En.Citatepedia^®.ro

The Address

we are but
a thousand
tiny deaths
poured into
the vase
that stands
on the table
by the window....

by the bed
in the room
that only
our most
powerful longings
can enter....

the address
known only
by love.

poem by Eric Cockrell
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Window

If you have a window,
In your little dark room,
Four walls can't bind you,
The ray of the sun,
Will jostle, willingly,
To enter into your tiny world.
The sky will peep into,
To get you away from the shadow.
A singing bird will sing,
Beside it, to tinge your,
Mind with the melody.....
Air will pass thru it,
Bearing the fragrance of
The first blooming rose.
The window will show you,
The road to the unknown...
The horizon where, the
Earth and the sky embrace,
Each other, calling you,
To be out, out there,
To make the stars guide,
The sky, your philosopher,
And the sun, your friend.
If you have a window,
Keep it open and it will,
Give you the address of,
The unknown, unexplored paths.

poem by Nilakshi Das
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Waiting For The Spider

how many small deaths?
nickels and dimes in dust filled pockets...
are we drifting off to sleep?
out to sea?
or further from the core?
we die in circles,
circles within circles.
with small short breaths hurled
on the hairy plate of eternity.
a thousand tiny fires,
built by unseen hands
on darkened roads...
a thousand tiny deaths!
or a thousand stop the world kisses,
when names and identities are forgotten,
if but for an eternal moment.
how many times must i be the butterfly?
the snail? the hummingbird flying backwards?
or just stagnant water in a cast aside tire...
waiting for the spider?

poem by Eric Cockrell
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0068 The Connoisseur (2)

Is there a god
sleeping in this room?

even the doorhandle, gently turned,
seems to speak a message
before the room entered, the first breath taken
of the room’s own air

and on the table, the grey-green vase seems
to be the host; the silent messenger: the furniture
somehow eternal in its order; every line and curve
within the room speaking of some
divine geometry; the shaded sunlight seems
to fall on tiptoe, touch in silent praise;
the air, to be refined; and the silence –
what does the silence say unspoken

as if it holds some god-smiled word,
some solemn laughter, about what
is there and is not there, has made
of this room, this ordinary room,
a shrine where one can worship without form
oneself?

the vase too holds itself both
open and reserved; its perfect curves
the subtle decisions of a history
of centuries, of generations
of human hands; of things made
for oneself, for others, for all else
where all else is known;

silent the vase; the room full of its sound.
Is there a god
sleeping in this room?

you; moving forward with respectful quiet step
to touch this grey-green
Chinese vase

poem by Michael Shepherd
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Being Born!

continually being born...
...a thousand tiny deaths,
.....a thousand tiny births.

season to season,
....leaf to limb to bud,
.....conceptions to grasp,

to letting go of....
..snow like stillness,
....bringing new birth!

poem by Eric Cockrell
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Bliss Remembered....

a rose
in a white porcelain vase
on top of
a glazed
wooden table
showered with
the early morning light
from the laced
window
while you were
still sleeping soundly
in bed

two yellow birds
chirp
on the sill
of the window

i am at
peace
beside you

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Inside A Crowded Room

inside a crowded room
are litters
waste papers, mongol pencils
on the floor,
crumpled sheets of bond paper
paper glasses, and used plastic spoons
a chicken bone
dried catchup and
morsels of bread that the ants
start to take away

light has entered the slits
of the walls
this early morning
it is humid and dark
and i am bringing this white
porcelain vase
put it some water
not filling it to the brim

i have this red rose
that i pick from the garden
i put it there
i open the window

what is it? my friend
i let delight enter the crowded room
and i want it to stay there for a while.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Other

I sit at this tiny table
and wait
as I have before
for you to make
excuses to get
away;
to steal the tiny time
you have with me.

I know I should go,
break away
and leave
but I don't.

I sip my coffee
swirling in the cup
mixing my milk
and your strong brew.

Perhaps one day
there will be a me and you
but today-right now
there is only me.

I feel you at my side
suddenly
your face
comes over me
and once again
there is the peace
you offer
each time we meet.

That is the drug
which overpowers
each time
I
the other woman;
and we
reach across
the tiny table
re-joined
in tiny time
the tiny space
we allow ourselves
to enjoy

rarely,
this other me
that other you.

poem by Lonnie Hicks
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The Story

