Intergalactic Radio Station
Ive, seen things..
..so many things that you cant believe.
Past designs, future designs,
Cables in the bend.
Second-hand sounds,
Future sounds,
Synthesised dialogues.
Incomprehenseble software.
Hi jon, lets break some rules!
Here comes the sun.
Were doing some recordings later
Same ol factory you know
Heres some names for you,
polyester landscape,
Nylon oxygen,
Ashes to concrete.
Etcetera.....etcetera....
Etcetera.....
Oh, by the way,
Its been a beautiful morning,
What a morning,
Great morning,
Its a great moring man.
song performed by by Vangelis
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Related quotes
Drool, Etcetera....
when you wake up this morning you rush yourself
on the usual
many things to do
but never completely done
but just the same
you keep on doing it
like opening windows, closing doors,
mopping floors, washing underwear,
brushing teeth,
etcetera
now you are working
the table offers you the menu for the stress of the day
you count them
and start at
the first file,
etcetera the clock even if you do not mind it
keeps on ticking,
nothing unusual really,
you keep on thinking and writing notes and then
making conclusions
affecting the life of other people
they become simply case numbers
and usual names,
nothing extraordinary really
etcetera
you stop, make some sighs, breathe,
stand, sit, lay your head on the sofa,
and think,
etcetera
this world is black and white,
there are no more rainbows, the rains are cats and dogs
the little shower is gone,
the slowness of beauty is murdered,
the strip teasing of something that your mind coddles
and fondles
takes time,
the unfolding of the flower is choked,
the buds are nipped,
births are scraped,
off,
and on,
push and pull,
that is the language i learn from you,
etcetera,
etcetera
i did not invent it,
we say it when we do not know
what follows next
etcetera
life.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Ennui
when you want to
refuse to think
when you
want to stop
doing anything
yet you cannot
because
you are still
alive
and there
is no way
that you
can refrain
from living
this and that
etcetera
endless etcetera
keeping
yourself
busy for
nothing
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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… about Love
Everything about Love is fascinating;
Love at first sight; love that lasts forever;
Love that kills: winter, fall, summer and spring.
Everything about Love has an element of fever
In it: the anger, the rage, the jealousy,
The scorn, the disgust, the dishonesty,
The deception … etcetera, etcetera.
It is a timing bomb that can explode at the blink
An eye, or implode momentarily at the crank
Of a gun. Love can be unexpectedly deadly,
Beautiful, joyful, sweet … etcetera, etcetera.
Everything about Love is controversial:
The lazy days of summer on the boardwalk,
And the romantic promenade in the park.
Everything about Love is exceptional:
The beauty of the kissing and hugging swans,
And the tenderness of caressing hands.
Everything about Love is beyond words:
The lilies at springtime, the singing birds
During the summer, the ice-skating children
During the wintry season, and in autumn,
The dead leaves in the Garden of Eden.
Everything about Love is beyond words.
Everything about Love can be either sane
Or insane. Love can be fascinating,
Controversial, exceptional, and disgusting.
poem by Hebert Logerie
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Mr. Housman's Message
O woe, woe,
People are born and die,
We also shall be dead pretty soon
Therefore let us act as if we were
dead already.
The bird sits on the hawthorn tree
But he dies also, presently.
Some lads get hung, and some get shot.
Woeful is this human lot.
Woe! woe, etcetera. . . .
London is a woeful place,
Shropshire is much pleasanter.
Then let us smile a little space
Upon fond nature's morbid grace.
Oh, Woe, woe, woe, etcetera. . . .
poem by Ezra Pound
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Song in the Manner of Housman
O woe, woe,
People are born and die,
We also shall be dead pretty soon
Therefore let us act as if we were
dead already.
The bird sits on the hawthorn tree
But he dies also, presently.
Some lads get hung, and some get shot.
Woeful is this human lot.
Woe! woe, etcetera . . . .
London is a woeful place,
Shropshire is much pleasanter.
Then let us smile a little space
Upon fond nature's morbid grace.
