Wounded healer
Wounded child – hardly ever cried
Many years have gone – have you ever rested?
Casting a dark shadow – why do you daunt me?
Childhood friend; thought you had left . . .
Layers of life – decade over another
Haven’t they healed you – the deep cut wounds?
How could the pain make you a healer?
Invisible existence
In a fractured, fearful childhood
Voiceless tears, longed for love
Universe wept over a tenderest horizon
Wounded child you made me a healer?
A healer wounded – who heals the wounded.
– Ravi de Mel
*****************
Out from the Birmingham!
The willows gone to sleep now
where the bunnies left the burrows,
Five and twenty years’ after
the awaken sun singing the
lights…
the lights knitting the scars
of the decaying past.
Last long night too she had the
same taught,
in which the gold branch of the cruel willow
slowly swallowing her in,
when soon it fell flat down asleep,
by unimagined power still she thinks…
Sighs of hopeless…
Ah! A twist of a tale!
Thus, out through the Birmingham,
the golden curse!
– Rashel Bandara
*****************
The Void
What is the absence of “LIGHT”
“DARKNESS” you will say
What is the absence of “DARKNESS”
“LIGHT” you will say
But, what is the absence of
“LIGHT” and “DARKNESS” ?
No, it is not “NOTHING”
I experienced “IT” in my meditation
I hope you never will
It is the most frightening experience
– Dr . Asoka Thenuwara
*****************
Humanitarian Aid
With no dinner last night her stomach was rumbling
How could she appease her hunger was her thought,
Feeling faint and dizzy she stood in the queue patiently
That was two meters long
To receive a parcel of humanitarian aid.
With no finances after her husband’s demise,
Now was left in the lurch to fend for herself,
Lo! and behold her hopes were dashed,
Rotten potatoes, weevils in the flour and rice
Outdated cans of fish and milk caught her eye.
– Yasmin Jaldin
*****************
The smell of a book
In the distance over the hills
I can see the rising sun
The Crickets start chirping
breaking the silence of the night
I can hear the night birds singing
in the wee hours of the morning
Just before dawn I faintly hear
twittering and chirps of wild birds
When the land stood greeting the morning
I can smell the morning dewy
But I know for sure
that the smell of a freshly printed book
is the best smell in the world.
– Rodney Jayasuriya
If you have verses that resonate with emotions, stories that dance with metaphors, or musings that paint vivid images with words, we would love to feature your work in Poetry Corner. Send your submissions to [email protected], and let your words find a home in this literary corner.
