Nothing Stays to Stick
Opportunities do not alone come,
To arrive without connections.
Very few doors open or close...
If they are not attached to hinges.
How many can say they sit,
Inside a house without a roof?
A home is not a home...
Unless someone lives in it,
To make that proof.
And who can say they are truly happy,
Until that has been pursued?
A quality of life is only quality obtained...
When all pieces come together,
And everyone is participating...
With no one deluded or refusing to accept truth!
And when that is discovered...
That is maintained.
Nothing stays to stick to cement quick,
Without a seriousness attached to it!
And that seriousness is there and meant.
For purposes to have those involved...
Accepting there is an agreed upon benefit.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Related quotes
You've Attached Yourself to Me
You've attached yourself to me.
For purposes you choose to keep...
Discreet and secret.
And unconfessed.
As if to suggest...
Your intentions are nothing more,
Than to deceive with an intent...
I will come to disbelieve,
This is not the intention meant.
You asked how I would feel,
If from you I became detached?
You've attached yourself to me.
My peace of mind from me will not leave.
Since you had nothing to do with that!
Remember...
You've attached yourself to 'me'?
And I'm too honest with myself,
Not to recognize...
Manipulations that arrive,
With lies expressed in clouded eyes.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Giving Way To New Beginnings
when i arrive home
today
it rains heavily
there is no one home
i have my own key still
i open the door and close it
i hear quite clearly my
footsteps reverberating
in all the corners of the
wooden room
there is a sad music
attached to each footfall
i open the glass door
to hear once again the sonorous
sounds of the rain falling
on the tin roof
gushing and
flowing freely
upon the gutters
down in
the drain
it is like remembering
and then wanting to forget
but then forgetting
may sometimes mean
the pain of having
to throw off yourself
bits and pieces of you
like raindrops
from the roof
down to the gutters
till it is taken
by all that is drained
in the
canals
of your personal
history
well it can mean too much
like a heavy weight
upon your
breast compressing
your heart
then you justify
this is life,
no one lasts forever
relationships make
their own
natural endings
to give way to
new beginnings
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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You've Become Too Delusional
What about the ones who are not listening?
Those who have chosen,
To see life with a narrow mindedness...
And now questioning what is in it for them,
With a quality of life that benefits!
What about them and what's ahead?
How do we get this seriousness imbedded,
In their heads?
What about the ones who are not listening?
Those who have chosen,
To see life with a narrow mindedness...
And now questioning what is in it for them,
With a quality of life that benefits!
What about them and what's ahead?
How do we get this seriousness imbedded,
In their heads?
And what is it we can do...
After years of shouting,
They have put us through!
'Huh?
Snap out of it!
You've become too delusional!
Even the rocks that have blocked our attempts,
To stop us with obstacles...
Are left smiling.
I am not into torture.
Are you coming or not! ? '
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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How Can I Give That
Thank you for helping me,
Protect my steps.
Happy I am that my seriousness,
Has convinced you...
My footprints made,
Were placed in a direction...
To be respected as I thought,
You too wanted kept.
And now that I know,
My best efforts...
You prove you wish not to neglect,
I am happy you now see...
It is about maintaining one's integrity.
And IF you express a giving of this to me...
I have nothing but that,
From me to you to show I can and will do.
You deserve the best.
But how can I give that,
If you take for granted my seriousness?
And my seriousness to deliver...
You should always expect.
In fact...
I would not mind if you demanded it.
Since this will tell me our feelings are mutual.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Forced to Rush and Turn Away
Today.
There are no roles to play.
None respected in the way they were.
No believable masquerades to convey,
The remotest concepts...
To display an innocence worn to convince,
A possibility lives to consider.
Today.
Anything cheap and easy to get is preferred.
As long as it shines.
To be sold and rhymes with gold.
Nickel plated to glimmer like rhinestone...
Worn and bold,
It is okay!
Today.
The quality of life is attached to that detached,
As far as possible from reality.
Today!
Even pointing out the truth pursued,
Is subject to being ostracized...