Oh, Woe, woe, woe, etcetera . . .
poem by Ezra Pound
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Yeheyy It Is A Holiday Today
Philippines,11: 13 a.m.
it is a holiday today, officially the President celebrates the
National Heroes' Day
with her soldiers offering flowers for Dr. Jose Rizal,
Apolinario Mabini, Juan Luna, etcetera, etcetera
(sounds of trumpets and gun salutes
release the doves that symbolize purity and freedom and peace
to the confused and polluted atmosphere)
i sit and write this poem and the other Bisayan poems for my
bisdak friends remembering the past and how we must be angry
about the present,
let us not talk about the future, we may become revolutionaries
again,
i stop. i stare at the wall. i open the window, Look at the dry fields of rice,
and some sparrows
yes, the sparrow unit, still killing some policemen and raiding
far municipalities and
i remember the moslems, their agongs, and malongs and clean rivers
and silent determinations to be free...
brothers killing brothers? oh too normal, too sane to kill another brother
in this country and the
government soldiers, yes, they too kill, as a matter of fact if you are too
candid,
like me, oh, they may not hesitate too, to kill all of us, but
do not take me by mistake, i belong to the government and i still support it,
even if is too hot yet to be hot
again.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Tenth Poem
Thou shalt not covet
thy neighbor's poem;
neither shalt thou desire...
his metaphors,
nor his similes,
nor his oxymorons,
nor his ironies
his metalepsis
his paradoxes
his anthimeria
his litotes,
ellipses,
zeugma,
anapodoton,
epizeuxis,
anaphora,
pleonasm
nor anything
that is his.
etcetera etcetera
The tenth poem
forbids
coveting the poems
of another.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Written On A Friday
i must admire you for keeping traditions, each page of the religious book, each text down to the last letter, all obeyed, since it makes you feel guilty if you do not prostrate yourself, kneel, genuflect, do the usual incantations, as a form of communicating with our ancestors and our God, the Creator, Provider, Omniscient, All Powerful, Lord and King,
etcetera, etcetera....
It has been fifty-one years of my life, and i have traveled and tried to understand religion, and there are so many, ours have become just one of those thousand official beliefs sanctioned by those who lead and (milk) us....though it boils or amounts to only one thing, that we are inferiors, servants, (or even slaves at their caprice and mercy) , that we have no right to be arrogant, or selfish, that we are not private beings, but a part, always a part of this whole, this universe, this harmony that shall be achieved...this heaven and hell, this rottenness and wellness, Evil and Good,
I am given days, with names, such as Maundy Thursday, Black Friday, a Holy Saturday, and a Glorious Sunday, but with all honesty, these are all the same days to me, call me an idiot, faithless, infidel, nonpracticing roman catholic, but i am at peace with myself, and all these days, i romance myself with the silence and holiness of a searcher, the restless one, dissatisfied, outrageous, groping for words, paving new paths, cleaning roads, questioning rules, asking for more and more and more, etcetera etcetera...
to fill my thirst, and hunger, beyond the altars of candle filled lighted corners...
O, God, I just want to be myself, beside You, away from the crowd, who years ago, have crucified and cursed you to a
dishonorable death.
i do not claim complete understanding. I just want to be left alone.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Sad Story About A Plight Of A Woman On The Other Side Of The World
he is talking to
a woman on the other side of
the world
a world that he cannot
feel
because he never saw
it
neither is the woman
since
she is on the other side
of the world
he was never there
he knows a lot
about her
he was told by so many
who tell him
that she lives with them
for a while
he hears everything about
those foul things about her
but he never smells them
can foul be foul when he only
hears it?
can a sense of smell be simply
heard?
while they were talking on the phone
she hints about how her lover
rejected her
about how her father abused her
how her mother abandoned
all of them
for another man
how their house was foreclosed
and how they have to move
to another place
again and again
how she had to sleep with other men
to make a living
etcetera etcetera
it was a long conversation
and it was then that he felt her
a madness not of her own causing
but of society as a whole
when she was finished
he nodded, for now
he understood.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Those Burdens...
sometimes inside the hotel when
you are with me and you open my bag
and check on my necessities
when i lay my body in bed and
stare at the ceiling when the noise
of little things can be heard as
chatter and when you do not stop
talking about us: our direction,
future, visions and destinations
etcetera....
i begin to think of regret having you
all the way here
sometimes, though i will not tell you,
i miss my being alone
with myself, without uttering any word
and yet feeling so complete and
relieved.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Absolute Zero
Can we begin at the end?
