I consider looseness with words no less of a defect than looseness of the bowels.
quote by John Calvin
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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. . . I consider looseness with words no less of a defect than looseness of the bowels.
quote by John Calvin
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I used to think then that I was Bohemian, but I know now that I am not. I prefer order and precision to untidiness and looseness.
quote by Conrad Veidt
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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i will not be fooled by Prudence
i have seen the old man
die. His face spell regrets
and no matter how the funeral
make-up artist stretched
his slips, he never formed
a smile.
I know him.
He was during his younger days
a very prudent man
He observed strictly the codes
of restraint
and refused an offer of
looseness and being
free.
He prays a lot
and reports to God
all his misgivings.
He was a handsome young man
and women adored him
But he only had one wife
one woman all in his lifetime
who never sired
him a child.
This was his prime
misfortune.
He was erased from
the genetic tree
Forever.
His wife died ahead of him
and He prayed a lot
not to betray her
even when
more women still
are willing to sleep with
him.
For after all despite his age
he was still a man
with a lovable face.
Then suddenly he died.
Absurd. He died in sleep
A happy death perhaps without
the accompanying torture
of pain and
waiting.
But no matter what,
his face in that coffin
never shows
a hint of the joy
of eternal
peace, that inevitable
rest.
I know him
He has a misgiving.
He was fooled by Prudence.
He was a slave of
His own morality always fearing
what society may name him after.
He died a lonely man.
Erased by time.
Fooled by his own Prudence.
I look at him before he was buried.
And i made a promise with him.
I am not a fool and i will not be fooled
to suffer the same fate he had.
I will choose looseness.
Happiness. The one which is always free
Unrestrained by anyone else's code of Morality.
Subjective, as i have always known
it to be.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Wedding Ring
this ring does not fit my finger anymore
emaciated time and wrinkled promises
the tendency on this looseness may soon
make this wedding ring fall from my bone
& flesh but there is this bond that ties us still.
It shall stay though the hand feels nothing anymore.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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That Sense Of Outrage....
i would have said something
direct to the point
like an arrow to the heart of the tree
i could have shouted eureka
i could have followed my heart and walked away and find
a home in someone's face
i could have been someone that you have never known
a handshake that you have never felt
we could have been more intimate than friends
contented in the poverty of our souls
but it is not just possible
i don't mind the hardship or the looseness
but it is not just possible
it does not fit, something feels so good but at a distance
it is ugly and undesirable
and for a moment when i search for my true face and find it
it becomes so horrible
it gives me this sense of outrage that i have never lived at all.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Looseness of Lips
Once they begin to flap without touch.
Flip and flapping back learned early...
And we adored them so much!
Once they were told twice to shut up.
And nothing could stop them.
Not even a spanking butt!
Then they began to get tight,
Disobeying and stubborn.
Making mommy think...
Of putting her own head in the oven!
Then one day,
The looseness of lips starts to calm.
When a twelve year old girl has a boy on her arm.
And daddy and mommy are looking quite alarmed.
Unbelieving they sit and pray,
Their daughter's baby isn't born...
Or an abortion is on the way!
And nothing is said about safe sex!
Gone into elusiveness is loose lips next regret!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Because of It I Give
I am in this,
Out of love.
With devotion unexplained.
I am in this,
Trained or not.
To undo tied knots.
With a looseness freed.
Without pressure to exhaust,
Or stress and strain my brain.
I am in this,
Because I must.
And trusting what I do,
Is sustained to maintain,
That which I know.
Until my life returns,
To become again part of Earth's crust.
Dusting from a shedding done.
To grow,
Regardless of the circumstance.
With a drive to produce and deliver,
Not to reduce that voice within.
With an encouragement to take chances.
Sometimes screaming to be heard.
And I can not help but let it out.
Whether whispered or shouted!
I am not one to pout and walk about.
I am in this,
Out of love.
And because of it,
I give.
Since it is there...
To share,
And offer!
And that is how it is.