From those who want to believe faith and hope,
Are nasty rumors to hush!
Today.
People are forced to rush and turn away from dreams,
If not overnight expressed...
At doorsteps!
Or promised to arrive before noon.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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As Genuine As Those Who Know It
Whether it becomes displayed,
Or laid in the shadows to dust...
Quality is eventually discovered.
And known to show what it is.
Quality dusted never ages to rust.
No matter what attempts are made,
By those unappreciative of its value.
A quality that remains to be quality,
Is as genuine as those who know it!
Regardless of what rating it gets.
Quality can not be rated against,
That which it has no peers.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Dumping Many Buckets
A building done,
With no retraint...
Peels the paint.
And cracks the stairs.
And those staring in despair,
Are not there to tile the roof.
When all moved in...
Everything 'appeared'...
To glisten with gloss and be good as new.
Now they are inside,
Dumping out the buckets...
From a dripping done,
Through the roof.
Yes...
Now they're inside,
Dumping many buckets...
With the hope their home stays status proof!
Nobody cares about repairs!
No one aware of repairs is prepared.
And those staring in despair,
Are not there to tile the roof.
When all moved in...
Everything 'appeared'...
To glisten with gloss and be good as new.
A building done,
With no retraint...
Peels the paint.
And cracks the stairs.
Nobody cares about repairs!
No one aware of repairs is prepared.
Now they're inside,
Dumping out the buckets...
From a dripping done,
Through the roof.
Yes...
Now they're inside,
Dumping many buckets...
With the hope their home stays status proof!
Now they're inside,
Dumping many buckets...
With the hope their home stays status proof!
And with a crying sigh,
Dumping many buckets...
With the hope their home stays status proof!
No one has driven by,
Watching them dump buckets...
And pretending there's no leaking from their roof
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Concept of Someone's Perception
Hey,
I didn't invent the truth.
So don't accuse me,
Of abusing your realities.
Many have been deluded all their lives.
And that is unfortunate.
I guess to them...
They perceive me as a demon sent!
But I am not the one,
Deceiving them with fantasies.
Nor am I a creditor...
Awaiting payment to sustain,
Their quality of life obtained...
By the best lies they to each other have told!
I like to believe the breath I breathe,
Is not a concept of someone's perception.
Easy to be altered,
When change is the convenience.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Like Most Folks Stuck Floating On Stubborn Ego Trips
Someone has filled your head,
With their beliefs you accepted as reality.
This gave you a comfort you did not research.
And whatever it was that had been implanted,
You've been clinging onto it since your birth.
Evidence has proven your point of view to be deluded.
But you insist to enlist explanation to include with excuses.
A self examination would have corrected what has been done.
But you laugh this off as if to distance from the seriousness.
You've befriended insecurities and immaturity too.
And nurturing both has not been to your benefit.
Nor accusations made about others being cruel to you.
No!
A truth pursued has never been your priority.
And to know it now would only leave you deeper in conflict.
You're sick!
And the unfortunateness of this...
You seem to hang onto it as if it validates your existence.
Like most folks stuck floating on stubborn ego trips!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Expectedly
houses are strong
and well insulated
in your
hinterland
but mine is on top
of the hill
kissed by the sun
it is open to the
air
they come and go
and come again
this is the house without
doors and stairs
a house deprived of
windows
and peeping holes
and cracks and
slits
this is the house of the
sun
the earth loves it
its body attached
to the grass
it has no pillars
but trees
no roof but clouds
no walls but spaces
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Lessons Taught
What does one win,
When limbs are gone...
And minds have become rattled.
What blood is sacrificed,
To declare one victorious.
And all is at peace again to be delusioned.
What struggle sought against another,
Will gain one rest and sleep.
With doors and windows never to lock.
And who finally is the one that learns,
With lessons taught?
After being knocked to the ground.
And off one's feet to become conscious.
When do ears and eyes open,
To absorb anything that has happened...
In one's past.
Is there anything left one honors to respect,
Without being hypnotized by greed.
