A flower asks another beautiful name for her?
Poor Gardener
Why you collect
my withered petals
among the leaves
in your book of heart
that I have never seen
in the garden of love!
*A humble dedication to the poetess Sridevi I always adore her writing style!
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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The Austerity
My mobile phone rings twice!
I took and it's a familiar voice.
'Hey! I am close to your heart
And see I am behind you.'
I looked around but nobody's seen.
'May I know your good name please? '
'It's me your breath Catherine
And you're my poor Peter the Great.
I can see you wear a Red T shirt my poor Socialist
And a blue denim patches here & there my Capitalist Rasputin.
Not only that my Sweetheart
We missed our scanty breakfast
I can see you are without the underpant
And I saw it's on the washing basin
Darling we're poor lovers with borrowed smiles.'
I heard she laughed and she's kidding me
My beloved!
A humble dedication to the poetess Fay slimm in gratitude!
* 'True affluence is not needing anything.' -Gary Snyder
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Poor Withered Rose
_A Song_
Poor withered rose, she gave it me,
Half in revenge and half in glee;
Its petals not so pink by half
As are her lips when curled to laugh,
As are her cheeks when dimples gay
In merry mischief o'er them play.
_Chorus_
Forgive, forgive, it seems unkind
To cast thy petals to the wind;
But it is right, and lest I err
So scatter I all thought of her.
Poor withered rose, so like my heart,
That wilts at sorrow's cruel dart.
Who hath not felt the winter's blight
When every hope seemed warm and bright?
Who doth not know love unreturned,
E'en when the heart most wildly burned?
Poor withered rose, thou liest dead;
Too soon thy beauty's bloom hath fled.
'Tis not without a tearful ruth
I watch decay thy blushing youth;
And though thy life goes out in dole,
Thy perfume lingers in my soul.
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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Two Nations and One Religion
The gardener knows of our illicit love!
I never forget the Garden of Eden
Where the Man & Woman
Displayed the real politics of love!
This love is the one and only Religion
In simply pronounce as Humanity!
(For the poetess Sandra Dodd in gratitude!)
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Next To Collect
You could be the next to collect...
RESPECT.
You could be the next on the list...
To get it and quick.
You could be the next to collect...
RESPECT.
Tomorrow no one knows,
Just what to expect.
You may be next to collect it!
An overwhelming love received.
You may be next to collect,
A joy that never leaves.
You may be next to collect it!
A one of a kind peace...
On your mind.
You may be next to collect it!
An overwhelming love received.
You may be next to collect,
A joy that never leaves.
You may be next to collect it!
A one of a kind peace...
On your mind.
You may be next to collect,
Just accept you are blessed.
You could be the next to collect...
RESPECT.
You could be the next on the list...
To get it and quick.
You may be the next to collect it...
An abundance of happiness.
The next to collect.
The next to collect.
You may be the next to collect it...
An abundance of happiness.
The next to collect.
The next to collect.
You may be the next to collect it!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Garden
There is a fenceless garden overgrown
With buds and blossoms and all sorts of leaves;
And once, among the roses and the sheaves,
The Gardener and I were there alone.
He led me to the plot where I had thrown
The fennel of my days on wasted ground,
And in that riot of sad weeds I found
The fruitage of a life that was my own.
My life! Ah, yes, there was my life, indeed!
And there were all the lives of humankind;
And they were like a book that I could read,
Whose every leaf, miraculously signed,
Outrolled itself from Thought’s eternal seed.
Love-rooted in God’s garden of the mind.
poem by Edwin Arlington Robinson
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The charming girl was in the book of History once I met her!
Like a fine wine
Over hundred of years
Your traditional love
And its flavour
Touched my heart deeply.
The old and new
Past and present
It should be love
Other than anything.
But I am a Nomad
And travelled
From place to place.
The wearied old camel
Rests beside me and I take out
My broken-string lute for a song.
Virgin Moon shines like a coin
And the desert wind brings the memory of our old song.
'It should be love other than anything
Because we are in the city that never sleeps! '
A humble dedication to the poetess Magnolia in gratitude!
*Have a heart that never hardens, and temper that never tires, and a touch that never hurts.