The woman came home to find her husband and children sitting around the table
as they'd done so many nights, the lamp on the sideboard casting its usual glow
over the rough wood, some flowers the children had picked in a blue vase,
the youngest daughter's drawing of a horse tacked beside the window
with its burlap drape. They sat around the table with their severed heads set before them
on the woven placemats, and each one's arms had been lifted so the hands
rested on top of the hair, thick hair of her husband she'd wrapped around
her fingers, fine hair of her two daughters, and the baby's soft, barely visible wisps
over the small skull the baby's hands were tiny, they'd had to nail them in place,

and this is where I begin to hate the man who told the story, who made me see
not just their deaths but the soldiers standing around afterwards, the arc
of the hammer as it comes down and drives in what I now can't forget;
the best I can do is to think of Christ, so I can somehow bear the nails,
so I can carry them to you, and maybe I'm no better than the soldiers to do that.
I'm asking you to walk into your own house, to see a child's head
bent over her homework as she scissors pictures from a magazine,
the bright or dark hair she brushes impatiently out of her eyes.
I don't know why I need to say this, or what good or evil it does. I want

the old, acceptable story of suffering, the cross become icon, holy blood
in the chalice. I want not to know what I know as I turn back to my life,
my friends who love me, as I set the table with candles and glasses for wine
and later put my hands in my lover's hair; he enters me, we fall together
onto the bed, he bites my nipples as hard as I can stand it and then harder,
and still it's pleasure I feel, we are given this, too; I tell it to myself over
and over as we make love like animals deep in the forest, far from any village,
caring nothing for the world, ravenous for each other, crying out
while workmen slowly hack a road toward us, while the machines come on.

poem by Kim Addonizio
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The Allegory Of The Cycle Of Doors

and so there is this door that appears before you
and you open it
and then when you enter the room
another door appears
this is the cycle of doors that keep on appearing and you
keep on opening
but the room still appears from a distance
always distant
from your eager feet to enter
you say to enter the room i must please the door
but the room moves away just the same
and the door tells you
to keep the room
you have to burn it and when the room is burned
the door finally disappears
and then both the door and the room shall tell you
now be happy
for you now have a house of your own

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Seek & Destory

We are scanning the scene
in the city tonight
We are looking for you
to start up a fight
There is an evil feeling
in our brains
But it is nothing new
you know it drives us insane
Running,
On our way
Hiding,
You will pay
Dying,
One thousand deaths
Running,
On our way
Hiding,
You will pay
Dying,
One thousand deaths
Searching,
Seek and Destroy
Searching,
Seek and Destroy
Searching,
Seek and Destroy
Searching,
Seek and Destroy
There is no escape
and that is for sure
This is the end we won't take any more
Say goodbye
to the world you live in
You have always been taking
but now you're giving
Running,
On our way
Hiding,
You will pay
Dying,
One thousand deaths
Running,
On our way
Hiding,
You will pay
Dying,
One thousand deaths
Searching,
Seek and Destroy
Searching,
Seek and Destroy
Searching,
Seek and Destroy
Searching,
Seek and Destroy
Our brains are on fire
with the feeling to kill
And it will not go away
until our dreams are fulfilled
There is only one thing
on our minds
Don't try running away
'cause you're the one we will find
Running,
On our way
Hiding,
You will pay
Dying,
One thousand deaths
Running,
On our way
Hiding,
You will pay
Dying,
One thousand deaths
Searching,
Seek and Destroy
Searching,
Seek and Destroy
Searching,
Seek and Destroy
Searching,
Seek and Destroy

song performed by by Metallica
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Seek & Destroy

We are scanning the scene
In the city tonight
We are looking for you
To start up a fight
There is an evil feeling
In our brains
But it is nothing new
You know it drives us insane
Running,
On our way
Hiding,
You will pay
Dying,
One thousand deaths
Running,
On our way
Hiding,
You will pay
Dying,
One thousand deaths
Searching,
Seek and destroy
Searching,
Seek and destroy
Searching,
Seek and destroy
Searching,
Seek and destroy
There is no escape
And that is for sure
This is the end we wont take any more
Say goodbye
To the world you live in
You have always been taking
But now youre giving
Running,
On our way
Hiding,
You will pay
Dying,
One thousand deaths
Running,
On our way
Hiding,
You will pay
Dying,
One thousand deaths
Searching,
Seek and destroy
Searching,
Seek and destroy
Searching,
Seek and destroy
Searching,
Seek and destroy
Our brains are on fire
With the feeling to kill
And it will not go away
Until our dreams are fulfilled
There is only one thing
On our minds
Dont try running away
'cause youre the one we will find
Running,
On our way
Hiding,
You will pay
Dying,
One thousand deaths
Running,
On our way
Hiding,
You will pay
Dying,
One thousand deaths
Searching,
Seek and destroy
Searching,
Seek and destroy
Searching,
Seek and destroy
Searching,
Seek and destroy

song performed by by Metallica
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Window Left Open...

the vase fell to the floor,
and shattered into tiny pieces.
the broom in the corner wept.
the box in the closet drew breath sharply,
the book on the shelf turned away.
the bulb in the lamp burned out.
the spider packed up its web and left.
the empty nest fell from the tree.
rainwater gushed from the gutters.
the young boy locked in his room
crawled out the window.
the neighbor's dog barked...

god gathered her clothes,
and put on her shoes.
while warships sailed for another land.
drones killed three women on the way to market,
another baby died without having lived.
another factory shut down,
another church burned to the ground,
so many things said and unsaid.

another chapter, another book unread.
things are not what they seem.
another war on pillows fought by silence,
another day in a land untouched.

