Eyes Of Mr D (Part 1)
They took the cotton gauze away
from his closed eyes.
“You can open them now Mr D.”
He opened his eyes to see hazy figures there,
black and grey images, and nothing more.
A gentle and kind voice, asked him what he saw.
“Hazy images>“He replied.
“It will be like that for a little while,
and then they will begin to clear.”
Each day his sight got better, the
haze began to clear.
Then the colour came,
and a rainbow spectrum appeared before his eyes,
of things he could never see.
A light shone through his life,
of things he had never known.
A new awakening
with images to fit the sounds.
His mind began to wonder
where his new eyes had come from.
They were not allowed to tell him,
who the donor was or anything about them.
Finally, he was released from hospital.
He went back to his flat
where he had to learn again,
where everything was now that he could see.
He smiled at the white walking stick.
He would keep it as a reminder
of how lucky he was.
Sitting in his chair in the sunshine,
as it came through the window.
Then it happened.
It was as if he were in a dream.
The images lost their colour.
He was in a place he had never seen before.
Hands reached out around the neck,
of a face he could not see.
It seemed as if
they were strangling the life out of someone there.
The body struggled and then went limp.
On the body, falling, the face was now revealed.
A young pretty face
distorted in the throes of death.
poem by David Harris
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Related quotes
Automaton
when we wake up again this morning
we do not really know what to do
we stare a while on that closed window
still blurred by the frost
we rub our eyes trying to make matters clear
and then all the impulses rush
and then with all the images filling our empty mind
there are, we begin again, so many things to be done,
so much unfinished businesses, so short a life,
time is so swift with feet so nimble.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Pictures Of Matchstick Men
Oh
Ah
Oh
Ah
When I look up to the sky
I see your eyes in a funny kind of yellow
I rush to bed I soak my head
I see your face underneath my pillow
I wake next morning tossed and yawning
I see your face come peeping through my window
Oh no
Oh
Ah
Oh
Ah
Pictures of matchstick men and you
Images of matchstick men and you
All I ever see is them and...you
Oh
Ah
Oh
Ah
Windows echo your reflection
When I look in their direction
Gone
Yeah they're gone
When will this haunting stop
Your face just won't leave me alone
Oh no
Pictures of matchstick men and you
Images of matchstick men and you
All I ever see is them and you
Oh you're in the sky
You're with this guy
You make men cry, you lie
Pictures of matchstick men (x6)
I can see those matchstick men (x6)
song performed by by Ozzy Osbourne
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Images
I think images are worth repeating
Images repeated from a painting
Images taken from a painting
From a photo worth re-seeing
I love images worth repeating
Project them upon the ceiling
Multiply them with silk screening
See them with a different feeling
Images, oh, images
Images, oh, images
Some say images have no feeling
I think theres a deeper meaning
Mechanical precision or so its seeming
Instigates a cooler feeling
I love multiplicity of screenings
Things born anew display new meanings
I think images are worth repeating
And repeating and repeating
Images, oh, images
Images, images
Im no urban idiot savant
Spewing paint without any order
Im no sphinx, no mystery enigma
What I paint is very ordinary
I dont think Im old or modern
I dont think I think Im thinking
It doesnt matter what Im thinking
Its the images that are worth repeating
And repeating, oh, images
Images
If youre looking for a deeper meaning
Im as deep as this high ceiling
If you think technique is meaning
You might find me very simple
You might think that images boring
Cars and cans and chairs and flowers
You might find me personally boring
Hammer, sickle, mao tse tong
Mao tse tong
Ooohhh, images, images
Images
I think that it bears repeating
The images upon the ceiling
I love images worth repeating
And repeating and repeating
Images, images
Oh, images, oh, images
song performed by by Lou Reed
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Indelible Images
Idelible Images
That first day of school
That first friend
Indelible Images
That first play
That first fight
Idelible Images
That first graduation
That first car
Idelible Images
That first drunk
That first sober
Idelible Images
That first love
That first forget
Idelible Images
That first death
That first realization
Indelible Images
poem by Scott Tetreault
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The Perfect Perfect Poem
Imagine that God asked you to write the perfect poem.
