just so you could break it again with silence. You told me how bad it felt To lose your dad. Why did you take away mine?
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Oct 31, 2012
Oct 31, 2012 at 2:34 AM UTC
Halibut and Scrambled Eggs (10.27.12)
Shine or shower, we bend forever Bend to see if the path talks to us Bend to earn a nickel with a foreign face Oh! How it bleeds, to walk on the gravel The stones are crushed to confess their stories they could be frozen tears of my colleagues and my fellow countrymen Who tramped here before! How it pains, to sleep on flour, which is not mine Lack of family affection makes us half humans It has been an infinite urge to Fly away on the wings of breeze Just to escape the scorching sun’s torturous smile We extinguish the fire of anger No fire, but the flames in the breast Endure between ambition and desire. We see light in soldering electrodes everyday But can’t see the bright eyes of our children for ages Oh how it torments, a faithful heart that’s broken To avenge the sad tale of labourers on a foreign soil For us who experience all the ravines of Life Night returns with dark chocolates We continue to lift and bend ourselves With fragrant bosoms near our feet Theme : We get to see many labourers working in the Middle East and East Asian countries like Singapore, Brunei etc. These workers, as construction labourers or as grass cutters, toil a lot on the road exposing themselves to Sun and shower. Most of them are from India, Bangladesh, Sri Lanka etc. It pains to see them working under very unfavourable conditions. This poem is an appreciation of their commitment to look after their family back home.
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Feb 21, 2015
Feb 21, 2015 at 10:16 AM UTC
Tales of Shadows
He flew to our shores on the back of a black iron bird, Immigration stamped him through on a student visa, His mother’s kiss still lingered upon the lips of memory, To Sheffield he came waving away Sri Lankan tears. Life was hard, life was sleepless, life was unrelenting, To eat his daily bread he worked long into the dread night, By day he studied English knowledge inked in books old, And by the arrival of twilight he delivered steaming dreams. Every day, every single day, by the light of day, he spoke, He spoke to his beloved mother so far away across oceans, They had a bond true and deep, a mother and her beloved son, But wings wet with evil were flapping closer and closer… On the night before the Eve of All Hallows the darkness came, As he drove through a wet night on the last shift of his job, As he went to deliver his final aromatic pizza of the evening, That’s when the demons of ignorance stabbed away his hopes. They came from an infernal zone and they sliced through him, The silent angels watched with horror stitched in their sockets, His liquid life ebbed away at the coffin wheel of his delivery car, The cold October moon wept milky light upon the warm blood. The media ravens will label him ‘this’ and ‘that’ and the ‘other’, And soon, all too soon, his name will melt into memory’s mist, His name was Thavisha Lakindu Peiris and his life sings no more, Under Halloween’s one eyed moon a soul kneels for justice.
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Oct 30, 2013
Oct 30, 2013 at 10:18 AM UTC
Halloween Pizza Delivery or “How many more times will you see the full moon rise?”
I met a girl last night Her hair a fluid lucid illusion Her motion a brisk frisk crisp I met a girl last night A girl called Sri Devi With her brush she danced My skin, her stage With her brush she swooned As my heart, to her, crooned She drew a sun, and a musical note In black and red, with heart she wrote I met a girl last night A girl called Sri Devi Shyly, she held my hand As the music grew louder, O the band She wet her brush, dipped in paint Let go of boundaries, all restraints I met a girl last night A girl called Sri Devi Her hair a fluid lucid illusion Her motion a brisk frisk crisp She drew a sun, and a musical note In red and black, with heart she wrote
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Dec 12, 2013
Dec 12, 2013 at 11:45 AM UTC
Sri Devi
.........and helped to shape your life. I got this idea from another website a few years ago and thought it would be interesting to post here as well. Name 10 books that have most inspired and helped to shape your life and if possible in a few words say why. For me they have been: 1. Autobiography Of A Yogi (In fact all books by Paramahansa Yogananda) 2. New Testament (Including The Psalms and Proverbs) 3. The Bhagavad Gita 4. The Holy Science by Sri Swami Yukteswar - the guru of Yogananda 5. The Science Of Breath by Yogi Ramacharaka 6. Discourses by Meher Baba 7. God Speaks by Meher Baba 8. Play Of Consciousness by Swami Muktananda (also Siddha Meditation by the same author) 9. The Tao Of Physics by Fridjof Capra 10. Cosmic Consciousness by Richard M. Bucke Not only did the above books inspire me but they also helped to shape my life by offering an alternative world view about a lot of things that we hardly ever hear about and namely that there is a real mystical path towards realization of the purpose and goal of one's life and the way to achieve that end. In effect I can literally say that they blew my mind and have formed a solid inspirational basis for some of the poetry and prose writings that I've posted on the internet over the last several years. There are however many other books which I have also read and studied over the years (by quite a few classical and mystical poets/writers) that come very close, but the 10 books that impressed and stand out most in my mind are those listed above. What are the 10 books in your life? ______________________
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Nov 19, 2023
Nov 19, 2023 at 9:51 PM UTC
Prose: The 10 books that have most inspired.......
