When the master of the house tells a lie, then offer him a chair.
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A House Is Not A Home
(burt bacharach / hal david)
A chair is still a chair
Even though theres no-one sitting there
But a chair is not a house
And a house is not a home
When theres no-one there to hold you tight
And no-one there you can kiss goodnight
A room is still a room
Even though theres nothing there but gloom
But a room is not a house
And a house is not a home
When the two of us are far apart
And one of us has a broken heart
Now and then I call your name
And suddenly your voice appears
But its just a crazy game
When it ends, it ends in tears
Darling, have a heart
Dont let one mistake keep us apart
Im not meant to live alone
Turn this house into a home
When I climb the stairs
And turn the key
Oh, please be there
Still in love with me
Im not meant to live alone
Turn this house into a home
When I climb the stairs
And turn the key
Oh, please be there
Still in love with me
song performed by by Dusty Springfield
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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You don't even have to leave your house: you do your work from your house; you can order anything you want from your house; you don't have to leave your chair. Everything's been designed so that you never leave your computer chair.
quote by Deryck Whibley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Cogitation
if this chair does not exist
will i, this, chair, me, who asks,
if this chair, exists at all,
can i, exist, too? will i be dependent
on the thought of a chair
a thought of me that i think i
can touch, that i think thoughts
touching this thought of a chair
does the chair think about me,
i ask, looking for that therefore
beside the chair that i thought
is a chair, that i thought is I,
am, therefore, a chair, thinking
chair, on four feet?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Lord of the Flies
Oh Master my Master
Oh where have you been
I wallowed in filth and
I drowned in sin
Oh Master my Master
It's my rotten luck
To swim in the decay
And swallow the muck
Oh Master my Master
I stand in the fires
Surrounded by murderers
Thieves, cheaters, and liars
Oh Master my Master
the earth has turned red
Fluid with blood
Of the recently dead
Oh Master my Master
What's wrong with the world
The blackness unfolds
Like a flag that's unfurled
Oh Master my Master
You ignore my cries
And now I'm quite sure
You're the Lord of the Flies
poem by Anonymous Ghurl
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Fundamental of Liar Chapter XXVII: Storyteller
I only offer story
not the truth
I only offer fantasy
not the future
I only offer dream
not destiny
I only offer wish
not wisdom
I only offer memory
not the fact
I only offer chance
not miracle
poem by Maria Sudibyo
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A Chair Is No Longer Just A Chair
it is your experience that
gives you more meaning to all those which
you think
have been too common and
insignificant,
perhaps
now you must have realized as you sit upon a chair
that someone used to sit there
and that someone waited for another to be with her
that on the same chair
there were some fears
and pains and even longings
and hopes
unrealized and by then
you see that chair not just a chair
you sit there
and you ask it
for this chair though muted by wood
will always have
a story to tell....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Demon voice
he tells me to fight not to walk away
he tells me to scream not to talk rational
he tells me to hate not to forgive
he tells me destroy not to create
he tells me to give in
he tells me to kill
he knows i'm getting weaker
he knows it's almost his time
he knows he will be free
he knows he will have fun
he knows it will be a bloody ride to the end
he knows the end is death and so do i
poem by Paddy Jansen
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The Black Dog
early morning when
the door of the house is finally opened
the black dog enters
missing his master
the owner of the door of the house
it wants to speak
but since it has no power over the words
it simply wags its tail
puts his head on the lap of the master
and from this gesture
one can see
that everything is well said
by it...
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Visits to St Elizabeths
This is the house of Bedlam.
This is the man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
This is the time
of the tragic man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
This is a wristwatch
telling the time
of the talkative man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
This is a sailor
wearing the watch
that tells the time
of the honored man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
This is the roadstead all of board
reached by the sailor
wearing the watch
that tells the time
of the old, brave man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
These are the years and the walls of the ward,
the winds and clouds of the sea of board
sailed by the sailor
wearing the watch
that tells the time
of the cranky man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
This is a Jew in a newspaper hat
that dances weeping down the ward
over the creaking sea of board
beyond the sailor
winding his watch
that tells the time
of the cruel man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
This is a world of books gone flat.
This is a Jew in a newspaper hat
that dances weeping down the ward
over the creaking sea of board
of the batty sailor
that winds his watch
that tells the time
of the busy man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
This is a boy that pats the floor
to see if the world is there, is flat,
for the widowed Jew in the newspaper hat
that dances weeping down the ward
waltzing the length of a weaving board
by the silent sailor
that hears his watch
that ticks the time
of the tedious man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
These are the years and the walls and the door
that shut on a boy that pats the floor
to feel if the world is there and flat.
This is a Jew in a newspaper hat
that dances joyfully down the ward
into the parting seas of board
past the staring sailor
that shakes his watch
that tells the time
of the poet, the man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
This is the soldier home from the war.
These are the years and the walls and the door
that shut on a boy that pats the floor
to see if the world is round or flat.
