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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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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 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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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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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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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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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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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 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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Fade Into Heaven
Fade so swiftly into a shadow, for you are evil,
It certainly suffers, poor is your soul and might;
Open the door to pain and mayhem, killing you
By its grip, it felt cold but then warm.
Entrance is superb, fully enticing, more than a friend,
Lulling the demons causes peace in this quarter,
Where friends of God tell angels what to do.
I adore and admire, I have spirits surprising,
Warm is my tongue with blasphemy so fresh,
As if words were meant to be written in order to police
The general heavenly populace, a state so crowded.
But angels are in knots, in wool, fastened to the door
More than what we think or describe or what we teach.
The door must give way to man and woman,
Its hinges creak, the story is transferred
And I am young in this grasp, in what is appealing.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Fell In Love
I know I shouldn't
Be in love with you but I am
I know I shouldn't take you back
But I would in a heart beat
I know I shouldn’t let you back in
That secret room of mine
But I do
I know I should be changing the locks on the door
The door you had off the hinges and on the floor
But I’m not
For you could just walk on in and destroy
Anything you wanted to destroy
My heart and soul belongs to you
For now all you have to do is open the door
Now you don’t completely destroy my heart
Every time I talk to you
For I’ve gotten a lot stronger
I know I should be
Running away from you
Away from heartache
And never looking back cause
My heart could not handle
Another heart break
Like the one I just went through
Because of you
I should not care if you get hurt
You’ve hurt me too many times to count
But I won’t
I will always be here awaiting the call saying
You’re in trouble
Or you need somewhere to go to
Even if you want to come back to me
And you are sorry once again for leaving me
So of course I’m there to take you back
Even if my heart is yelling
No no please don’t it would destroy me more
I couldn’t handle it
Because I’ve fallen in love
poem by Mrs. Cynosure
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Coming Home
The railings were old and rusty,
The door paint was faded and chipped,
The poor old house had seen better days,
The roof, made of slate, had now dipped.
The windows showed broken hinges,
The path to the door, overgrown,
This was the place where I was born,
The only real home I had known.
The 'rambler' that clung to the front porch,
Was a rose in the deepest red,
Now looking forlorn and so straggly,
I thought that maybe it was dead.
But tiny buds were shooting,
From the root beside the door,
And I was sure that, with a little care,
The house would come alive once more.
I watched as the 'SOLD' sign was erected,
And I felt I had reached home at last,
I knew that I would be happy here,
After what had been in my past.
I washed, swept, scrubbed and polished,
Until everything looked 'brand new',
Then my heart sped back to my childhood days,
My return home, was well overdue.
poem by Ernestine Northover
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Fresh Air Missed
The hold of self defeating leaves,
When one decides a routine should go.
To escape from a place that offers no growth.
And when the excitement of living a life,
Begins to stale...
One should not prevail in that which fails.
A door that stays shut,
Supported by hinges that rust...
Needs only to be opened,
Just once.
Fresh air missed,
To breathe in again...
Can addict.
If one decides,
To experience being in it!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Upon A Day Of Reckoning
it is always i
who cleans the table from
morsels
who throws away the trash
of what is unconsumed from
the kettle
it is always i
who wipes the spilled milk
on the floor
who takes all the shit
on the sink
who kills all the bedbugs
on the pillow
it is always i
and on the day of reckoning
the table and chairs will be smooth
and glossy
the windows look to the other side without blinking
the door shall be mute forever
the hinges and frames all numb
on the last slamming.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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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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Sigh Of The Returnee
it is not the fullness that
overflows
it is the emptiness
of the house when you arrive
when the door that feigns the abundance within the room
finally surrenders
to the brokenness of the hinges
it is the fullness that spreads
too quickly like an ink of the squid
from the previous paths
of its escapades
from the threats of the predating ell
it is the silence that fills
the nothingness that sings
the unmoving furniture dressed in dust
the tempura that is left uneaten
and now
filled with
molds.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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P.O.W. (Prisoners Of War)
Locked up in a cell
The prisoners of war light the fuse to the dynamite
The door is blasted off the hinges
The prisoners of war escape through the opening where the door was
Enemy soldiers, one by one, are notified
And one by one
They try to take down the prisoners of war
War isn't pretty
War is hell
The enemy soldiers break out the guns and knives
Ready to take the prisoners of war down
But the prisoners of war do a wonderful job of fighting and staying alive
More enemy soldiers are dispatched
Some climb down or dropp off ladders
Some flip and somersault
Some continue walking and running on the ground
After dispatching the enemy soldiers
The prisoners of war climb the ladder
To where they can plan their escape
To where they can make their escape
To where they can escape in a helicopter
Leaving the life of war far behind
poem by Justin Gildow
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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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