A Prayer
Thick skinned hands peeling like potatoes
If I...
Pull them back
Slowly remove these layers
Of dirty skin
Smelling of earth and rain and sage
I find the sin
The damp unlit room
Covered over by palms tight
Clasped in the middle
Hidden in the folds
Of those hands
poem by Aria Siren
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Forgetting......
the hands of time swindle us
just this morning a tight bud loosens
its collars
that morning upon a glimmer
wink of
a second, night folds unfolds like
disco lights
you dance and you dropp your
body
you cling to uncertainties
the hands of time drops you
in the middle of nowhere
and you ask where is this place?
you are right there
but this time your skin
has only bones
your neighbor who once fished with you
in the river
cannot recognize you
you too forget
what time is it what is this place
who am i?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Obsession (revised)
to believe that there are heights to my own glory
is no longer possible.
On that day in that room, where they wear
all their thick glasses, their hands have already done
what should not have been done.
I was weak, and my mouth did not open.
They kill every poem i had in my palms.
They were doves.
They said they were bats.
Black bats.
No, i said they are the whitest doves i have.
They are even angels.
They were laughing.
Some giggled.
And they
said, 'Crucify him, crucify him! '
IT was an obsession.
That i have butterflies on my hair.
That there were
red roses in my fingers.
There were none, in fact.
What i had are mere words.
Syllables of my survival.
When i left that room, i did not admit that it was my mistake.
Far from that,
i look again at my hands in the mirror,
and i saw
vines, fragile tendrils, and they are so alive, like
dragonflies.
One understands somehow, that we write, not because we want
to have a brand, a name, a tattoo
a heart, a rose, an arrow, blood dripping
NO. That is not so. We write because we are here and our fingers
are always incomplete.
We press our palms on our chest and we say
Look i love myself, and this all i got.
Let me write and let it all be about me.Not for those thick glasses
Inside that room.Their rules are not mine.
I have mine only to give.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I Dreamed.... (Hands)
i dreamed last night...
and all i could see were hands.
sometimes hard and calloused,
sometimes soft and feminine.
skilled hands, laborer's hands,
loving hands, nurturing hands....
fingers digging in the dirt,
fingers holding a pen.
fingers playing a piano,
fingers unbuttoning blouses.
hands extended, hands gripping the rope,
hands holding the shovel,
hands covered with resin.
hands folded in prayer,
hands balled into fists.
hands stuffed in empty pockets.
hands that define both history,
and destiny!
hands scarred and bruised,
hands covered with age spots.
hands that speak many languages.
hands that know mistakes, and failures.
hands that built fires,
hands that put fires out!
hands that wiped away tears,
that picked up trash,
and revealed souls....
whose hands?
my hands, your hands?
god's hands?
does it really matter?
hands engaged and involved,
in the very act of living!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Blue Jeans I Remember
the blue jeans i remember
after a very cold season
in that coconut farm
tight blue jeans
smelling my swelling
legs
and dirty with saline
taste
unwashed in the corner
of my room
i always see your
warm hands
sliding
inside them
damn blue jeans
spare my sanity!
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Layers
You must consider that everything is layered
The earth has layers of air, water, soil, rock, fire to its
Core
Molten fire
A fruit has layers of an external cover
Something hard, then soft and a
Sometimes a hollow core
A cake has layers too of sugar coating
Moist cake
And chocolate
End layer
My body has layers of skin
Tissue, flesh, bone
And nerves and
Marrow
The core can be hollow
And the mind
The soul has layers of understanding
Layers and layers of consciousness
To sub consciousness
Ego superego
To a layer
Beyond our grasp
Tips of the tongues
Slippages
Déjà vu
Memory gaps
Did we meet somewhere?
Do I remember you?
These sorts of some things
That happen which we know we can explain yet we can’t
Something somewhere
Could be
What if
Was I there somewhere sometime?
She somehow touches me and I feel it
I don’t really remember when
That smile that you wear was the same smile I saw somewhere
Foggy places, opaque faces, vague bodies hugging us in dreams
Murky rivers bathing us hazy rains lazily sizing Zen in showers
Some windows in some house
Remaining close
My heart is light and it is flying like a little light bird on its first wing
There is always a sense of awe and wonder to everything that I do here
An onion peeling, layer by layer, tear by tear
Here. I am. Here I am becoming unfolding to another beginning
No entries and no exits
Off limits, nothing yet allowed.
Meanwhile I am breathing, smelling something somewhere.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Covered In Rain
These days, with the world getting colder,
She spends more time sleeping over
Than I planned.
Tonight were gonna order in,
Drinking wine and watch some cnn.