You sat down at the table, pen and paper at the ready.
You let your mind drift, as if in gentle wholesome prayer.
You wait for some guidance as to the main theme.
Into your mind came the title. How? You could not say.
Yet there it was, as if it were your destiny... your duty...
You write the title down and pause to think about it...
Into your mind come images, unbidden, unrehearsed.
Images unfolding, as from some midnight dream.
You think you should write down the first line.
You force the first verse to fit your new desire.
The words work well and you are warmly pleased.
With a faithful heart, you press on with joy.
The images continue and more words flow...
Who is the writer now? Who is leading the pen?
You are puzzled as the images stop suddenly.
You are given time to catch up, so all is well.
The words become eloquent, bold and fanciful.
The story becomes more than what is first known.
A hidden meaning has yet to be revealed.
You sense it is on its way and you strain to know it.
What can it be? Is it a secret from the Lord?
Is it a precious prophecy, is it a holy revelation?
And you tremble, with eyes closed tight, waiting.
'Tell me! ' you plead with God... 'Tell me! '
Then the secret comes and all you see is light.
White hot burning light, the essence of God's glory.
It is fitting to kneel in the presence of Christ.
Behold the Son of the Most High, the risen Lord...
And all that was written before means nothing.
Now is the time for revelation, for the Lord speaks.
And you are truly ready, for now is the time to write.
poem by Denis Martindale
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Back then people closed their eyes and listened to music. Today there's a lot of images that go with the music. A lot of music is crap and it's all commercial and the images are all trying to sell the record.
quote by Neil Young
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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An Unfinished Poem
The only song that is attributed to you,
And the words that create your images,
Enchant me.
The only colour,
That you opt to be clad in, on a certain day,
Enthralls me.
Only those scenes,
Which your eyes have cast a gaze upon;
Captivate my eyes.
Only the flowers,
That beam because of you,
And steal scent of your lips,
Fascinate my eyes.
If you smile, smile the ages;
These stars, moon and skies,
Flowers, colours and seasons,
Fragrance, and the throbbing heart,
And all sights sway in rapture,
Because of you.
My words too,
Formed in verses begin to flow,
In numbers, because of you.
Oh! My beloved: my life, my soul,
How long I should praise you,
For I confess, I am too deficient to reckon,
Your sweet dimensions,
In words and in images,
In metaphors and similes.
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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Dream In Colour
You wake up to tell me (that youre numb inside, that the feelings all have died)
Youre praying and youre saying (that you do believe, but I dont believe thats true)
Everything has always been there
Nothing goes away that wont come back
Youre living in a house of cards
And youre blowing down the stack
She sleeps under a rainbow
She wont dream in colour
She thinks that her soul is painted
Grey or black or white
Sleeping under a rainbow
She could dream in colour
Dream in colour tonight
Glass mirror, look in (I know its hard to see, when the one you free is you)
Sleep walking, high talking (but the colours arent real and the things you feel dont last)
You sit there looking at the sunrise
Not knowing if the day has come or gone
Wondering why it turns you off
When it never turns you on
She sleeps under a rainbow
She wont dream in colour
She thinks that her soul is painted
Grey or black or white
Sleeping under a rainbow
She could dream in colour
Dream in colour tonight
Picking at the lock on the front door
Pulling at the shutters on the windows
But youre living in a house of shadows
Even though youre lonely you think its you
Sitting at that table set for one
Youre waiting for the guest that never comes
She sleeps under a rainbow
She wont dream in colour
She thinks that her soul is painted
Grey or black or white
Sleeping under a rainbow
She could dream in colour
Dream in colour tonight
song performed by by Rick Springfield
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Three Hours After Midnight
I was lying awake trying to stop my mind from thought,
but I was losing the fight, my attention was caught.
Sleep was the last thing my mind had in store for me;
it intended to saturate my thoughts with creativity.
It mixed words and flowing colours in an extraordinary blend,
slowly, at speed, smooth, then textured, the mix had no end.