Is there anything in one's mind attached,
To wanting a quality of life WITH truth and honesty.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Meant to Be (2002)
We came in a life of strings.
We are all attached in some way,
some sort of bond,
like a tug-of-war.
People try to pull the two apart,
but when it's meant to be,
they're inseperable in the heart,
like a bear that can't be without his honey.
You meet,
you converse,
you have fun,
you humor,
we are friends,
we are companions,
we are quality,
You're my nature,
I'm you're feature,
these are our attributes,
and we are each others property,
and we make our own characteristics.
poem by David Joel Rodriguez
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Like a Joy Ride That Leaves Them Tingling
Many have awakened,
To discover their realities sold.
Standards of life...
And that 'quality' emboldened,
In the false text of their history!
Fading with the theft of their economic,
Sensibilities.
That which kept them attached...
To lives of teased luxuries and greed.
Many have awakened,
To discover their realities sold.
With bank closures...
And their bonds unglued.
And just a few short months ago...
All preferred to continue hearing lies.
Than to accept truth...
That never confronted a deceit it could not beat!
And today truth stares them in the face!
Yet,
Some still are praying it goes away!
Like a joy ride that leaves them tingling...
As they discuss it while leaving an amusement park!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Scraps and Pieces
Is there anything of quality,
Left that is significant?
Has the praising of mediocrity,
All that remains...
In a going insane society.
Scraps and pieces of happiness.
Are priceless when this is possessed.
Social status seems less a crave...
With those of simple needs today.
Many have never gone through this...
Having hunger, no home and in joblessness.
And they're Black.
In joblessness.
And they're White.
In joblessness...
And they're Brown,
And they're Yellow...
Hungry, and no home to sit!
And they're Black.
In joblessness.
And they're White.
In joblessness...
And they're Brown,
And they're Yellow...
Hungry, and no home to sit!
Scraps and pieces of happiness.
Are priceless when this is possessed.
Social status seems less a crave...
With those of simple needs today.
Many have never gone through this...
Having hunger, no home and in joblessness.
Is there anything of quality?
Is there anything of quality?
Is there anything of quality?
Is there anything
Anything
Anything...?
And they're Black.
In joblessness.
And they're White.
In joblessness...
And they're Brown,
And they're Yellow...
Hungry, with no home to sit!
Scraps and pieces with nothing to eat,
And they're Black.
In joblessness.
And they're White.
In joblessness...
And they're Brown,
And they're Yellow...
Hungry, without a home to sit!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The quality of mercy (conditions apply)
The quality of mercy,
Portia declared,
the quality of mercy is
suspended during the present conflict
the quality of mercy is
not the business of a Minister of Justice
the quality of mercy is
not a matter of individual conscience
the quality of mercy is
too subtle for public discussion
or law
the quality of mercy is
only for Shakespeare and stuff
the quality of mercy is
less stimulating than revenge
the quality of mercy is
no business of yours
the quality of mercy is
no concern of religious authorities
who should stay silent
the quality of mercy is
an outdated concept
the quality of mercy is
nothing to do with forgiveness
or circumstantial evidence
or the remission of sins
the quality of mercy is
no longer a matter of pride
the quality of mercy is
no longer a mark of humanity
the quality of mercy
would be OK if Obama said so
the quality of mercy
is one hell of a hot potato
cooked in oil
the quality of mercy
droppeth as the gentle
dew from heaven
upon a broken fuselage
and it is too much
or too little
for our understanding.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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No One That Is Living Has A Quality Owed
No one that is living,
Has a quality owed.
No one that is giving,
Has a quality owed.
No one who is wishing,
Has a quality owed...
With nothing less,
Than solid gold.
With expectations,
Another holds...
Delivered and quick to give.
No one is living,
To demand and get.
No one is living,
Just to benefit.
No one is living...
Just to sit!
And to get.
No one that is living,
Has a quality owed.
No one that is giving,
Has a quality owed.
No one who is wishing,
Has a quality owed...
With nothing less,
Than solid gold.
With expectations,
Another holds...
Delivered and quick to give.