-Charles Dickens
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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A Little Poem Story
A little poem telling a story about the poetess who were falling in love
A little poem smiled
She knew that the poetess was writting love words shyly
One..Two..Three.....Seven.....a lot of love words she wrote
They were beatiful, they were mysterious
A little poem felt the poetess’s emotion
The poetess was loving an awesome man deeply
A man who had filled in her absolute majority life
Like a candle in the dark., he lighted the poetess’s days
A little poem knew the poetess’s feeling
And the awesome man had to knew too
A little poem waited for that special day
One..Two..Three.....Seven...a lot of days passed
But a little poem never leafted from her place
The poetess never allowed a little poem to talked to the awesome man
The poetess leafted a little poem in her drawer
The poetess leafted her love words and nobody knew
A little poem had the blues
Love is about braveness
Love will become love when it expressed
“May be the poetess didn’t know about it”, she thought.
poem by Deasy Anggraeni
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A skew of a Skylark
I see my haughty star's profile and for your information
I am a runner-up; Run-of-the-mill in the mysterious blue sky.
My high-spirited heart-string strums a sad tune in highly-strung.
This hermit's hermetic heart is open for your kind perusal
And if if you just peep through your hideout that's greatly appreciated.
I search the unattended umpire to get his kind permission to unbolt your secret door.
* A humble dedication to the poetess Linda.Ori
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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The Wind, One Brilliant Day
The wind, one brilliant day, called
to my soul with an odor of jasmine.
'In return for the odor of my jasmine,
I'd like all the odor of your roses.'
'I have no roses; all the flowers
in my garden are dead.'
'Well then, I'll take the withered petals
and the yellow leaves and the waters of the fountain.'
the wind left. And I wept. And I said to myself:
'What have you done with the garden that was entrusted to you?'
poem by Antonio Machado
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The Sign Waver who resembles my deceased brother
He stands at a Roundabout,
A white placard of black letters
And with a strap around his neck
It exhibits an advertisement of a new pay loan Center.
The poor chap's dance is very attractive
And I approached him pussyfoot.
I called him; 'Brother, for three things I came to you,
Firstly, you resemble my deceased loving brother once the bread-winner of our poor family.
Secondly, I am very inquisitive about the loan.
Thirdly, I am jobless and seeking a position to survive.
But I cannot dance like you and I am not belong to your soil; a different planet
Where I have come from?
So my dance would be typical and I am scared even to my oblique shadow.
Just imagine dear, when somebody is in hunger what about his dance? '
* my humble dedication to the poetess Dove Allen
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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The Book Of Love
In the book of love come of age
When you lose your love, you turn the page
Hey-ho the book of love,
Life is written in your own blood
Say forever and it all sounds fine
When youre holding hands,
With the hands of time
Hey-ho the book of love
Laugh at the dead but tomorrow you cry
Chorus:
My broken hearts from a to z
Dos and donts on bended knees
Change of lovers endlessly
And this book of love is writing me
Chapter 2 you walk away
But in chapter 3 a man made me stay
Hey-ho the book of love
Why dontcha look up
All the games you played
Chorus
Theyll be sweet love in a darkness
But the book of love
Is a story of your loneliness
Finger tipped it on a holy night
And a page is ripped for a name of life
Check the back cause the datell be due
When theyll throw the book of love at you
They are broken hearts from a to z
Dos and donts on bended knees
Disappointed right to be
Celebrate a celebrity
K-i-s-s-i-n-g
Ah stupid cupid set me free
Took a look and whatll I see
This book of love is writing me
This book of love is writing me
This book of love is writing me
This book of love is writing me
song performed by by Cher
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Style
Style must not be underrated
Style is often overlooked
Style is never in the papers
I read it like an open book
Style
If you cant see the substance
Style shows how its organized
Style is looking for your money
Its in the way you paint your eyes
There is always a way
A way things are done
Ive been learning my abcs
I know what is 10, I know what is 1 in
Style is a naked look
Underneath your style
Style of a different place
Talking through your style
Even the way you hide it
Reveals the thing you hide
Your style may never cause a riot
Its still a style to have no style
There is always a way
To light up a lamp
Its been a crazy year all around
The check never came
I cant let it cramp my
Style is a world for sale
You cant buy this style
Style that you cant resist
You wont cramp my style
song performed by by Utopia
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Mole
Said he: "I'll dive deep in the Past,
And write a book of direful days
When summer skies were overcast
With smoke of humble hearths ablaze;
When War was rampant in the land,
And poor folk cowered in the night,
While ruin gaped on every hand -
of ravishing and wrath I'll write."
Ten years he toiled to write his book,
Yet he was happy all the while;
The world he willingly forsook
T live alone in hermit style.
In garden sanctuaried sweet,
Full favoured by the steadfast sun,
plunged in the Past, a life complete
He lived. . . . At last his work was done.