The flowing beauty made no sense; however, for a second it did,
but the speed of the images made everything appear short lived.
I couldn’t capture or freeze any image and retain it in my mind,
my memory couldn’t cope with the instantaneous designs.
The images became chaotic, as I tried to slow everything down.
I thought I’d succeeded, but it only slowed to turn things around.
I became hot and sweaty, and threw back the covers from my bed,
this mental turmoil was having an effect outside my head.
I had to get up to splash cold water over my eyes and face,
and then I just sat trying to stop my thoughts from taking place.
Eventually, feeling more relaxed I lay down and closed my eyes.
I was in a light blue sky, with soft white clouds passing slowly by.
Peace and calm had come to a turbulent and unpredictable mind,
my thoughts were pleasant and slower, at last, I’d found dream time.
poem by Orlando Belo
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Purification
high fever
your eyes losing sight
of some images
crisscrossing your
mind
you speak names
they hear
you mumble some
facts
they understand
you don't
you are on fire
you are burning
with so much heat
your hair
smells of burnt ashes
you are charred
almost to death
that is how the
feeling goes
on this purification
you wake up
the following morning
naked
and pure and very simple
you face
the window
and greets
some birds
singing on the
window sill
your eyes meet
and they chirp
seeing
the new you
you stretch
your arms
and close your eyes
this is the beginning
of your
happy moment
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Images of Time
The images in my mind is like my thoughts.
Expressing my thoughts is like expressing my feelings.
Words are spoken.All my images are broken.
Broken down into pieces, which can never be made into new dishes.
Those images of past.It takes time to last.
It will last forever for met to take over.
All those images wore my past life.
But it has nothing to do with my past life.
Those images can be forgotten.But not those people.
Those people who are in your images.Can be in a real image.
When you see those people in front of you.
You like to say 'How are you'?
If they say I am fine.Then you will think of those time.
poem by Yash Pradhan
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Images
All the images that occur in my mind
have had me think of places.
I may not have seen them in this life
But then again my memory erases
where they are from or why they are seen.
Could they be from another time?
They seem to haunt my being.
Oh that I could remember
what it is I'm seeing?
They're all mixed up with love and death
and I confess my need to know
why they've surfaced in my mind
and why they never let go.
I remember the images mostly at night
right before I sleep.
They form water-colored pictures
and sometimes make me weep.
not from sadness, but from joy.
For the images have made me think
that they have surfaced for some reason.
So from them I do not shrink.
I want them to stay. I really do.
For they connect to who I am.
For I've known since I was very young
that life after death comes again.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Collection Of Short Poems
MEANINGLESS
I looked into my soul
And saw a great emptiness that enswallowed me.
It was strange and it was dark.
A darkness so vast I fall into it.
Terrified, my heart froze
As fear’s ice hands griped it.
Big dreams and ambitions cut short by the shortness of life
My life now a black deep ocean to drown in
For this is now my fate for mine had being a vain pursuit for self.
DREAMS
The dreams,
These dreams that I dream when I sleep in my sleep.
Are so scary so dark that I awake to only find
That am trapped in the dusty dream of dreaminglessness.
Am lost like a codeless soul flowing in space.
Like a fading painting I evaporate losing myself in the mystic shadows of life.
I don’t know me;
I don’t feel me,
Am I dreaming or is this real?
The dreams,
These dreams that I dream when I sleep in my sleep.
These dreams that I dream are when my eyes are closed yet open
Are not for the faint hearted,
The dreams.
MIRROR, MIRROR, MIRROR
Internal reflections of my soul
Looking deep where I have never being before
I stand mouth agap at the images I see below.
Distorted images,
I can’t see me.
Is the mirror broken or is it the state f my soul?
Mirror, mirror, mirror!
Is there any hope at all?
Tell me now for I fear that I have completely lost my way.