.........and helped to shape your life. I got this idea from another website a few years ago and thought it would be interesting to post here as well. Name 10 books that have most inspired and helped to shape your life and if possible in a few words say why. For me they have been: 1. Autobiography Of A Yogi (In fact all books by Paramahansa Yogananda) 2. New Testament (Including The Psalms and Proverbs) 3. The Bhagavad Gita 4. The Holy Science by Sri Swami Yukteswar - the guru of Yogananda 5. The Science Of Breath by Yogi Ramacharaka 6. Discourses by Meher Baba 7. God Speaks by Meher Baba 8. Play Of Consciousness by Swami Muktananda (also Siddha Meditation by the same author) 9. The Tao Of Physics by Fridjof Capra 10. Cosmic Consciousness by Richard M. Bucke Not only did the above books inspire me but they also helped to shape my life by offering an alternative world view about a lot of things that we hardly ever hear about and namely that there is a real mystical path towards realization of the purpose and goal of one's life and the way to achieve that end. In effect I can literally say that they blew my mind and have formed a solid inspirational basis for some of the poetry and prose writings that I've posted on the internet over the last several years. There are however many other books which I have also read and studied over the years (by quite a few classical and mystical poets/writers) that come very close, but the 10 books that impressed and stand out most in my mind are those listed above. What are the 10 books in your life? ______________________
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17
Siempre estabas a punto de partir, siempre en otra parte, detrás del mar, más allá de Madrid o Sri Lanka. Te morías por volver, nos moríamos debajo de las piedras y las nubes y los Borges, en el fondo de las botellas. ¡Qué nostalgia tan cruda! Y yo que nunca terminé de encontrarte, de destilar los lejanos paraísos que alguna vez consumimos, entre besos y cigarros. Y yo, que nunca aprendí con que ojos verte, algún día, entre mañana y nunca, ya no volví.
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Feb 17, 2011
Feb 17, 2011 at 4:22 AM UTC
Al amanecer.
. My label was showing, flipping out from behind the collar of my non-U.S.A. made shirt Sri Lanka I think, but I can’t see the back of my neck from here Perhaps that is why they stare or maybe it is why they don’t? Well, that's okay, I’m new here, first time on this floor (I pushed the wrong elevator button) Fancy suits and low cut gowns, hors d'oeuvres, champagne, noses held high, some are long ones to look down or up at “Bat in the cave! Oh, did I say that out loud? Sorry lady, no I wouldn’t like any avocado" Whispers, murmurs or just low talking, there must be a hundred of them I thread myself through the crowd making my way to the podium where I speak, “Hello I am a poet and I’d like to read you something” A strong gust of wind races against my face, not air from any open window, but the breeze created by their mass exodus as they head for the outdoor terrace for a smoke or to spit on those below them Then I saw her, standing in the middle of the room all alone, staring up at me Deep brown eyes, dark glistening hair and a smile that out-beamed the overhead recessed light “I’d like to hear your poem,” she said in a euphoric voice I gazed upon her mesmerized, feeling my throat tighten, sweat appeared on my forehead as I lifted a slip of paper from my back pocket I looked it over and looked over at her…again Then, taking a deep breath muttered, “I must apologize, for it has become obvious to me there is no more beautiful poem than the one standing before me at this very time To read these words which I have penned would only pale to this I find” “Thank you, that is very sweet of you, would you like to go for a walk in the park? I’d much rather be outside than inside and maybe you can read me some of your wonderful poetry there?” “I’d love to, but what about them?” I asked motioning toward the crowd on the terrace She picked up the tray of sliced avocado, some champagne and slipped them out the door, then giggled, “Those insiders will be just fine outside for a while” As we headed down on the elevator she leaned up and kissed me and it was at that very moment, as my heart was nearly beating out on my chest I knew, (I had pushed the correct elevator button)
0
Jul 20, 2016
Jul 20, 2016 at 6:48 PM UTC
Insiders outside for a while
. My label was showing, flipping out from behind the collar of my non-U.S.A. made shirt Sri Lanka I think, but I can’t see the back of my neck from here Perhaps that is why they stare or maybe it is why they don’t? Well, that's okay, I’m new here, first time on this floor (I pushed the wrong elevator button) Fancy suits and low cut gowns, hors d'oeuvres, champagne, noses held high, some are long ones to look down or up at “Bat in the cave! Oh, did I say that out loud? Sorry lady, no I wouldn’t like any avocado" Whispers, murmurs or just low talking, there must be a hundred of them I thread myself through the crowd making my way to the podium where I speak, “Hello I am a poet and I’d like to read you something” A strong gust of wind races against my face, not air from any open window, but the breeze created by their mass exodus as they head for the outdoor terrace for a smoke or to spit on those below them Then I saw her, standing in the middle of the room all alone, staring up at me Deep brown eyes, dark glistening hair and a smile that out-beamed the overhead recessed light “I’d like to hear your poem,” she said in a euphoric voice I gazed upon her mesmerized, feeling my throat tighten, sweat appeared on my forehead as I lifted a slip of paper from my back pocket I looked it over and looked over at her…again Then, taking a deep breath muttered, “I must apologize, for it has become obvious to me there is no more beautiful poem than the one standing before me at this very time To read these words which I have penned would only pale to this I find” “Thank you, that is very sweet of you, would you like to go for a walk in the park? I’d much rather be outside than inside and maybe you can read me some of your wonderful poetry there?” “I’d love to, but what about them?” I asked motioning toward the crowd on the terrace She picked up the tray of sliced avocado, some champagne and slipped them out the door, then giggled, “Those insiders will be just fine outside for a while” As we headed down on the elevator she leaned up and kissed me and it was at that very moment, as my heart was nearly beating out on my chest I knew, (I had pushed the correct elevator button)
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56
Protector, Oh Great Protector, deliver me from all evils of the wicked. Deliver me from the snares and traps of hunters of the soul. Shower me with your protection, for if they shall prosper in their pursuits of thy spirit, bring me to your holy land. If you let me live, allow me to forgive thy prosecutors. Love and peace to all brothers and sisters, enemies and friends, all creatures of the Earth.
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Sep 26, 2014
Sep 26, 2014 at 5:14 PM UTC
SRI NARASIMHA KAVACAM