A little angel who sings beneath an old bachelor's little sick heart
Thank you my dear little angel
Sing little louder please
As my hearing is little weak
Like the fragile little heart.
I remember once
I too sang my sad song
With my little companion viola,
Low pitch in solitary parks.
But angels were not seen
Those days.
Yes, my lost youth full of songs
But nobody knows
And only the withered flowers
Just smiled with a teardrop
In their innocent eyes
But I was little scared of unnecessary taboos
And left behind!
* I humbly dedicate this poem to my silent poet friend Dave Tanguay who resides in Florida!
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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The Brave Soldier
Hey! My handsome soldier
Your crystallized eyes destined
to be a bachelor in your entire life?
These eyes can mesmerize
Thousands of innocent lass in the world
Your young courage
Forced you to an unnecessary war.
You fought for others
With your colleagues.
These well to do hypocrites enjoy
With their off spring
And still we vote for them.
Do not worry my dear
The experience you gained
Is the preliminary qualification for the battle of Life?
To my unseen friend Dave.Tanguay
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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A tender heart
While his boss is double counting the collection,
This rare waiter refuses the ten dollar bill tip for servings
And he requests only very little from the Millionaire.
*I dedicate this tiny scribbling to one of my intimate friends in the site
Dave.Tanguay, these days only I hear your silent song but it has something of the mysterious life it seems?
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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An Old High School Song
we used to sing:
'it seems we stood and talked like this before, the smile you were smiling
you were smiling there
but i can't remember where or when
some things that happen for the first time
seems to be happening again........'
sing it again, sing it again for me, i know you remember the song
from your heart where ever you are
many, many years ago, inside that old spanish church
we sang that song, we were not that far away,
i was the tenor then, and you were the alto
and our music teacher was so elated that
he closed his eyes, walked a little distance and listened so well
and he said we are singing like angels tha t his heart melted
on that warmest day
look at us now, tell me if you want to go back, so we will sing again
that same old song
the music teacher is still alive and he perhaps he wants to listen again
and be back on that glorious moment
of our youth
his apex too
tell me if you want to go back,
we will put on the same costumes of innocence
and sing the songs with all our open hearts
oh, how i wish to be inside that church again and be with you
alas!
you are too far away like the most distant star that i want to see even on
a stormy night
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Sing Softly the Songs of Your Angel
Sing softly the songs of Your angel
Let Your angel let you sleep
For Your angel, in her wisdom
has begun her angel’s song.
Sing softly song’s of Your angel.
It holds the angel’s power
It lets the angel let You laugh
It lets the angel make You cry
Sing softly songs of Your angel
In your angel You must trust.
Your angel only cares for You.
Your angel won’t let anyone hurt You.
WHEN YOU ARE LONELY
JUST CLOSE YOUR EYES.
SING SOFTLY SONGS OF YOUR ANGEL
YOUR ANGEL IS WITH YOU
Sing softly the songs of Your angel
Let Your angel let You sleep
For Your angel, in her wisdom
has begun her angel’s song.
poem by Timothy Venard
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Suchitra Mitra
Just as a poet doesn’t have to write
Many poems to win your heart.
One good poem is wholesome
Enough to stir your heart’s strings.
Similarly, a singer doesn’t have to
Sing scores of songs to touch you
Deep down.
Just one heart-felt song is good enough
To etch your memories…for a lifetime.
I heard her, when I was barely in my teens,
I remembered her all through these years…
Today, when she died, I felt as if a part of me
Has gone forever, with her.
That one song, she sang, she sang it so beautifully,
None else could have crooned it so gracefully….
The song was Krishnokoli.
The singer is Suchitra Mitra.
Now she’s no more, yet I remember her,
Thank her, feel grateful to her, for that
One song she sang so wonderfully….
It has remained a part of me, and will
Remain with me, like a timeless beauty.
poem by Aparna Chatterjee
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An Unorthodox bird soars in the gloomy fundamental sky
My intimate friend flies so high
And I watch,
Sitting on my rickety bench.
The thuggery henchmen of the prominent gangster in the World
Laid a net and my bird friend was caught.
Oh! What's all these unnecessary pinching
And the puzzling Worksheet?
Who does the filling in the blanks
As my poor friend never been to a school.
Questionnaire on the settee table and they all seated on the sofa.
Full name, Nick name, Father's & Mother's name and their ancestors, Age and date of birth; is it legitimate? , Have you been to any radical countries within last five years? , Pedigree and the Religion et cetera, Are you a member to any society those who boasts of freedom of expression?
'Hey! This is a forged Passport and it's already expired and the photo not shows a bird and it's a stray dog.'
