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Swindle
A request to have a door,
On hinges installed...
Is a great idea,
For one seeking privacy.
But a door on hinges,
That does not close...
Or has a lock with a key,
Is just another swindle!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Door's Grief
ah, the door's grief is not really brief,
it has been there since the hinges were fixed,
though it does not sound like an old man
grumbling, though its creaking sound
is hidden on a dropp of mechanical
oil,
there are those who still slam it
and out of too much fear
its grief lies hidden continually
on every closing
when you open it, it gives a respectable smile
yet you fail to understand
what was suppressed from what was not so valiantly expressed
there is no word for this
even the door cannot describe it
till this moment
when you close it again and again
as it becomes
another wall of the house again.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Indoor Poet Is Sick
it would have been more
truthful, or
earthly, well grounded
candid, or
exciting if he had taken his
way out
of the door to the garden
and once again see the trees
leaves falling
birds pecking on some
grains bees
taking some pollen
here he would be an
spectator
a story teller
a fact gatherer
nature lover
restive and
feasting on what the
earth has to offer
here he has no waste
for words
feelings fly
thoughts on some
unseen wings
things change
door hinges are rusting
gives the noise when
you try to open it
like creaking bones
and so he stays in his room
focuses on
imagination
more often sleeps
and relies on dreams
which are nothing
but the same emotions
revealing to him
who he really is
psychedelic and more
like psychiatric sessions
with no one but
he himself as shrink
and patient rolled into
one
he follows his heart
into the road maps of his
poetry in adversity
metaphors of
necessity
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A New Door
i remember
this door was made
12 years ago
the day when i married you.
we chose clear lacquer
to keep its original
mahogany grain
we keep the gloss
and we were never
at loss.
there were loud slams
oh, i hate to remember
but there were also gentler closes
of this door
with all the tender intents
of not having to disturb
a single soul.
then the hinges begin to rust
and the door creaks and
screams getting louder
like the madness of the one
who fears
that love is finally gone.
the termites came
and the frames get hollow as
time pierces it
showing the emptiness
inside it as though
it was mere kind
of a seashell
the knob is finally broken
and the key to open it again
was lost
then we come back to our senses
after twelve years
the door has to be replaced
with a new one
this time white in paint
the hinges glossy copper
the knob in shining silver
and the key fits in without any sound
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Red Door
nothing
is important about
it,
everyone
detests
the built
in superstition
the world
gives it up
except
the hinges
trusting that someday
it's entrance and
exit
becomes
a fad,
until now
the black widow
is not
satisfied about
the reality
of the red
door
she hates the fire
that she had
long lost
to someone else.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Door Of The House Of My Ancestors
this morning i am
confronted with an old door
of the old house of my
ancestors,
the rust that eats the hinges
finally frees the door
at last!
it was enslaved by the haunting
sounds of the sudden
slam
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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And This Will Be All....
And this will be all?
And the gates will never open again?
And the dust and the wind will play around the rusty door hinges and the songs of October moan, Why-oh, why-oh?
And you will look to the mountains
And the mountains will look to you
And you will wish you were a mountain
And the mountain will wish nothing at all?
This will be all?
The gates will never-never open again?
The dust and the wind only
And the rusty door hinges and moaning October
And Why-oh, why-oh, in the moaning dry leaves,
This will be all?
Nothing in the air but songs
And no singers, no mouths to know the songs?
You tell us a woman with a heartache tells you it is so?
This will be all?
poem by Carl Sandburg
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Re: Cleaning Time
it has been quite a long time
when the cleaning has not been done
the cabinet is dusty and the floors stained
the walls bearing the unnecessary marks
words of protests are written and the door
creaks with hinges not oiled for long
today i am looking for the clutter of
those i do not need
the garbage has to be discarded
what has piled must be inspected
the unimportant must go
i also speak about my anger
my indifference my selfishness
like garbage they must go too
lest i be like those that i have spoken before
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Morning Lament
OH thou cruel deadly-lovely maiden,
Tell me what great sin have I committed,
That thou keep'st me to the rack thus fasten'd,
That thou hast thy solemn promise broken?