Mirror…?
poem by Tigana Chileshe
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Dream In Color
You wake up to tell me
(That you're numb inside, that the feelings all have died)
You're praying and you're saying
(That you do believe, but I don't believe that's true)
Everything has always been there, nothing goes away that won't come back
You're living in a house of cards, and you're blowing down the stack
Chorus:
She sleeps under a rainbow, she won't dream in colour
(She don't dream in colour)
She thinks that her soul is painted grey or black and white
Sleeping under a rainbow she could dream in colour, dream in colour
(She don't dream in colour) tonight
Glass mirror, look in (I know it's hard to see, when the one you free is you)
Sleep walking, high talking
(But the colours aren't real and the things you feel don't last)
You sit there looking at the sunrise, not knowing if the day has come or gone
You're wondering why it turns you off, when it never turns you on
chorus
Picking at the lock on the front door, pulling at the shutters on the windows
But you're living in a house of shadows
(Solo)
Even tho' you're lonely you think it's you, sitting at that table set for one
You're waiting for the guest that never comes
chorus
She could dream in colour, she could
(Sleeping under a rainbow, dream in colour)
(repeats out)
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
song performed by by Rick Springfield
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Silent Conversation With Myself
do not care to read me carefully, just skim over
some words that may call your preferential attention.
do not mind the smaller ideas, or the images that
you find hard to imagine. They may not be images
after all but just blotches of my stains, the negligence
of my trembling fingers, the lapses of my brains,
the slip of my tongues, the cliches of humanity,
seeking meaning in the meaninglessness of words.
this is mumbling, this is plain rambling
do not ever mind what i am writing. this is not about you.
or myself, or the society that like sheep simply graze on the grass
not knowing that on the next step is the landmine that kills them,
or why look for the meaning of loneliness in words or lines or poetry.
are you going home tonight? on a train. sit there. look over the window.
see the line of trees, do they shout at you? No.
and move your eyes, as though you are scrolling for names on the
cell phone, like roving camera, you do not have to look that far on the
20th person sitting across the other side.
someone is sitting next to you. listen to his silence.
feel the vibrations of all his problems. try to unmask the cover of his face.
are there words covering his face? none.
or if words cover his face and body, try reading them all silently.
most of the truths are not said. Not even written. You always see them
next to you. Be it on the train, the bus or the plane. Or simply when you
walk along the cemented paths of the park. Here comes another
lost soul. Talk to him. Do not write poetry.
this is mumbling this is plain rumbling. Do not speak poetry.
write them and let them cover your face.
That is the best way to speak.
This is what is life is all about.
Speechless. Alone always.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Collage
Rain is falling and I hear more than I care to- while I am
Seated upon the floor, tearing paper to pieces-
Randomly pasting beside cut outs onto cardboard,
Zebras and kangaroos are hiding
Behind a group of ballerinas while
Two Kenyan woman are quantum jumping?
Irish church towers casting shadows
Upon a garden of daffodils and
Eyes are everywhere, staring from the paper
Into my own eyes- trying to understand me-
Rain is falling upon the rooftop and I hear voices singing death dirges,
Tragic tunes from which there are no escaping.
Magazine cutouts and torn newspaper pieces I glue randomly onto cardboard-
My thoughts are running wild as a caged raccoon.
Through my eyes I see a world out there beyond comprehension
As rain splashes rhythmically upon the sidewalk outside,
Voices inside my mind threaten ill fate, while
The light that once shone upon sallow colored walls has just burnt out.
All I can see now is that piece of cardboard with
Cut out and torn pictures and writing pasted in total disarray-
I paint bright colors over them, trying to demolish all of the pain they represent-
But no amount of paint would obliterate the anger that is ripping at my gut.
I was born with a face that is clear of expression and a body that has been well cared for-
But if one were to open the door to my mind they would find much anger and despair-
Eyes are all about me looking into mine and I cannot escape-
The rain is falling harder now and I keep tearing paper-
Shadows are cast upon yellowed walls and I keep painting torn paper and images.