This is a Jew in a newspaper hat
that dances carefully down the ward,
walking the plank of a coffin board
with the crazy sailor
that shows his watch
that tells the time
of the wretched man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
poem by Elizabeth Bishop
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Upon a Chair Not Reserved for Me
to sit in a chair
not reserved for me
is disgrace
at the utmost
to poetry,
in truth
the house on the clouds
and winds
and seas
a life dedicated to the
flitting moon
does not have
a chair
neither a feet
nor root
of hair...
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Feel Like Talking
“There is a talk about you at the house,
Sit down for it is not a tale but a sad pity;
Your master is a liar, and you have no goal,
So happen like a lad of distress to gain pity,
Like the one lodged in the throat.”
At this snatch was a key to discussion,
For the master was a scoundrel always;
The master refused the lad and so innocence
Arrives, with queer things, queer ways,
Like the pity of a lifetime at the house.
“Flit out of doors so that you arrive,
Feeling able as you do, like a fine lad”;
The keys turn the door to alleviate the suffering
And then knowledge arrives to mock,
Feeling the fire of the mansion and everything.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Too Much
As a slave observes his master and so grows
Familiar in his ways (though still in fee)
I have studied Love to bend his blows
Hoping, eventually, to be free:
Meet his every visit with reproaches
When he calls you quickly, quickly tarry
Never seek him, wait till he approaches
Leaving banks where he is known to dally.
Learn to become the Master's master
Master cast as servant of the servant's
Remember Love evaporates the faster
Proportionate to how you offer urgence.
But if you're sick of peace and sanity
Feel free to disregard this monody.
poem by Morgan Michaels
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Priced to move quickly
This is an exclusive listing,
one of the nicer properties we've had.
If you like it, you should make an offer.
It won't stay on the market long.
They intended it as a retirement home.
The house itself is only five years old.
The kitchen is fully appliance,
everything in mint condition,
hardly used at all.
The dining area sits six.
If you remove this leaf,
it's perfect for two.
As we move into the living room
I should point out,
the larger sofa's a sleeper.
And look at this view!
You can walk across your lawn
and be at the beach.
They were married twenty-five years.
Notice that there are two full baths
with lots of counter space
and cupboards for storage.
The master bedroom gets sun all morning
and you have direct outside access
through these double doors.
The fence, streetside, and the trees in back
afford complete privacy.
There's a divorce involved.
They've attached a complete list
of everything that goes with the property.
It's all here, the dishes, pots and pans,
appliances, two sofas,
the dining set, the two canvas chairs
on the desk outside the master bedroom.
In fact, the form says it comes furnished
with everything but hope.
Would you like to make an offer?
©1993
poem by Lynn Cohen
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a picture of roger Y.
he falls asleep
rocking himself on
a molave
chair
he is the model
of life in
old exhaustion
his mouth is open
the wind enters freely
his hands on the arm
of a chair
his feet on the marble
railing of the
veranda of the house
hard and cold.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The master's tools will never dismantle the master's house.
quote by Audre Lorde
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Chair Don't make the Man
People see me in this chair and whisper look at that poor man over there. They believe my life is wasted all because I’m in this chair. Well I got some to say that I want you all to hear. Just like clothes don’t really make a man neither does a chair. The chair is just what I use to get me for here to there. Just like people who walk use their legs to get them everywhere. Because besides the chair I’m just like you; I laugh, I cry and yes I have sex too. Now that you all know the next time you see me don’t whisper look at that poor man over there. In fact don’t say anything just remember the chair don’t make the man.
‘Petra’
That dog over there is called Petra,
she sits staring out of the window.
For a while now she’s been whining;
as though she’s filled with sorrow.
She’s probably waiting for her master,
because he often went out alone.
After two days she’s obediently waiting,
by the window of an empty home.
They say it’s six days since he left her
without a meal, a thought, or care,
but he never stepped out of the house,
he left her while he sat in the chair.
poem by Orlando Belo
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Every Face Tells A Story
Look at the man in the corner, hes sitting all alone
His blankets are made out of cardboard,
His pillows are made out of stone
Every face tells a story it never tells a lie
Every face tells a story it never tells a lie
See the man walking on the water, see the light in his eyes
He came into the world with a message to tell,
He came into the world to die
Every face tells a story it never tells a lie
Every face tells a story it never tells a lie
Youre always telling stories, youre always telling me lies
Youre always telling stories, why?
So think of yourself in the water, seeing your days flashing by
Its too late to see what you wanted to be,
Youve spent all your time, you must die
Every face tells a story it never tells a lie
Every face tells a story it never tells a lie
Step down
And make it work out right
Im trying to get to you with my warning
Been there
For nearly half the night
Look its nearly four in the morning
song performed by by Cliff Richard
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Mimics in a kitchenette
A spoon in the rack
Beside sugar and salt jars.
Spoon mutters;
'I love both of you and you're like twins
But it complicates me without tasting you
How do I jump to the old Master's
Cup of Tea?
Kettle whistles and the Master still asleep.'
Parrot in the cage whispers;
'On holidays Master won't wake up early.'
Then who poured water into the kettle? '
'Don't you know Master brought a sweet *bride last night.'
[*A job agency has supplied a house-maid from a rural village.]
It is sad to grow old but nice to ripen.
-Brigitte Bardot
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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