At last they found underneath her tattered wings
Oh! This poor gangrene poet's scribbling.
' Learn my friend, When you're in Rome do as a Roman do
But please do not hit below the belt,
When the gossamer life smiles with you; smile with her
But when she cries do not cry and please leave her aside
Sing a song louder from your heart as a Mockingbird.'
*I dedicate this poem to Henry Valentine Miller for his semi-autobiographical novel 'Tropic of Capricorn'.
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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The Making Of Viola
I.
THE FATHER OF HEAVEN.
Spin, daughter Mary, spin,
Twirl your wheel with silver din;
Spin, daughter Mary, spin,
Spin a tress for Viola.
ANGELS.
Spin, Queen Mary, a
Brown tress for Viola!
II.
THE FATHER OF HEAVEN.
Weave, hands angelical,
Weave a woof of flesh to pall -
Weave, hands angelical -
Flesh to pall our Viola.
ANGELS.
Weave, singing brothers, a
Velvet flesh for Viola!
III.
THE FATHER OF HEAVEN.
Scoop, young Jesus, for her eyes,
Wood-browned pools of Paradise -
Young Jesus, for the eyes,
For the eyes of Viola.
ANGELS.
Tint, Prince Jesus, a
Dusked eye for Viola!
IV.
THE FATHER OF HEAVEN.
Cast a star therein to drown,
Like a torch in cavern brown,
Sink a burning star to drown
Whelmed in eyes of Viola.
ANGELS.
Lave, Prince Jesus, a
Star in eyes of Viola!
V.
THE FATHER OF HEAVEN.
Breathe, Lord Paraclete,
To a bubbled crystal meet -
Breathe, Lord Paraclete -
Crystal soul for Viola.
ANGELS.
Breathe, Regal Spirit, a
Flashing soul for Viola!
VI.
THE FATHER OF HEAVEN.
Child-angels, from your wings
Fall the roseal hoverings,
Child-angels, from your wings,
On the cheeks of Viola.
ANGELS.
Linger, rosy reflex, a
Quenchless stain, on Viola!
All things being accomplished, saith the Father of Heaven.
Bear her down, and bearing, sing,
Bear her down on spyless wing,
Bear her down, and bearing, sing,
With a sound of viola.
ANGELS.
Music as her name is, a
Sweet sound of Viola!
VIII.
Wheeling angels, past espial,
Danced her down with sound of viol;
Wheeling angels, past espial,
Descanting on 'Viola.'
ANGELS.
Sing, in our footing, a
Lovely lilt of 'Viola!'
IX.
Baby smiled, mother wailed,
Earthward while the sweetling sailed;
Mother smiled, baby wailed,
When to earth came Viola.
AND HER ELDERS SHALL SAY:-
So soon have we taught you a
Way to weep, poor Viola!
X.
Smile, sweet baby, smile,
For you will have weeping-while;
Native in your Heaven is smile, -
But your weeping, Viola?
Whence your smiles we know, but ah?
Whence your weeping, Viola? -
Our first gift to you is a
Gift of tears, my Viola!
poem by Francis Thompson
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Another Song to Sing (Second Draft)
When the night is long and dark and cold
And there's nobody around for you to hold,
Don't forget, whatever night may bring,
Tomorrow is another song to sing.
When the night is cold and there's nobody to hold,
When there's darkness all around you and within;
Remember there's a light at the end of every night,
And every day's another song to sing.
So try to carry on and make it through till dawn,
And listen for another song to sing.
When the clouds hang heavy and so grey
That you can't bear to face another day,
Just remember that, in spite of everything,
Every day's another song to sing.
When everything seems grey and you can't face the day,
When you just wish the world would go away;
Remember there's a spring, once winter's had its fling,
And every day's another song to sing.
When winter turns to spring, those sunny days will bring
Another brand new song for you to sing.
When your heart's been beaten black and blue
And it seems your dreams are never coming true,
Try and find something to keep believin' in,
And listen for another song to sing.
When your heart is bruised and there's nothing left to lose,
And life seems like a game you'll never win;
Remember there's a friend waiting just around the bend
With another song for you to sing.
Remember you've a friend with a song that's newly penned
Especially for you and me to sing.
A trip to farthest Farmhouse
My little happy-go-lucky cart
Rolls towards the fields.
And I hear the faraway sound of breaking soil
With the harrow.
Sorry, I do not have any qualifications to be a farmer
But I have a hatchet and my broken-stringed lute.
Hope a farm lassie loves music
And I can sing a song to her lonely heart.