'Twas but yestere'en that thou with fondness
Press'd my hand, and these sweet accents murmured:
"Yes, I'll come, I'll come when morn approacheth,
Come, my friend, full surely to thy chamber."
On the latch I left my doors, unfasten'd,
Having first with care tried all the hinges,
And rejoic'd right well to find they creak'd not.
What a night of expectation pass'd I!
For I watch'd, and ev'ry chime I number'd;
If perchance I slept a few short moments,
Still my heart remain'd awake forever,
And awoke me from my gentle slumbers.
Yes, then bless'd I night's o'erhanging darkness,
That so calmly cover'd all things round me;
I enjoy'd the universal silence,
While I listen'd ever in the silence,
If perchance the slightest sounds were stirring.
"Had she only thoughts, my thoughts resembling,
Had she only feelings, like my feelings,
She would not await the dawn of morning.
But, ere this, would surely have been with me."
Skipp'd a kitten on the floor above me,
Scratch'd a mouse a panel in the corner,
Was there in the house the slightest motion,
Ever hoped I that I heard thy footstep,
Ever thought I that I heard thee coming.
And so lay I long, and ever longer,
And already was the daylight dawning,
And both here and there were signs of movement.
"Is it yon door? Were it my door only!"
In my bed I lean'd upon my elbow,
Looking tow'rd the door, now half-apparent,
If perchance it might not be in motion.
Both the wings upon the latch continued,
On the quiet hinges calmly hanging.
And the day grew bright and brighter ever;
And I heard my neighbour's door unbolted,
As he went to earn his daily wages,
And ere long I heard the waggons rumbling,
And the city gates were also open'd,
While the market-place, in ev'ry corner,
Teem'd with life and bustle and confusion.
In the house was going now and coming
Up and down the stairs, and doors were creaking
Backwards now, now forwards,--footsteps clatter'd
Yet, as though it were a thing all-living,
From my cherish'd hope I could not tear me.
When at length the sun, in hated splendour.
Fell upon my walls, upon my windows,
Up I sprang, and hasten'd to the garden,
There to blend my breath, so hot and yearning,
With the cool refreshing morning breezes,
And, it might be, even there to meet thee:
But I cannot find thee in the arbour,
Or the avenue of lofty lindens.
poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
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The creaking of the door deprives me of no sleep.
What's In A Name
What's Alzheimer's
but a word
for old age
the creaking
door of darkness
crowding out the light.
poem by Vince Gullaci
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Death is a door
Death is only an old door
Set in a garden wall;
On gentle hinges it gives, at dusk
When the thrushes call.
Along the linted are green leaves,
Beyond the light lies still;
Very willing and weary feet
Go over that sill.
There is nothing to trouble any heart;
Nothing to hurt at all.
Death is only a quiet door
In an old wall
poem by Katie Evans
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A Little Ghost
The moonlight flutters from the sky
To meet her at the door,
A little ghost, whose steps have passed
Across the creaking floor.
And rustling vines that lightly tap
Against the window-pane,
Throw shadows on the white-washed walls
To blot them out again.
The moonlight leads her as she goes
Across a narrow plain,
By all the old, familiar ways
That know her steps again.
And through the scrub it leads her on
And brings her to the creek,
But by the broken dam she stops
And seems as she would speak.
She moves her lips, but not a sound
Ripples the silent air;
She wrings her little hands, ah, me!
The sadness of despair!
While overhead the black-duck's wing
Cuts like a flash upon
The startled air, that scarcely shrinks
Ere he afar is gone.
And curlews wake, and wailing cry
Cur-lew! cur-lew! cur-lew!
Till all the Bush, with nameless dread
Is pulsing through and through.
The moonlight leads her back again
And leaves her at the door,
A little ghost whose steps have passed
Across the creaking floor.
poem by Dame Mary Gilmore
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We Will Find a Way Out
We've been in this room eight days now.
The food supply is low.
And there is very little water.