Out of love for it in me to give.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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A Summer Poem
tokyo summer, the blazing sun heats up
the air, the road and the beach opening up
the avenues and lanes for new friendships
a riotious crowd have stamped a mishmash trail
of excitements and robust spirits of adventures
a young sun rising on the horizon of our gaze
is witnessed by another matching alluring pair,
the azure sky and sea
with the looseness of the sand at our feet
the crispness of our breath and the
the tightness of our grasp
we we look into each other's eyes and
feel the heat of many more summers
rising and touching our hearts
the surging waves leading
us to somewhere divine
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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The Passing Away Of Orange Shades
you gather symbols
the metaphors confuse you but just the same
you take a stone, a rose, a knife
chunks of clouds for a dinner
of loneliness
the night appears like a steel pipe
singing the songs of the winds
on empty holes
the rust are many and the powder of
regrets stumble upon the circular edge
of day
south of the moon's directions
against the coldness of the walls
you listen for something that you do not like to hear
you grapple for the touch
of looseness
dripping sounds from the bottom of
the orange sun sinking on the line of
black horizon
until you see nothing but the humming of the soul
inside your brain
nothing seems significant
except the murmur
that old murmur that becomes a chant
to survive the havoc of the day
you paint a sigh using some
fixtures of the firmaments dissolving while a meteor passes away
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Flower To Auroville Mother 27
Kozhi Kondai(Cockscomb crested, Cockscomb Plumed,
Silver Cockscomb)
(Celosia argentea var. cristata, Celosia argentea var. plumosa
Celosia argentea var. spicata)
Sisters here aren't similar in semblance
Aren't in shades, shapes albeit beautiful
Crested, plumed, silvery but in loamy sameness
Their parade is garden in garlanded circle
Shaking their strong veined leafy hands
Proud is one with her clusters of crested style
Next with a plumed do of feathery looseness
Third on upright base of a silver-smile
Celosia sisters on march feting healthful colours
Dulcet breeze, ever the voice over of their carnival
poem by Indira Renganathan
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Most Of What I Have Is
Anger, bull anger, dragon anger
Tiger anger,
Strong anger of twisters,
For the one I truly and truly love,
The desert and the volcanic ash
The ungiving, the unyielding
It is like,
A dead pond
Murky, brackish water,
It is the dwelling of
A porcupine-fish, just that,
It does not even swim
Or tried learning the art
Of swimming
It is my pain
This is my pain that I painted
On a piece of paper
One dark line in black
At the end at the rightmost tip
Is the red
Tip of iron-hot jagged-edge acetylene torch fire
It is aimed in my head in my heart
It is anger
That is angry to itself
And so everything in this pond dies,
The moss, the lilies,
The tadpoles the catfish the last catfish
Of this pond
Died the other day the frogs Stopped croaking since
The toads found warts on their throats
It is anger
A blizzard
Burst my eardrums
She may sing the songs
Of love to my deaf
Ears
Perforated Eardrums of anger
It is anger That keeps me alive
Its only desire Is to kill This anger this looseness
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Structural Defect
STRUCTURAL DEFECT
Once a strong bridge built with concrete and steel
Supporting the ways of those that travel
Standing so strong, no signs of dismay
Only to drop, no longer erect
Looking so firm, looking so tough
It couldn’t stay arise
There’s a structural defect
Being so coy, distracted by success
Caught off guard by actions of nature
Flaunting the muscles of which it was given
Only to fall, no strength is left
Tumble to the ground, destruction at hand
No chance for fulfillment
There’s a structural defect
Created for speed and power, it functions with ease
Yet sensitive and fragile, susceptive to failure
Years will pass, no signs of defeat
A structure of distress
One day, out of the blue
It came crashing down
There’s a structural defect
Mike Farris Jr.
1/27/09
poem by Mike Farris Jr.
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Chapter 8
Goodnight teaser.
With your emptiness,
And suspicous intent!
You sent two drinks,
From the bartender with a wink!
Believing a weakness,
Will provide a hook up to link!
Goodnight teaser.
I've seen you hop from table to stool.
Flirting with your looseness glimpse,
Hoping to attract unescorted fools!
I happen to be in research...
Observing singles at meat bars!
And if you have read the note I've sent,
You'll discover my taste for raw oysters and caviar!
Goodnight teaser.
I will probably be up real late!
I will put some wine on ice at 10.
And if you're not knocking on room 815...
By midnight,
Then...
You will be much too late!
Goodnight teaser.
I'm seeking a subject...
On those who tempt old geezers!
To complete my findings,
And put a close to chapter 8...
With a bit of social unwinding,
I could use and appreciate!
Goodnight teaser.
I have a view to share that's nice!
If you decide you will like to be satisfied...
Knock softly once,
Pause...
With a 'knock knock' twice!
