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Well, Say It As You See It
it is nice
yes, always the feeling is nice
when you call a spade a spade
lets your heart out
nothing tightens
or chokes
nothing to vomit
at the end
nothing hidden
well, they laid the principle
of candid honesty
say it as it pleases you
not as it pleases them
always, yes, always
call a spade a spade
that is rule # one
honesty, that lonely word
well, i learned it by heart
learning to say
what is in my mind
but what do i get?
nothing
everyone is displeased
with my honesty
that i am one tactless
form of shit
this monstrous mammal
this elephant with a tusk
this snake with a venom
this mischievous child
laughing at the
naked emperor
without clothes
well, yes, i still say what i see
calling a spade always a spade
and what do i get?
yes, this one,
nothing but this one
this poetry
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Not to call a spade a spade
Don't call her a concubine.
Say she in live-in-relationship.
Don't call her a harlot.
Say she has many companions.
Don't call her adulterous.
Say she is with easy virtue.
Don't call a spade a spade
Lest it should be offended.
15.05.2012
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Spade
The beauty spot was borrowed
Now my sweet knife rusts tomorrow
I'm a confession that is waiting to be heard
Burn your empty rain down on me
Whisper your deathbeat so softly
We bend our knees at the alter of my ego
You drained my heart, and made a spade
There's still traces of me in your veins
You drained my heart, and made a spade
There's still traces of me in your veins
All my lilies' mouths are open, like they're begging for dope and hoping
their bitter petal chant, "we can kick, you wont be back"
Im a diamond that is tired, of all the faces i've aquired, we must secure the shadow ere the substance fades
You drained my heart, and made a spade
There's still traces of me in your veins
You drained my heart, and made a spade
There's still traces of me in your veins
And we said 'til we die
And we said 'til we die
You drained my heart, and made a spade
There's still traces of me in your veins
You drained my heart, and made a spade
There's still traces of me in your veins
You drained my heart, and made a spade
There's still traces of me in your veins
You drained my heart, and made a spade
There's still traces of me in your veins
And we said 'til we die
And we said 'til we die
song performed by by Marilyn Manson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I may die
I am not the one who will ditto,
Seek someone else to serve your purpose,
I call a spade spade,
If you compell me to do so,
I may die,
For the burden is unbearable
To my heart.
poem by Mohammad Akmal Nazir
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Nearby
Say a spade
a spade
see all fade.
Face the sky
find everything
nearby.
poem by Gajanan Mishra
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My pride is…
I earn within which I eat and wear.
No jealousy, no begging either.
Calling a spade a spade, I’m content..
My pride is to live within my means.
10.07.2010
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Figs he calls figs, a spade a spade. [Said of a man who speaks with sincerity and means what he says.]
Call A Spade A Spade
at that very young age
you were taught to call a spade a spade
and a square a square. There are no exceptions to the rule.
There are no compromises with the truth.
Then you grow to be a very nice, self-made man.
You practice what was taught to you.
And you meet pain and disappointments.
And you suspect that the teachers are wrong.
Time teaches you.
Squares sometimes become rectangles on an extension of a principle
to accommodate a compromise of a certain shape.
A spade need not be a spade depending on who gets axed.
A square peg you sometimes put in a round hole and it does not matter
really what happens next. You are simply told to do so as ordered.
And what is important is that they like it.
You survive the hazards of this life.
You become successful on the science of compromise,
the art of plea bargaining, the techniques of human relations.
You get some plaques for a lessened self-restraint.
You get the awards and recognitions for being their man of the year.
And one day you look at yourself in the mirror.
You see a different face and you do not like it anymore.
You quit and hide. You go away. You want to be left alone.
You want to reinvent yourself and listen to the voice.
Carefully, you cure the sickness of success.
All you need is a self who accepts yourself. All you need is the touch
of your hand. The applause has become pain itself.