A worthy book that few would read
Yet all would praise - each precious page
Starred with some truth the rare would heed,
The vivid images of an age,
Then blinking, to the world again
He came a sage, remote, austere . . .
When lo! his eyes were smote with flame,
The wail of war was in his ear.
He shrank and sighed: "Oh can it be
These old iniquities prevail!
That sons of men are still unfree
And time repeats her sorry tale!"
So with a long sad gaze and last,
Seeking his secret garden nook,
He slipped again into the Past
To live - and write another book.
poem by Robert William Service
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The Odour of Withered leaves
She rests all the time in her garden
laying out a mat under a shady tree
A flask of tea stands behind and a book of poetry
that will never finish.
'Once she had been a beauty queen
now passing a solitary life; a widow and childless.
Recently she celebrated her fiftieth birthday
only with her gardner.
The silence ringing her ears and she heard a whispering of grass
and withered leaves.
a decayed leaf cries; once she had a smooth skin golden
spreading lines, thick flesh as jelly
how many dew drops remained and kissed
butterflies, bees and hornets slept
now a skeleton; good for nothing
but a photographer may seeks'
She got shocked; like a rabbit
cold as marble
finally she decided to get a divorce from her lonliness
and marry the old gardener.
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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The Width of Wind
I have seen the harvest what they have hardly reaped?
And came the ferocious wind then taken the grain away to a certain end.
The poor farmers cried aloud and nobody was heard.
Again they plow but who could fights against the invisible wind?
Dedication to my fellow poetess friend Sandra.Fowler
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Humble as a bird
I entered the garden
Like a humble bird
Looking for a song-
A song to sing
And there amid the petals
I heard an angels tread
A bee on the mantle-
Heaven fed
And there I saw the nodding cloud
Dispensing in the ray
A rainbow proud-
As any marching day
So sang my heart this poem
That entered in this joy
A garden for tomorrow,
A poem for today
poem by Mark Heathcote
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George Edmunds' Song
Autumn leaves, autumn leaves, lie strewn around he here;
Autumn leaves, autumn leaves, how sad, how cold, how drear!
How like the hopes of childhood's day,
Thick clust'ring on the bough!
How like those hopes in their decay-
How faded are they now!
Autumn leaves, autumn leaves, lie strewn around me here;
Autumn leaves, autumn leaves, how sad, how cold, how drear!
Wither'd leaves, wither'd leaves, that fly before the gale:
Withered leaves, withered leaves, ye tell a mournful tale,
Of love once true, and friends once kind,
And happy moments fled:
Dispersed by every breath of wind,
Forgotten, changed, or dead!
Autumn leaves, autumn leaves, lie strewn around me here!
Autumn leaves, autumn leaves, how sad, how cold, how drear!
poem by Charles Dickens
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The innocent lovers!
*Where do I start, she came to my life and she'll be here!
-Andy Williams
The boy with a slight mustache secretly whistles,
The theme song of *love story
And the girl like Lara in Doctor Zhivago
Who tries to show her lace work of the new pantie.
How sad this old flightless bird who sits in vain on a rickety bench
in a solitary lover's park?
humble dedication to the South African poetess Kerry O'Connor in gratitude!
[Without understanding where we have come from and where we are going, we cannot establish our own sense of identity to the fullest.]
-Aging?
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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The poet and poetess II
The poetess
The night I met you something special happened
It was like a fusion of two stars in blue
They made the shivering nature to brighten
A concealed window opened and I saw you
The poet
It was a rainy day the clouds cried so hard
Until I felt my fire sparking inside
And you dashed my sadness when you crossed onward
I waited you all my life, please be my bride.
The poetess
I felt I really met you in before time
I knew you are my love when I touched your soul
This interchange of feelings is so sublime
As aurora borealis in North Pole
The poet
I'm all lost on the way your eyes swallowed me
When they drank my love thoughts you reached my whole heart
To be your lover is all I need to be
I reached my destination, I'm safe, sweetheart
The poetess
Without words you reached my heart and swallowed me
You're the one that I want, you're hungry for love
I feel secure with you, here I need to be
With closed eyes I followed your dreams from above
The poet
Your look is so soft as petals of the rose
I touch your red lips for long awaited feast
There I want to finish our poetic prose
Inside your deep elation I beat my beast
poem by Marieta Maglas
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After working as a journalist I went to a writing program at Johns Hopkins. It was interesting because it was neither journalistic nor historical, but it emphasized writing style, and afterwards I was asked to write my first book.
quote by Iris Chang
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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