('Chapter 8' a 'Theory of Employment, Interest and Money'
written by JOHN MAYNARD KEYNES (1883-1946))
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The source of every Crime, is some defect of the Understanding; or some error in Reasoning, or some sudden force of the Passions. Defect in the Understanding, is Ignorance; in Reasoning, Erroneous Opinion.
quote by Thomas Hobbes
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Good Night Old Self
unlike before,
when i unlock a door
in a house where i have lived all alone
for years
i feel like crying
hearing the sound of the living room
in the anguish of the
silence that it has never chosen
there is always the imagined sound of rain and
it is eerie
there is a spiteful
space that is always trying to strangle you
a hollow hole inside
my guts
i must have gone beyond the demarcation line
or i must have jumped that fence
having grown longer
these pair of legs that have outgrown the
looseness of corduroy pants
now it is different
i feel the content of having to accept that when i was born
i never had a twin
now the silence of this room is comforting
telling me that the crowd in fact does not serve
but chokes you as well
with whatever whims it has
what to do with my life
or where to do things the way they should be properly done
i am fed up with all these dictates of the mob
i have proclaimed that i am a different reality
in fact more beautiful than the face of the average
the many, the crowding people
as i open this door, i hear the song of my own silence
sweeter than ever
i leave my dirty shoes
take off my stinking socks
i lie my body on the soft sofa
and take my sleep
i don't even need a television to make my eyes
weary and
thus have the much needed sleep.
good night old self. I shall dream anew.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The bowels support the heart, and not the heart the bowels.
D7
Straight as an arrow
Defect defect
Not straight, not so straight
Reject reject
Towards anti-social
Solo solo
Standing on the stairs
Cold, cold morning
Ghostly image of fear
Mayday mayday
Gonna leave this region
Theyll take me with them
Demension seven
song performed by by Nirvana
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Secret of the Sun
Raised by the bare bones of nature’s grace,
my home held hands with the feral forest,
where nature hid her gold.
I have heard palm trees whisper their stories
I have listened to the silent full moon quietly teach
lessons of those who had lived.
I know of the green secrets of the earth
Soft voices of searching roots that sprout forth, cluster
around my hut to tell.
I am from the bowels of Africa,
I understand the tongue of the wild.
I have swayed to the blue songs of humming birds that fill the
tree branches with their nests.
I have had breakfast plucked ripe off the tree
and lunch caught right from the river.
I have aimed a stick in the forest and secured supper.
I am from the bowels of Africa,
where nature’s breast milk flows from palm trees
and every suckle leaves a smile on wrinkled ebony faces.
I am from the bowels of Africa,
I have seen rains held up at the summons of wooden carved gods.
women foretell events of the next day, and men
hear voices of elders long dead.
I am from the bowels of Africa
I am carolled to dreamland by
crickets, frogs and fireflies
that mime nature’s song at night fall
I am from the bowels of Africa,
I am the dark secret held by the sun
Umbarr
To vegetate with weeds,
And like an edifice on your love!
But i am Umbarr in the land of your muse,
And i do have more to say.
Concerned,
Surprised,
Facility,
Priority;
But with a defect! !
And like the muse of war;
But heeding to your words has motivated my status.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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On fidelity
I don't ask you to be faithful - you're beautiful, after all -
but just that I be spared the pain of knowing.
I make no stringent demands that you should really be chaste,
but only that you try to cover up.
If a girl can claim to be pure, it's the same as being pure:
it's only admitted vice that makes for scandal.
What madness, to confess by day what's wrapped in night,
and what you've done in secret, openly tell!
The hooker, about to bed some Roman off the street
still locks her door first, keeping out the crowd:
will you yourself then make your sins notorious,
accusing and prosecuting your own crime?
Be wise, and learn at least to imitate chaste girls,
and let me believe you're good, though you are not.
Do what you do, but simply deny you ever did:
there's nothing wrong with public modesty.
There is a proper place for looseness: fill it up
with all voluptuousness, and banish shame;
but when you're done there, then put off all playfulness
and leave your indiscretions in your bed.
There, don't be ashamed to lay your gown aside
and press your thigh against a pressing thigh;
there take and give deep kisses with your crimson lips;
let love contrive a thousand ways of passion;
there let delighted words and moans come ceaselessly,
and make the mattress quiver with playful motion.
But put on with your clothes a face that's all discretion,
and let Shame disavow your shocking deeds.
Trick everyone, trick me: leave me in ignorance;
let me enjoy the life of a happy fool.
Why must I see so often notes received - and sent?
Why must I see two imprints on your bed,
or your hair disarrayed much more than sleep could do?
Why must I notice love bites on your neck?
You all but flaunt your indiscretions in my face.
Think of me, if not of your reputation.
I lose my mind, I die, when you confess you've sinned;
I break out in cold sweat from hand to foot;
I love you then, and hate you - in vain, since I must love you;
I wish then I were dead - and you were too!
I won't investigate or check whatever you try
to hide: I will be thankful to be deceived.
But even if I catch you in the very act
and look on your disgrace with my own eyes,
deny that I have seen what I have clearly seen,
and my eyes will agree with what you claim.
You'll win an easy prize from a man who wants to lose,
only remember to say, 'I didn't do it.'
Since you can gain your victory with one short phrase,
win on account of your judge, if not your case.
- translated from the Latin by Jon Corelis