Its dark I know but then again
Its the brightest thing I got
When Im covered in rain
When Im covered in rain, rain, rain, rain
No, I am covered in rain, rain
Firewoods to fire places
Summer snow and fallen places
Now were people watching other people, people watching you and i
Standing by the missing signs at the cvs by the checkout line
Put your tiny hands in mine
Cause your the brightest thing I got
When youre covered in rain
Cause Im covered in rain
Cause Im covered in rain
No Im covered in rain
And its alright
If you dont want to go on
And its alright
If you dont want to be alone
And its alright
If you dont want to go home
Come december lydia left
Mentioned something about it being for the best
And I cant say I disagree
Now Im standing facing west
Tracing my fingers round a silhouette
I havent gotten used to yet
But its the brightest thing I got
And Im covered in rain
Cus Im covered in rain
Cus Im covered in rain
You and me and everyone, covered in rain
song performed by by John Mayer
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Torture
I'm in the room without a light
The room without a view
I'm here for one more treacherous night
Another night with you
It tortures me to move my hands
To try to move at all
And pulled
My skin so tight it screams
And screams and screams
And pulls some more
Hanging like this
Like a vampire bat
Hanging like this
Hanging on your back
I'm helpless again
My body is cut and broken
It's shattered and sore
My body is cut wide open
I can't stand anymore
It tortures me to move my hands
To try to move at all
And pulled
My skin so tight screams
And screams and screams
And screams some more
Hanging like this
Like a vampire bat
Hanging like this hanging on your back
Oh it's torture
And i'm almost there
It's torture
But i'm almost there
It's torture
But i'm almost there
It's torture
But i'm almost there
song performed by by Cure
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My Hands Thine Girdle
My hands thine girdle I clasp thee tight
And embrace you with my soul's might
Swaying in my hands, dallying in thy mist
In starry night with calm air admist
Dancing to our moving stillness
We move the earth, O my goodness!
My hands, thine girdle
I feel thine fertile
Soul spring in
My soul's skin
As the earth moves
To our own grooves
Our souls touch
Our hearts clutch.
With my hands, thine girdle
poem by Kevin Michael Murphy
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These Hands
Given by God -are these hands!
One can do many things -with these hands
With love one can help a strangers' hands-
Allay and comfort the elders' gnarled hands
Clean sweep and mop with these hands
Decorate and embellish with these hands
Cook and serve food to all with these hands
Clasp a loved one with these hands
Applaud one with pleasure with these hands
Dig the soil and form a garden with these hands
Hold a book to read with these hands
Write and post a card with these hands
Type a poem to cheer someone with these hands
Draw a picture and sew clothes with these hands
Paint a beautiful scene to amuse with these hands
Play a game of volley ball or cricket with these hands
Swim the waters and row a boat with these hands
Pick the harvests and fruits with these hands
Feed the animals and birds with these hands
Seek the warmth of dear ones with these hands
Feel the soft petals of a flower with these hands
Fold the palms to pray with these hands
Given by God - are these hands!
poem by Chandra Thiagarajan
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Secrets Of The Loving Person
the room where you sleep
does not take hold of you
your bed cannot be part of your skin
and your windows are nothing but
the ordinary closing and opening
of your day
you like a door that opens
to nowhere
you have diamonds in your hands
you spread them
in the garden and you see
how they all glitter for a while
darkness folds and
light of another day opens
you take a walk and whistle
you don't remember the color of the blanket
you forget what warmth was there on that bed
you do not care whether the windows are closed or open
you move to another house
and tell your stories all over again
there is no blink in your eyes
there is no stammering in your tongue
you do not tell them what you love
there are no hands too familiar to hold you back
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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No Attachments
the room where you sleep
does not take hold of you
your bed cannot be part of your skin
and your windows are nothing but
the ordinary closing and opening
of your day
you like a door that opens
to nowhere
you have diamonds in your hands
you spread them
in the garden and you see
how they all glitter for a while
darkness folds and
light of another day opens
you take a walk and whistle
you don't remember the color of the blanket
you forget what warmth was there on that bed
you do not care whether the windows are closed or open
you move to another house
and tell your stories all over again
there is no blink in your eyes
there is no stammering in your tongue
you do not tell them what you love
there are no hands too familiar to hold you back
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Do Not Worry
Take your right hand,
Palm facing up,
And line your fingers
With your teeth.
Hold firmly onto the roof of your mouth.
Do the same with your left hand,
But grip your chin.
Move your hands in opposite directions
Until you hear your jaw cracking
Against the pressure
You put yourself through.
Let your face relax
Back into place.
Let your elastic skin
Rubber-band back into the folds
Sagging over the shadows on your face.
Let it cover your wrinkles
And worry lines.
Then, try again.
Try to unfold your head.
Open it like a book.
Expose your throat to the wind
To let it blow the words
You couldn't speak away.
Split your lips at the seams,
So that a smile may spread its way
Across your rigid cheeks.
Do not worry when your skull
Whacks against your back
And ricochets into the air.
Do not worry when your jaw
Slaps and swings at your chest
By the light current of the breeze.
Do not worry when your blood
Spills all over,
Drenching the dirty ground
And the eyes of everyone
As they watch you
Pull yourself apart.