My thoughts are screaming to be released-
More than those of zebras and kangaroos hiding behind ballerinas dancing-
Or of Kenyan women quantum jumping- or even more than
The clashing pieces of paper and magazine pictures could ever express-
I am falling, falling and falling into a trap- and
There is no outlet for me from which to escape from this delusional world
As so many have called it and I just continue painting bright colors onto cardboard and
Pasting photographs and torn newspaper hoping that one morning
When I awaken and open my eyes there will be
Beautiful pictures upon freshly painted walls-
Pictures that have a theme and a purpose: Then the rain will have stopped falling and
My eyes shall be opened to a world I can understand, the door to my mind
Shall opened as well, so my thoughts can be released to a world that
With all hope can finally understand me-
poem by Claudia Krizay
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The Chair
We sat at the table talking
when we noticed from the corner of our eyes
the door seemed to open and close again.
No one took much notice of it;
each thinking it was a draft that had caught it.
Then we watched amazed
as the chair at the far end of the room
began to move on its own.
Each time it caught our attention the chair stopped.
Turning back to our conversation
from the corner of our eyes,
we watched the chair move again.
Each time it inched closer
towards the table where we sat.
Our guests and we were hypnotised
by the spectacular of the moving chair.
We had lived here for many years
and nothing like this had ever happened before.
We all watched intently the chair
with not a word being spoken.
Whatever was moving it
could clearly not be seen.
Someone smiled and said,
“That is a neat trick you must tell us all
just how you’ve done it.”
I shook my head and replied,
“It is not us doing this.”
Faces paled at the thought
of the chair moving on its own.
The chair then stopped
and the outline of a figure appeared,
its eyes were flaming red
and it stared intently at us all.
“Who are you? ” Someone asked.
“Who do you wish I be? ” The reply came
from a voice that seemed to surround us.
You could see the fear begin to inherit everyone’s eyes
as the eyes of whatever looked around at everyone.
A crackling laughter then arose.
“Who are you? ” I asked,
“You are frightening everyone.
I tell you now you were not invited;
your presence is not welcome here.
Be gone I say, be gone and leave us in peace.”
The flaming eyes stared at me
as if to devour my soul.
Outside a lightning bolt struck,
its explosion made us jump.
When we looked back,
the chair was where it should be
and the flaming red eyes were gone.
Was this an hallucination
or did we really see a ghost.
Whatever, when we returned to talking,
we abandoned the conversation
of strange phenomena we were discussing
before our encounter.
15 November 2009
poem by David Harris
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(Sufiyana) I Dance, I Dance
Whirling images flashing past
Your white robe
Your face
Ahhh....that face
The moon paled in comparison
Divine in its purity
Smile that said You were free
Free from all desires and longings
Eyes without any layers
With a direct door to Your inner spirit
Your movements with the grace of the stars in the nightsky
The mist in my vision cleared looking at You
And
I dance
I dance, I dance, I dance, I dance
Like Your whirling images
Keeping pace with them
Never to let them run away
poem by Renu Rakheja
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The Stopping By The Mountainside
i am taking more time
going over it
and i probably will not
understand
what you are really trying
to tell me,
as you
have chosen the words
as carefully as
grains for seeding
in such a way that i
am at a loss at
what to say
to interpret
the images of your language
some are hazy as fog
and i am the driver of the
car that stops
for a while
so i may not fall upon a
cliff
off-road
exhausted
i get out of the car
and wait for the fog to go
and vanish
until the hills appear
as they are
and not as something else
as sister of
mist or
cloth of nakedness
yes, the things as they are
my language are no longer hands
no longer eyes even
there is no word to match
what beauty lies before
me
what truth that is never said
but this
time only felt
and unseen
because the eyes
are open.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Sunshine And Flowers And Your Way Of Loving
susnhine, spreading sunshine, warming my face
spreading this warm caress to my body, my shoulders,
bathe
take the basins of sunshine in the cups of your hands
feel
close your eyes and feel the sunshine falling in your hair
running to your ears
then open your eyes
to the blooms of flowers, the roses and daffodils in the garden
where a chair is there
where you sit
looking at me, beside you, bathing to sunshine, closing my eyes
feeling the warmth of the gazes of your eyes, the pulse of your wrist
the palm
your hands running
slowly all over me,
sunshine and hands and eyes closing
opening to dazzling color and closing again
to the thoughts of love
of you always loving me
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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