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Poppy is just not a flower

It is a symbol
A memorial
A tribute
To the fearless sons of our soil
Who laid down their lives
For the Motherland and you

It is also a ray of hope
A bright light
In the darkness of those survived
For the ones whose futures are marked

Give back to those gave
To the wounded, the disabled and the desperate
Give of your time and money
They need you now as we needed them
To protect us.

Give this remembrance week real meaning
Give until you have no more to give
To the forgotten heroes of our time
Purchase a wreath in expression of remembrance
Wear a poppy with pride

With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children
Sri Lanka mourns of her dead
Flesh of her flesh they were spirit of her spirit
Fallen in the cause of war
They went with song to battle
They were young
Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted

They fell with their faces to the foe

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them
Lest we forget

With appreciation to Laurence Binyon

- The General Ranjan Wijeratne Foundation

All I need

Just a smile from you
Expands my heart with joy.
Endless thoughts I have
Verify my love for you
Above and over the sky
Narrows my love for thee.
If you're genuine and true
Express your love for me.

All I need is love
Now and forever from you.
No one can make us part
Especially when you're mine

- S. Raymond SILVA.

Two dead soldiers

A sculpture by Erzabet Schaar

Two dead soldiers in bronze
Lying flat on a battlefield, anywhere.

Dismembered trunks and heads,
Severed membranes, nerves,
Are tangled threads wrapped in blood,
freezing in ice or clotted with mud.

They have no eyes,
They have no tongues,
Sightless and blind and speechless.

Shreds of rags
flutter in the miserable wind
to cover corpses.

The cloth, the flesh, the skin
are of one colour and one texture.

Outflung and still the cracked bone
of the broken arm, its crooked wing, unpinioned.
Unweaponed, the slack fingers of those
useless hands.

Two dead soldiers
are a whole battlefield
two faces, a million.

- Jean Arasanayagam

THREADS

Seated cosily on the sofa
I pick up the tangled
She ends of my past
One by one
Here I see a vivid blue
of the Lake where?
Paddled as a child
The flamboyant led
Remirds me of my
Going away saree
The pastel shades
Of pink and blue
Of the tiny baby sheets
Of my children as babes
A riot of colours red
Blue, pink, mauve
In the cushion cover
I earnestly embroidered
To the admiration of
All and sundry
I walk down memory
Lane setting free the
Tangled threads
Of my life.

- Indranee Karandawala Wijesinghe.

Dead Rose

I bought you in haste of fantasy,
Hoped you would stay longer,
And calm my soul soothe my nerve
Give me love and show me beauty,
How I envy your charm
Your innocent skill to steal my heart
Now you're gone
I must say 'After a rather short stay'
Nothing remains but your memories of charm

- Vidarshi

HOPE

I'm still clutching
At the last straw,
Clinging desperately
To a thin thread of hope,
Too fragile
To rely on, though.

I still believe,
That someday
Things would right themselves,
And that she'd return to my life
in the nick of time,
And remain a shadow-like friend.

Yet, I sometimes wonder
If I am deluding myself,
Relying on
A feeble, fragile
Rope of false hope!

- Jayashantha Jayawardhana.

Freedom flight

It's time
A few clothes, pair of shoes and some money
Packed in an old travelling bag,
Taking it softly down the stair case,
Staring into the empty rooms,
Hurried through the hall into the empty garden
And before others returned she ran, ran and ran
Passing unknown people, over the bridges, across the fields,
Looking around stealthily, not caring the hunger and sweat running
down her body
She ran for freedom....
Now eighteen
It's time to be free
From mother's persuasions, father's careful eyes,
Many hours passed, she came into a small town
At last freedom!
Darkness had fallen unnoticed,
Men stared, women ignored
She fell on her knees and screamed
Please take me home, take me home,'

- Ruwanthi Abeyakoon

The Castle of illusion

I revisit a castle,
that holds my already medieval memories
a pinnacle of vain hopes and
ambitions, now lost its
grandiosity.

The air seems changed,
or was it just a passing
view made by a visitor
reading the muted weathering
of branches and autumnal shades
of cottonwood branches
so distant in the hills.

'In the past, the hills had
cascaded into burnished hues of
gold and flame, till they
were consumed by the fires that
raged across the countryside
engulfing its hidden aura of
iconish gold.

You glanced at those dream-like
visions across the desolate hills,
impressionistic illusions of peace
and calm, a mysterious wall into
another realm that spoke of the
divine, the toll of temple bells and
A deserted landscape
meets my gaze,
as I walk in a post
disaster age
and see the casualties
of that violent age.

- Parvathi Solomans Arasanayagan