Do not worry.
poem by Tim Stensloff
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To Remove A Boredom
anxieties live in the hair
like the number of locks
the white particles in scalp
someone suggests that to remove them
one must try loving a goldfish
that you put in an aquarium
one that you can love and yet cannot love back
one that you speak with
and yet cannot answer back
it is a love in silence where
silence becomes a necessity
or to see an aggression
one need put too little food to so many fish
and see how they all display
actuation in the middle of their hunger
sometimes one feels it too
walking under the rain some people are looking
yet we cannot look back
somethings like what they tell us
and caress us
with all our hands tightly tied
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Open Palms (Kissing You Goodbye)
I've been here so long
That I've forgotten
Where I am
Trapped
Suffocating
Straight-jacketed
Clasped
So tightly
In your hands
Don't get me wrong
These prison walls
Are more lovely than most
And I wouldn't mind
Being held
If it wasn't for the host
You keep me here
With no hope of
Being set free
And if I'll ever
Climb from your
Hands to your heart
There is no guarantee
That you'll even let me stay
And now I've caught a draft
And I'm not sure if with you
I want to play
So I believe its
Time for you
To let me have reprieve
And I'll softly kiss goodbye
Your open palms
Before I take
My leave
poem by Aria Siren
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Welcome To The Door Of Freedom
this is the door of freedom
you just got in
i have a room beyond this room
no one has entered yet
between this door and my room
is a space
this is where some pieces of my are left
but soon they will be taken back
to be kept inside my palms
to be hidden once again from you
when you get in
you will be introduced to the ritual of knowing
what you do not know
what you cannot know
what shall be hidden forever from you
and you shall be a little bit
disappointed
but you must insist
you have to repeat your name many times
you will sort out the letters
there are onions and chilies
they will make you cry
and then you will wish upon another door
this time it is your door
towards your own room
you will doubt about breathing
about windows and exits
and then you begin to ask
if all these are worth it
you decide.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Candles Of Delight
When silowets dance in the night,
to classical music from a distant light,
robes undune just right infront of window paines,
soft skin kissed by flickering candles
now blow out,
just as two hands clasped,
then leave that theater to delight,
into another place, another room.
poem by Walter C. Edwards
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His Hands
His hands should have
their own identity,
a name perhaps,
befitting each vocation
they enjoy.
Skillful hands -
finely tuned, they hold every tool
with equal panache.
Each callous earned, a trophy,
yet self-aware, they're gentle
as they browse my every curve.
Comical hands -
the right one scraping whiskers,
razoring down a field of white
revealing trails of pink-skinned angles.
I laugh at the silly poses
skewed by the left
so the right won't miss a spot,
my just reward, a foamy kiss.
Angry hands -
his driving hands,
hands that slap the wheel
as assholes go too slow
or cut in front,
directionals up their butts
with their heads.
I'm glad the angry hands
are only known to live in cars.
Those hands...
I love his hands.
It Was Raining Every Night
Spatter scraping oblique lines
in the dark of night thick curtains
The lines are sharper
Chills dipped to earth
Since the skin was peeling off his skin soil crust
due to prolonged dry heat
soil crust full of pus
Peeling due to heat
exposed to rain water droplets
without stopping,
overnight.
While dozens of coconut-leaf penjor
In the aisles, wilted down listless
young couples kissed my cheek
ask for intercession
while in the corner of the building party
spinster, shredding wishful anganya
With sword swords reality
held tightly in his right hand
At the top of his age,
When it fell on the edge of the lips Kabah
As I asked in prayer,
Is this the end of all trips
Dreams
At the edges, relentless
She was crying in the rain first remarks
When he moved into the realm of real
From the dreams that had long
He pujas, in the struggle of desire
current drought
He cries and notes, this first rain
The first date in the year 1434 Hijri
The men were passing in front of the door
Go away, no matter
With every season,
And all the struggles that have passed
In the years hijrah or BC
Bah, what did she care
With a record of it.
I'm hungry,
Not to breakfast,
poem by Prasetya Utama
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My heart is my hands
My hands
Is
Only my hands...
Not for
your hands....
So...
I want too work
My hands...
I want too serve
My hands...
I want to do about
Somthing of my
Hands...
My hands is
Free for only
Sleeping time only...
my hands is
working all the times
My hands not only
Hands...
It is human workers...
Allways for my friends...
My hands...is my heart...
My heart is my hands.....
Ok...How is your hands...?
poem by Otteri Selvakumar
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In The Hands Of Man
If the hearts opaque
Not ever yearns for
A concerted evidence
To hold captive
Wonders of this claim
Stands at ease even
In states unborn and
Accents yet unknown
In the palms of man
Where evil recedes from
Multitudes Incompetence
Becomes the ascendancy
In the hands of man
Where harmony turns
Out to be a prospect
Persistence ever renders
A certainty
In the palms of man
Where familiarity always
Breeds contempt
Indecision surrenders as
Thief of time
In the hands of man
One's entitlement wither
Just as one sighs for relief
In the hands of fellow man
Repercussions assumes the
Spectrum of day light
In the hands of man
poem by Prince Kenny Osei
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