Humbly I dedicate this poem to the *Irish poet Mat Mooney.
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Song of the Narrow Road
His melancholy song began exceeding its limits.
In those days he used to sing the same old song:
'Why these ears, hey! If they do not hear? '
Old man is crying for help.
It's useless if they are annoying?
Only this shadowless precarious man who accompanies him
Until his last breath.
Oh! This melancholy song exceeds its limits.
I dedicate this poem to Sandra & Dave in gratitude.
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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The fading tattered figure of my far away old friend
Dearest friend Nimal,
I too feel the cool breeze of Christmas through the broken windows in an isolated hospital here.The sickness wasn't diagnosed yet; but I am sick once again.I dreamed a Santa Claus that resembles you my dear, but in reality, I understand the distance between us.Please try to respond to this letter soon at least in few lines as my days are numbered it seems.I enclosed here a poem that I am sure you grab as a keepsake.
Thanks & best regards
sincerely,
a friend in tears
Postscript
[ This is a Chinese old poem written by an unknown poet translated into English by Arthur Waley]
A man went to war when he was fifteen years of age.When he returned home he was eighty.On the way he met a man from his village and asked him where his house was and who was at home.He showed him the house a deserted place all covered with trees and bushes.
Rabbits had run in at the dog hole
And pheasants flew down from the beams of the roof.
In the courtyard was growing some wild grain; And by the wells some wild mellows.
Plucked the mellows and made soup.
But there is no one to eat them with.
While tears fell and wetted my clothes.
*A report to my silent friend Dave Tanguay
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Rose poem for was it Fran
The rose
you may colour it yourself
sang for many days
about God
for those who would listen
then fading and dying
or so it might appear
sang to a passing poet
who found a place for it
and the rose spent the winter
blooming in his poem
while the poet sang
about God
until the next year came around
when the rose
took up the song again
while the poem faded a little
but did not die
[*who didn't like the colour of the rose in the other poem]
poem by Michael Shepherd
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July comes with her new fancy dress
Dear,
You just born today
And remain only thirty one days
Am I correct?
Of course it's Canada day
And on the fourth
You bring us Independence
Is it true?
Thank you very much July
But it's very sad to hear
As you give us the Independence
And leave so soon.
Never mind, we keep a slight hope
Because you come again in the next year
With a different dress.
How good!
If the life too beautiful
Like a Calendar?
* To my poet friend and political activist Dave.Tanguay
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Song of Warriors and Saints
Sing me a song
That could lull me to sleep
And make me dream
Of my dream before I weep...
For in my sleep
I may see again
Visions I cannot remember
At dawn when I was awake.
And when my skin is seared
By the scorching heat
Of day, my sweet dreams
And the song can heal the pain.
Sing to me the song
Of a courageous warrior
In the field of battle
That leads to honor and the grave...
But in death, the warrior sees
The struggle to fight
For freedom and equality
Is his poem of elegy...
And in his wake,
The living sing a new song
And to his funeral they march
With a jaunty heart!
Sing to me the song
Of Solomon or Socrates -
The right way - or the road
To perdition and to shame!
Or the songs of angels
That lift my ailing spirit-
For the good and the truth,
In my heart, I always seek...
And with a melodious cry
My world is free of lies
And I live the life
I longed for before I die...
For the song in my dream
Is the song of all songs-
The song of warriors and saints!
poem by Jane Quijano
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Angel On My Shoulder
There's an angel on my shoulder,
asking me whats wrong?
and as i speak the words to her
she starts to sing a song
This song she sings is powerfull
yet its the saddest song you'll hear.
She sings a song of pain and love,
even the angel has a tear.
She sang of how she found true love,
and how she let it go.
she sang of how she pushed aside
the only love she'd know
she sang of how she pushed him away
to find another love thats true
she sang of how she looked at him
as he spoke the words 'thats you'
She never faulted in her words
as she sang and as she cried
for as she sang she told me
of how her true love died
She said he died of a broken heart
that only she could mend
her true love died because of her
his true love and friend
as the angel sang her final words
she looked at me and said
Kolee this is not my song
but your true loves instead
There's an angel on my shoulder
asking me whats wrong
asking me to love you,
and to never hear your song.
poem by Angel of Darkness
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Dulcis Memoria
Long, long ago I heard a little song,
(Ah, was it long ago, or yesterday?)
So lowly, slowly wound the tune along,
That far into my heart it found the way:
A melody consoling and endearing;
And still, in silent hours, I'm often hearing
The small, sweet song that does not die away.
Long, long ago I saw a little flower,--
(Ah, was it long ago, or yesterday?)