To Save Some time
Bags and our War Planes are Gathered
The Clock is ticking you have no authority
Float like a dead man down the river
And there are no streets in this air.....
Etcetera is my worst enemy
Its wrong and I know
And I will go
To the Big Hand of the God Damned
The Middle Ground is Absolute Zero
What Can be found at Absolute Zero?
Can We Begin at the end?
To Save some time
Etcetera is my worst enemy
Its wrong and I know
And I will go
To the big hand of the God Damned
The Big Hand of the Small Man
The Middle Gorund is Absolute Zero
What can be found at Absolute Zero?
A Happy End is Absolute Zero
Nobody Wins at absolute Zero......
What's That?
Nothing
What's That?
Nothing
Nothing
Nothing
song performed by by Faith No More
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Is In Heaven
Brother Martin was assassinated at a very young age.
Intelligent and determined; he was a wise sage.
I am convinced that he is definitely the only man
In Heaven.
Bro. Martin fought for everybody’s civil rights, regardless of race,
Color, gender, origin, etcetera, etcetera. He is in a better place
Right now, I feel that he is the only man
In Heaven.
Brother Martin was a very dedicated disciple of Jesus Christ,
Who did not fight back, but he was stronger than ice;
He was a peaceful warrior. I know that he is the only man
In Heaven.
There is a lot that one can say and write about this legend.
He had many dreams and great visions, He knew how to blend
Fiction and reality. He was a man of ideas and actions.
Brother Martin is in Heaven working on different transactions.
I want to thank him and his associates for their sacrifices.
Brother Martin is still alive. His dreams are alive under the auspices
Of God’s blessings to fight racism, unfairness and all sorts of inequalities.
Brother Martin is not dead. We shall overcome despite our inabilities.
Jesus died for our sins, but Brother Martin died for things
That benefit all humanities. Let the angels sing, let freedom ring
In every corner of the earth. I am overjoyed to say that Brother Martin
Is in Heaven.
poem by Hebert Logerie (15 January 2012)
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New Guinea
I SAW them as they were born,
Erect and fearless and free,
Facing the sun and the wind
Of the hills and the sea.
I saw them naked, superb,
Like the Greeks long ago,
With shield and spear and arrow
Ready to strike and throw.
I saw them as they were made
By the Christianizing crows,
Blinking, stupid, clumsy,
In their greasy ill-cut clothes:
I heard their gibbering cant,
And they sung those hymns that smell
Of poor souls besotted, degraded
With the fear of 'God' and 'Hell.'
And I thought if Jesus could see them,
He who loved the freedom, the light,
And loathed those who compassed heaven
And earth for one proselyte,
To make him, etcetera, etcetera, —
Then this sight, as on me or you,
Would act on him like an emetic,
And he'd have to go off and spue.
O Jesus, O man of the People,
Who died to abolish all this —
The Pharisee rank and respectable,
The Scribe and the scabrous Priest —
O Jesus, O sacred Socialist,
You would die again of shame,
If you were alive and could see
What things are done in your Name.
poem by Francis William Lauderdale Adams
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This Morning Bird
This morning bird likes to sing
She likes to hear the morning bells ring
This morning bell is nice and clear to me
This morning bird shows no sympathy
This morning bird is very calm
But not calm enough when it
Comes to cruelty and bombs
So be careful and be calm to this morning bird
Because her sounds are the best things u ever heard
poem by Va Rockeya Foy
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Attention!
Please
do
not
submit
poems
that
include
words like
(f.ck,
a.shole,
p.nis,
v.gina,
b.stard,
s.ck,
s.n o. a b.tch) .
Please
do not use
such letters
as
u.......to complete the f.ck
s......for the a, shole
s
e
a
a
u
f
i
e tcetera, etcetera, etcetera.
Please read all of the formal rules written on this page.