old trees pray for lightning,
old dogs wait without fear.
old photographs turn yellow and fade.
old men empty their pockets and die.

even Jesus couldnt wait this long....
they say the good die young.
the thief in the garden steals roses,
that he gives to a girl wearing glasses.

while passion weeps waiting for snow.
and leaves prepare to fall...
the vase fell to the floor,
and shattered into tiny pieces...

the moth flew through a window left open!

poem by Eric Cockrell
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Happiness

A man and a woman lie on a white bed.
It is morning. I think
Soon they will waken.
On the bedside table is a vase
of lilies; sunlight
pools in their throats.
I watch him turn to her
as though to speak her name
but silently, deep in her mouth--
At the window ledge,
once, twice,
a bird calls.
And then she stirs; her body
fills with his breath.

I open my eyes; you are watching me.
Almost over this room
the sun is gliding.
Look at your face, you say,
holding your own close to me
to make a mirror.
How calm you are. And the burning wheel
passes gently over us.

poem by Louise Gluck
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Inside The Hotel Room In Hongkong

IF YOU SEE me here inside my hotel room
in Hongkong
you will not perhaps believe
that in such a short time of our separation
I am now looking
at our pictures

the one where we simply sit on the train
going to Baclaran
on the busy day
where we were looking at the other side of the window
taken by that stranger
upon our request
still strikes me

there was something in your eyes
that gives the premonition
something in the misty window
speaks about the unexpected twist
of a sad story
a plot that i have not mastered well
perhaps because
i was too trusting

the stupid man falls in love again
with a woman still possessing the full senses
of her world

i have decided to tear this picture
into tiny pieces of paper
my hands like a shredding machine
i open the window of this hotel
and let the tiny shreds of your face
be blown by the wintry wind
from the 13th floor.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Zen and the art of plastic flower maintenance

From time to time, when
I’ve been meditating, and
these things matter, I pick respectfully
the plastic flowers from their vase,
wash the vase, wipe the dust
off the leaves with a moist cloth,
dip the flower-heads in water
as one would give someone
a holy bath

and then replace them in
a slightly new position in the vase,
a slightly new position on the table.

absurdity and
something beautiful
have met and got along together rather well.

poem by Michael Shepherd
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Marc Greets Things in the Morning

Hi boy with the bike on the vase on the bloom
ploom ploom
hi chair by the table
hi bread on the table
hi fisher-of-fish with the pipe
and
hi fisher-of -fish with cap
cap and pipe
of the fisher-of-fish

H i i i —i fish
hi little fish
hi tiny fishy-fine of mine

poem by Paul van Ostaijen
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Rising dreams

Dreams!
My delicate dreams!
Woven with the tender threads of love,
Bound with the glue of belief.
When collide,
Break down
Into shears and shreads.
A thousand of them!
Each bit a tiny momento
Of time.
Each bit a priceless memory
Difficult to unwind.
I mourn,
My thousand tears
And bury them
Deep somewhere in my heart.
My heart,
Cemetery of my dreams.
My dreams,
Born a thousand lives
Dying a thousand deaths.
My delicate dreams
Woven with the threads of love
Bound with the glue of belief.
And
To my weirdest surprise
I see them rise
From thousand broken shears
From thousand broken shreds
With smile in their lips
Hope in their brows
They rise
Weaving together the threads of love
Bonding with the glue of belief.
Yes! They rise
My dreams They rise.-anjali

poem by Anjali Kakati
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Madness #2

lover, no saint!
i cherish devils and nymphs;
the undressing of raindrops,
and original sin!

a thousand tiny deaths
in your kiss and your touch,
when more is less,
too little's too much!

poem by Eric Cockrell
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Here Comes My Silent Prayer

waking up from a nightmare
i get out of my room and drink a glass of cold water
i sit on a chair beside a table with a vase of a single flower
i face the sea without the sun yet coming
and then i say my silent prayer

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Hasty Marriage

Burden of a Hasty Marriage.
He saw her at the cafe she a cup of cacao and eating a cream cake,
he had a sandwich with cheese and ham. She looked up and smiled,
he knew she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
Shy, as he was, still found the courage to get up and walk over to her
table and ask if he could eat his modest sandwich with her; she said
yes and they sat there in silence, just eating. Dimly he knew he had to
say something, but couldn’t but couldn’t find the words so he ate
the cup and saucer, the table cloth, serviettes and crumbs of her cake,
when he began eating the table she told him to stop. Ice broken he said
he loved her, she said she loved him, not to waste time they got married
in the afternoon. Found a hotel room and stayed in bed for a fortnight.
Made love in every position one could think of; they even forgot to eat.
Entwined they slept until a knock on the door, something about paying
for the room. For him was a welcomed distraction, got up had to go to
his bank he told her, two weeks in bed it stunk like a pig sty. Paid his bill
but didn’t enter their room, he was cured of love based on sex alone

poem by Oskar Hansen
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