"sri" poems
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Dec 21, 2019
Dec 21, 2019 at 11:08 AM UTC
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.
Jul 14, 2010
Jul 14, 2010 at 1:40 AM UTC
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.
Dec 28, 2013
Dec 28, 2013 at 9:50 AM UTC
.*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.
Aug 25, 2018
Aug 25, 2018 at 6:01 PM UTC
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.
Sep 2, 2018
Sep 2, 2018 at 8:32 PM UTC
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!
Dec 14, 2013
Dec 14, 2013 at 11:51 AM UTC
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
Aug 6, 2014
Aug 6, 2014 at 12:43 AM UTC
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.
Nov 2, 2014
Nov 2, 2014 at 3:08 AM UTC
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.
Dec 27, 2012
Dec 27, 2012 at 3:46 AM UTC
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
Mar 3, 2012
Mar 3, 2012 at 6:26 PM UTC
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
Sep 21, 2019
Sep 21, 2019 at 9:41 PM UTC
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.
Jan 5, 2021
Jan 5, 2021 at 9:17 PM UTC
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!
Jun 14, 2016
Jun 14, 2016 at 11:01 PM UTC
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
Mar 17, 2014
Mar 17, 2014 at 12:52 AM UTC
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
Mar 16, 2016
Mar 16, 2016 at 8:14 AM UTC
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)
Aug 29, 2016
Aug 29, 2016 at 5:21 PM UTC
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?
Oct 31, 2012
Oct 31, 2012 at 2:34 AM UTC
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.
Feb 21, 2015
Feb 21, 2015 at 10:16 AM UTC
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.
Oct 30, 2013
Oct 30, 2013 at 10:18 AM UTC
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
Dec 12, 2013
Dec 12, 2013 at 11:45 AM UTC
.........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
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.
Feb 17, 2011
Feb 17, 2011 at 4:22 AM UTC
.
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)
Jul 20, 2016
Jul 20, 2016 at 6:48 PM UTC
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.
Sep 26, 2014
Sep 26, 2014 at 5:14 PM UTC