Still awaiting, knowing the reality

As the seconds tick by,
As the minutes turn to hours,
I wait.... ever so faithfully and hopefully
I wait for maybe days, months or even years.
I've lost track of time, for it does not matter
Because I will wait....
There is so much of faith and hope
In me, that I'm willing to stay
My whole life waiting till he returns......

I sit on the doorstep,
Watching the dusty garden,
Taking in all the minute details,

For what can I do while i'm waiting for him?
The flowers flutter with life in the breeze,
The same breeze that sends wisps of my greying hair
Flying around, tickling my face.

But no life flutters in my still figure.
For I've prepared my self for the long, eternal wait,
When he would come home And embrace me

The cramps in my back and leg
Awaken my senses and I slowly shift my
Position to the other side of the door.

I move my gaze away from he dusty flowers
And onto a line of busy ants, collecting food.
It triggers a sense of liveliness in me
And I start collecting my memories; reminiscing,
Of over two and a half decades......

The time passed by
I am waiting him till he returns
To enliven my lifeless soul.
The sun is setting

Over my dusty garden, reminding me
Strongly of pure bees' honey.My eyes lingered momentarily on

The sturdy old guava tree, bringing more memories.
I remember when it was planted By small, tender young hands

As dusk falls in all around me,
I look at the dusty lane,
Expecting a familiar figure; tall and lanky,

But quite strong,To come jauntily upto me and greet me
With a lopsided grin and a voice filled with love
Calling out "Ammi!"......

My eyes fill with tears as
Thoughts of my son fill my mind.
So young and so brave...... just like his father.

But surely, his absence does not mean that
He's gone, just like the rest of them
He sacrificed his life, That's Patriotism,

Now, only his glory as a hero remains.
And his poor old Ammi , awaiting his return,
little knowing that he would never come home......

Shamlina Maharoof - Moratuwa.

My dear Amma.....

I'm the tender beam,
You are the moon.......
I'm the sweet murmer,
You are the river.......
I'm the mesmerising fragrance,
You are the flower......
I'm the unforgettable rhythm,
You are the poem........
Amma...

I'm the loving daughter,
You are my mother........

Virani Ekanayake

Don't wake me from my slumber

I wanna sleep all the time
I don't wanna wake up
Please mom,
Let me sleep!
don't wake me up to study!
You don't know
how much I hate to wake up
seeing him in my dreams......
I hate to lose him once again
I wanna live in my dreams
'Coz then I can be with him.
So, please don't wake me up!
Please don't let him leave me
again......!
No mom,
You can't see my tears,
I cry at night!
And when you wake me up
I start my day crying
'Coz he was beside
But, when I'm awake,
he is not there with me
I'm worried mom.
If you don't wanna see me crying,
Let me sleep!
Don't wake me up, mom!
Let me be with him a little more!

Arusha

Flew unto God

In a trance,
I sat, On bed.

Something hatched,
In the dark, thick air;
A heavy sense of doom,
Weighed down on me.

It crushed my heart,
Like when a giant coshes an egg.
I looked around,
It was the same old room,
My heavens that had hid me from high winds,
During my childhood and youth.

But now,
The four walls,
Moved to trap and cosh me,
Like when a giant coshes an egg.

"Get away, get away,"
I heard my sixth sense scream,
But to where could I fly,
When the determined devil,
Sought and hunted me down,
Like a mad wolf,
With saliva dripping from the
two ends of its rotten mouth?

I was panting.
I neither could breath, Nor could I move,
Oh where was I flying to?
Every nerve moaned.
"Fly unto God, fly unto God,"
"Fly un to God's arms,"
Someone whispered, And I flew,
I knew that God waited for me,
And I flew,
I ran through fear, doubt and confusion,
And, Reached God,
Who had guided me
I looked back, And heard the anguished words of Satan,
God had coshed the determined devil,
Like when a giant coshes an egg.

And now I am safe,
And forever will be safe,
Under God's guidance

Lakshani Kodituwakku, Faculty of Arts - University of Peradeniya

Where poetry came from

As long as there has been language, there has been poetry. Most of the earliest surviving texts were written in verse, but the poetic tradition stretches back to before the days of the written word,

when stories and history were passed down orally using storytellers who used such devices as meter, rhyme and alliteration to ease the task or remembering and reciting tales that in many cases took days to tell.

The evolution of poetry

Over the years, history has become an academic pursuit rooted far more in prose than in verse. The age of the epic poem has passed. A book length poem is an anomaly these days. Poems tend to be shorter and less structured than in earlier times.

Poetry forms are rarely used and such poetic devices as rhyme and alliteration have fallen out of favour, especially in the English Language, which lacks some of the lyrical qualities of languages such as Italian, Spanish and French.

Poetry, in today's world is at best a minor niche in the writing industry.. Best selling books of poetry are few and far between. The major markets are dominated by fiction, selfhelp, political and business books.

Most new books of poetry sell fewer than a thousand copies and those that reach the tens of thousands are considered highly successful. This is a standard that falls far short of the fiction market, for which you need to sell a half a million books to be considered successful. Most book publishers are hesitant to publish poetry.

Those that do so continue to do it mainly out of love for poetry rather than an expectation of profits.

Poetry fans Poetry is not, however, without its fans. There is a small but thriving poetry community. If you live in a city of reasonable size, chances are that you can find at least one poetry reading happening in a given week.

There are also poetry festivals and poetry slams (competitive poetry events) that take place in some communities. The Internet is also a thriving place for poets, with the blogging format making it easy for the average person to publish their poetry quickly and easily.

Poetry is not a business. Your chances of making a living as a professional poet are about the same as your chances of making a living as a professional chess player. Both are activities that many people enjoy doing, but a very few people want to pay to see.

The only difference is that it is relatively easy to prove whether or not you are a good chess player, but whether or not you are a good poet is a much more subjective question.

Why you should write The best reason to write poetry is because it is something you enjoy doing or at least it is something you get some sort of emotional or spiritual benefit from doing. There is no other good reason to write poetry.

If you want to be rich or famous, you've come to the wrong field. If you want to express yourself and join a small but thriving community of people who like to do the same, poetry is one way to go.

If you love to write poetry, do it. Always try to improve, but don't worry about whether you are "good enough" or if you "have what it takes" because poetry is about the journey far more than the result.