And there you are, finding the truth again.The real meaning.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Better Way
There’s a better way of digging
Than that, Uncle said, taking the
Spade from your hands and showing
You with a craftsman’s touch how
It should be done. You watched in
Wonder how with ease and skill he’d
Made the trench begin to shape far
More quickly than your frail work
Produced. He handed you back the
Spade and you noticed the calluses
That years of using spades and other
Workman’s tools had made. He took
Hold of your hand and turned it over,
Gazed intently and smiled and shook
His head. Such lily-white hands were
Made for pen not spade or hoe or rake,
He said, finish what’s started, lad, then
Return to your studies and pen instead.
poem by Terry Collett
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The Metaphoric Garden...
all the while, literalism
is wished. Why bother with some
allusions? One can be direct
to the point and be
understood point-blank,
no holds bar, black is black
and white is white,
a spade is a spade is a spade,
the cause is that which the cause
is caused,
bluntly, candidly,
what the heck is this
going around the bush
and figuring out
what is hidden through
symbols and
concealed through some
metaphors....
but my dear, this
is the realm of what we want you to know
and on the other hand
we also want you not to know
so well....
and that is, precisely
this thrill, remember those imaginary
toads in the
real garden?
or those real toads in the
imaginary garden,
feel them, they are all here,
hear them, but my god, by god,
you cannot see them
here... not yet....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The scare crow
was always scaring me
near the big
tamarind tree
never thought I would
encounter it
at the graduation
I had failed to qualify
and my intellectual abilities
had defeated me
and calling a spade
a spade
can be misleading
when it is actually
a magic carpet.
The scare crow
is a test of
others' courage
where as a Jatayu
is courage himself.
poem by Prathibha Nandakumar
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How I Wish All Things Are Simpler Then
when no is a no
and yes is a yes
when a spade is a spade
when a diamond
remains to be a diamond
when you are true
as i was once.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Seek nuts for your spanner.
The one who likes being towed is the conventional.
The one who freely mixes, ego-less, is the social.
The one who tends to probe and is alert is the Investigative.
The one who wants to be innovative is the artistic.
The one who calls spade a spade is the realistic.
The one who is self confident is the enterprising.
Each spanner is good for certain nuts.
Your spanner was cast when you were a child.
22.05.2001, Pmdi
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Who is Bold?
Who is bold?
The one who accepts one’s mistake,
Confesses one’s crime, owns one’s word
And does not flee the failure.
The one who calls a spade a spade,
Speaks truth in dame form, keeps words,
And shares others’ concerns.
Will power, muscle power or money power
Are of no use to manifest your boldness.
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Spade
In my heart, my love fades
To the small corners of dark color spades
I see it fester in its pointed edge
And to its death I solemnly pledge
"Kill my love, kill my heart"
then I smash the spade, till its love falls apart
Now all that's there, is sable ink
And into its fluid my hand does sink
I write with it all love's gain
And all we seek all in vain.
Love is not defined by anything
But a broken heart that cannot sing
In morbid ink, my soul I dress
And to love, my love I confess
My love of love, a dark spade
That kills my heart, the spade it made
I fade....
poem by Kevin Michael Murphy
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In My World Of Work
With so much paper works piling
On my desk
▓
▓
In my world where I call
a ♠ spade
a ♠ spade
I have to sing
♫ ♪ ♫ ♫ ♪ ♫ ♫ ♪ ♫ ♫ ♪ ♫
a song inside my
♥
in order to survive► ♀
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Your Philosophy
you make it candid
nothing of the non-transparent twists and turns
direct to the point
no holds bar nothing to hide
you say what is in your mind
you call a spade a spade a square is a square
not a queer queer queer ideal,
you don't write a poem it is pointless to write any
you live your life
you rhyme
you count every step like a meter
a haiku
a sonnet
you like it crisp and short and
always saying less
to anything
a trek on the mountainside
feeling the ways of the snake
rather than talk and talk
duck quacking
you say, 'plunge! '
live life
do not let it just be written by them
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Spirit Medium
POETRY, music, I have loved, and yet
Because of those new dead
That come into my soul and escape
Confusion of the bed,
Or those begotten or unbegotten
Perning in a band,
I bend my body to the spade
Or grope with a dirty hand.
Or those begotten or unbegotten,
For I would not recall
Some that being unbegotten
Are not individual,
But copy some one action,
Moulding it of dust or sand,
I bend my body to the spade
Or grope with a dirty hand.
An old ghost's thoughts are lightning,
To follow is to die;
Poetry and music I have banished,
But the stupidity
Of root, shoot, blossom or clay
Makes no demand.
I bend my body to the spade
Or grope with a dirty hand.
poem by William Butler Yeats
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