Perhaps we should listen to that young kid.
He does have a flashlight.
The others have been studing that map...
Discussing whether the hinges on the door,
Swing in or out.
They have few matches left to strike.
We will be in total darkness soon.
That kid keeps saying there's a light switch...
And a door next to it that is unlocked!
Why don't they listen to him?
'First of all...
He is black!
Second,
He has no experience!
How do we know he can be trusted?
You just mind your business.
We will find a way out.'
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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A Southern Narrative
The tired old farm buildings
Were slumping into the ground
Like exhausted children,
Fighting to stay upright,
But too old, too tired
To try much longer.
Possibly, the only thing
Holding them vertically
Was the amount of vines
Sprouting out the tops
Of the tilting roofs.
Doors gaped wide,
Hinges hanging away,
Most of their screws missing,
Holding bits and pieces
Of the stout planks
Which used to make doors.
A heavy metal winch
Swung from the upper
Door of the barn,
Creaking and whining
With age.
Where once it had been
The lifter of heavy loads,
It now hangs limply
On a frayed rope,
Empty and useless.
The stalls stand bare as well,
Rotting, sour hay on floors
Which used to be cleaned daily.
Rusted milk cans tilt
Against walls that can barely
Hold them upright.
A saddle still hangs
By the vacant doorway.
Where it had once shone proudly
With bright polish and clean brass,
And smelled of horse,
It now drops bits of dried-out leather,
Like a moulting bird,
Onto the unused floor.
Cans of paint, bits of brass,
Rusty wire, old hoes and rakes
Lay in a jumble on shelves
Falling off the walls.
The homeplace, the house,
Shows the same state of neglect,
Doors ajar, windows sagging,
Tiles tilting and sliding off the roof.
The porch dips and sags,
Dragging the ground
Like the old preacher's wife,
Wearing her finest clothes,
With her slip hanging down,
Tattered and dirty,
And very worn at the edges.
The house beside the road,
Where people lived
And children played,
Is empty now,
And falling down.
The echos of happy feet
Are heard,
Tapping to the sound
Of Poppy's fiddle,
But the house beside the road
Is empty, and forlorn.
When a gentle voice
Is heard in the house,
It is only a singing breeze,
Sifting itself through
The cracks in the roof
Of the house I used to call
Home.
Linda Scarlett Treat
January 6,2010
poem by Scarlett Treat
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Fixation Of Disbelief
If to them,
Others determined did not provide light.
Or encourage with an insistence persisted,
For them to open a door...
After explaining what the door was there for,
Not one of them would know its purpose.
They would have stood for hours glued,
With a fixation of disbelief.
With a slow approach to examine,
Closely...
To inspect,
Attached hinges.
Enabling the swinging back and forth,
Of the closed door.
And in complete and dumbfounded amazement,
There they they would stand,
With jaws dropped...
Astonished by what was revealed on the other side.
If to them,
Others did not provide this light...
The would still be on the inside,
Debating the significance...
Of exploring life!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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We keep on postponing
The old door of the
Out house made a
Creaking sound
Whenever somebody
Opened or closed it
Always reminding
To take care of it
Nobody
Bothered to listen
What it was saying
Everybody knew
If the door was not there
The outhouse
Would become
Unsafe and useless
It seemed as if
Everybody was waiting
For its break down
Many a times
We do this in our life
Do not care for
Important things
By some way or other
They keep reminding
Again and again
We keep on postponing
Take care only
When they become
Urgent
08-03-2012
328-62-03-12
poem by Nirantar Dr.Rajendra Tela
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Upon Your Request
it is
upon your persistent request
that they all learned to
speak to you
the floor of course keeps its
deep voice
like the voice of the cave
and the well
and the windows have mastered
the songs of the soprano
aided by the wind
the ceiling keeps the alto
tickled by the spider and the
lizards
but the door keeps itself
mum
treasures its silence
closed
with hinges that never budged
that keeps the impossibility
of this harmony
as others sing that single door
shows its protest
you kicked it once
on a Sunday.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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