The poems that do not meet these rules will be removed.
l.od and c.ear
c.py & p.aste
what if i write a poem
with some letters missing
wo.ld yu. l.ke t?
we; ; per.onally i like to u.e the wo.d f.ck too
and the v.gina
in some other artful ways
and the p.nes
in some medical means
just a matter of contexting...
poetry, you deals with how we feel
when v.gina meets the p.nis
in some wildlife parks
to create the sparks of life, one of those nice gifts the Great Lord
has given us
and for
f.ee.
well, rules are rules are rules for our peaceful co-existence
but honestly
i have not seen anybody die yet, or being killed by this certain disease
by simply uttering the
word
f.ck.ou
s.it
what i see is the feeling of relief in a democratic state
where one whose chest
or breast is filled with so much oppression and having not means
of satisfying himself
or retaliating from the walls of oppression
the ones inflicted by the
Board of Censors
against his purity of honest expression
when you have no other remedy except to say
F.CK
just to relieve yourself, and then you sit and drink your beer
and lift your feet high against the mighty sun
shielding your face your eyes from such a mighty stare
and
indeed F.ck is the only right word
and you get healed.
i copy. i bow. i am
diminished.
half-beast half-man
are we,
we cannot deny always the other
lurking just behind our backs
ready always for a kill.
half-man, half-best
half-angel, half-devil,
truly i am,
and if this angel has the right to say
praise God in the Highest
let the other one say also what is buried in his
real heart
the f.CK his only right to say
and be himself too.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Giving Up Giving Up
it is a surprising remark
at the end of what to give up
for instance
take the following 'Give up complaining——focus on gratitude.
Give up pessimism——become an optimist.
Give up harsh judgments——think kindly thoughts.
Give up worry——trust Divine Providence.
Give up discouragement——be full of hope.
Give up bitterness——turn to forgiveness.
Give up hatred——return good for evil.
Give up negativism——be positive.
Give up anger——be more patient.
Give up pettiness——become mature.
Give up gloom——enjoy the beauty that is all around you.
Give up jealousy——pray for trust.
Give up gossiping——control your tongue.
Give up sin——turn to virtue.'
etcetera,
etcetera,
the twist is the last: give up giving up!
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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About Us And About Them
we busy for some noble purpose
for instance, i teach and you travel visiting places
where you are needed, as i continue on
burning the fires
of students who want to learn more
as i guide them where legal wisdom lies
in between those wits
and slides of humor
where we finally meet on the serious challenges
of criticisms: what society ought to be? who the leaders must be?
where progress is? what trees can do for this aging earth?
etcetera etcetera
we are angry
for those who search personal pleasures on Sundays
the cock-fighters shouting at the cockpit
the picnickers drunk on the beach
the rumormongers enjoying the headlines of the town
who are pregnant without getting married
who are impoverished by their convictions
they are those that thrive
we are those endangered species
and we are meant to perish
we blame no one then
as we meet again and be so silent.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Father
Father, blessed father,
Its morning again.
I give you, father, myself, father,
Continue your plan.
I know together we can climb mountains in the sky.
No one can stop us when Im standing by your side.
Troubles knocking here again;
Ill tell him jesus has me by his hand.
Hell walk me through.
Father, loving father,
Create in me
A pure love, father, your love, father,
Instill it in me.
I remember the nights Ive cried for you;
Now I only have to die for you;
Thank you, lord, youve made it clear just for me.
I see the light;
Its burning out the night.
Oh, father,
Its morning.
Morning.
Morning.
Morning.
Morning.
Morning.
Morning.
Morning.
Morning.
Morning.
Morning.
Morning.
Morning.
Morning.
Morning.
Morning.
Morning.
Morning.
song performed by by Amy Grant
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Song Of Joy Sounds Up
A song of joy sounds up when the day begins
in respect as if every swallow, dove and weaver
worships their creator at the brake of day.
A song of joy sounds up
when the sky is open and blue as ink,
when the bright white sun lights its torch
while the morning star still shines blue-white,
while water rushes and shines in the brook
as if a great morning calls everyone to action
soaking hearts and souls with true love
and a song of joy sounds up...
poem by Gert Strydom
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Presence A Myth
Past tells presence
And presence passes it
To the envied future
But this myth goes on
As there is no
Such a thing as present
Today is past
And tomorow is future
But when the sun rise
It is all declared a past
For every second I breathe
For every minute I live
I declare all that past
And so i live it behind
But for every morning
I await
That is where the future is
And for every morning
I live behind
That is where the past lies
There's no presence
poem by Anele ''The African Son'' kaPotelwa
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