So fair of face and fragrant for an hour,
That something dear to me it seemed to say:
A thought of joy that blossomed into being
Without a word; and now I'm often seeing
The friendly flower that does not fade away.
Long, long ago we had a little child,--
(Ah, was it long ago, or yesterday?)
Into his mother's eyes and mine he smiled
Unconscious love; warm in our arms he lay.
An angel called! Dear heart, we could not hold him;
Yet secretly your arms and mine infold him--
Our little child who does not go away.
Long, long ago? Ah, memory, make it clear--
(It was not long ago, but yesterday,)
So little and so helpless and so dear
Let not the song be lost, the flower decay!
His voice, his waking eyes, his gentle sleeping:
The smallest things are safest in thy keeping.
Sweet memory, keep our child with us always.
poem by Henry Van Dyke
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Double-decker
Thank you so much for the Starline Sightseeing Double-decker,
Beloved, myself, in-laws and their family from Boston
All of us seen the spectacular beauty around Hollywood.
From the Chinese Theatre at Starline Terminal to Hollywood Bowl Amphitheatre, really a long journey.
She got into the bus at Sunset Boulevard if I am not mistaken.
She seated close to me and smiled like an old familiar friend.
I said; 'I have seen you somewhere.'
'Certainly in silent movies in bygone era.' She replied shyly.
'Sorry, I have forgotten your good name please.'
'Me too.' She smiled again.
I looked at my wife and her eyes watch the infinity it seems.
'Honey I am no more as they aborted my foetus.'
She squeezed my hand while getting down at 'Hollywood forever Cemetery.'
* I humbly dedicate this poem to Survivors of the Abortion Holocaust.
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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One Time At Band Camp
I’ll always remember the day
I was writing in my notebook
Alone in the woods by our bunks
I was already thinking of you
Contemplating ways to be near you
Searching for an excuse to talk to you
I heard I twig snap behind me and looked
You laughed and said you were trying not to be conspicuous
I was still so nervous around you but I laughed and smiled at you
Just because I was nervous didn’t mean I couldn’t flirt
You had your guitar case in your hand and sat on the bench across from me
I laid on my stomach, facing you and I watched as you tuned
After a day of marching the slight breeze was welcomed
And the rustling of the leaves around us added to the moment
With your guitar tuned and my full attention you began to play
I was captivated by your voice and amazed by your playing ability
You sang of heart break
You sang of hope
You sang of lost love
You sang of days long since passed
You sang songs that meant a lot to you
You sang songs that you wrote
You captured my heart; even before that day
From that day forth we continued our odd status
So much more than friends
But never quite lovers
Now you are with someone who can make you happy
As am I
But I will always cherish those moments we shared
One time at band camp
poem by Brittney Wilhoit
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In Early Spring
O Spring, I know thee! Seek for sweet surprise
In the young children's eyes.
But I have learnt the years, and know the yet
Leaf-folded violet.
Mine ear, awake to silence, can foretell
The cuckoo's fitful bell.
I wander in a gray time that encloses
June and the wild hedge-roses.
A year's procession of the flowers doth pass
My feet, along the grass.
And all you sweet birds silent yet, I know
The notes that stir you so,
Your songs yet half devised in the dim dear
Beginnings of the year.
In these young days you meditate your part;
I have it all by heart.
I know the secrets of the seeds of flowers
Hidden and warm with showers,
And how, in kindling Spring, the cuckoo shall
Alter his interval.
But not a flower or song I ponder is
My own, but memory's.
I shall be silent in those days desired
Before a world inspired.
O dear brown birds, compose your old song-phrases,
Earth, thy familiar daisies.
The poet mused upon the dusky height,
Between two stars towards night,
His purpose in his heart. I watched, a space,
The meaning of his face:
There was the secret, fled from earth and skies,
Hid in his gray young eyes.
My heart and all the Summer wait his choice,
And wonder for his voice.
Who shall foretell his songs, and who aspire
But to divine his lyre?
Sweet earth, we know thy dimmest mysteries,
But he is lord of his.
poem by Alice Meynell
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A Bride from an Orphanage
An innocent virgin from a hidden haunted house
Who comes out to the new civilized world?
The Bridegroom is unknown from the lower depths?
We all wish them a happy wedded life forever
And bring a dozen of polite offspring to this lopsided cruel world?
* I humbly dedicate this poem to the prominent Sri Lankan singer Maestro Pandith Amaradeva and the lyrics of this great song by the celebrated poet Mahagama Sekara............
' The river flows from the past
And the beauty of the dream world
I see in your eyes
my beloved.'
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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