No one is living,
To demand and to get.
No one is living,
Just to benefit.
No one is living,
Just to sit and sit.
No matter what it is...
To receive without a risk.
And if they don't,
They throw a fit.
No one is living,
To demand and to get.
No one is living,
Just to benefit.
No one is living,
Just to sit and sit.
No matter what it is...
To receive without a risk.
And if they don't,
They throw a fit.
No one that is living,
Has a quality owed.
No one that is giving,
Has a quality owed.
No one who is wishing,
Has a quality owed...
With nothing less,
Than solid gold.
To demand and magically get.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Commitment To The Resistance Of Truth
There is nothing terribly wrong,
In the expressing of anyone's sentiments...
About the multitude of negative events,
Convincingly taking place...
On the other side of their shut doors.
There is nothing wrong with that.
Even to sit back and ignore.
Although a decline in one's quality of life,
Becomes directly affected...
By a tolerated acceptance.
And...
The condoning of this may not be inside one's home.
However...
All of our lives have been threatened by denial.
With a commitment to the resistance of truth,
That sits...
As a fighting continues against its appearance.
And the appearance of truth begins to weaken all defenses.
I too grew up believing,
That if I closed my eyes...
The boogey-man would go away!
IF I kept my eyes closed long enough,
And held onto that belief.
But frightened inside I remained.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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A little home
It is home, sweet home that counts on and matters
In my sound sleep also sometimes I utter
I long for those atmosphere and beautiful walls
Some type of magnetic pull that always gives call
All sweet and bad memories are deeply attached
Not for a moment it takes us away and keep detached
Birth place, childhood and youth very happily spent
Protection under kind parents and happy moments
I will never forget the place which helped to build?
Kind love, affection and impregnable protective shield
So much influence form all over and everything to yield
Fresh air, lovely atmosphere and free games in open field
You long for your own home when gain maturity
It goes on in succession with continuity
You have your home with kids and beautiful wife
Days are passing off very smoothly in life
The end of universe is your dear home
You may not find beautiful city like Rome
But home is called home and has no parallel
When you reach at home you feel so well
You may get tired while working at sites
It may compel you to work and more wishes to ignite
You are lifeless when returned home at night
Your mind is not at rest and continues to fight
When you reach home and find everything alright
You may be able to think what is wrong or right
You may find all comforts at home when reach
You may feel at the top of the world and rich
You may have to work hard for your livelihood
You too may have to care for your neighborhood
Home is where you get all comforts and joy
You will have to make it heaven and completely enjoy
No where on earth you will feel at ease
Tension and worries altogether may cease
Morning sun may brighten your hope
Yu may be well prepared to walk on rope
All individual dream of happy home to take refuge
You can have easy access, free entry and no one can refuse
It is for us to make it worth while and suitable
No other place can make us happy or comfortable
I shall pray for suitable house with complete peace
Where I can hang on for all times to come at ease
It is place to seek solace and new energy release
Opening of new relation and not try it to freeze
Home has remained a holy place
Nobody every could replace
It is complete reality
Go for it and improve the quality
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Home Truth
I hung up the phone tonight
Just as you said I love you
Once this would have been coincidence
Now these things start to bother me
You still close your eyes when I kiss you
And I close mine too
But we didnt open them again
Quite as wide as we should
This is where the home truth ends
This is where the home truth ends
Does your touch feel the same as it should do
Or is it someone quite similar
Who killed me with kindness last night
Now do I look at all familiar?
But none of these things seem to matter
Since weve grown apart
Id put back the pieces of whats shattered
But I dont know where to start
This is where the home truth ends
This is where the home truth ends
This is where the home truth ends
And I feel like a clown
Its tearing me up
Its tearing me down
You say which are the lies that you tell me
Well where do I begin?
So I turn on the tv again
And the world comes crashing in
Is it my shirt or my toothpaste
That is whiter than white?
Is it the lies that I tell you
Or the lies that I might?
This is where the home truth ends
This is where the home truth ends
Chorus
song performed by by Elvis Costello
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Cheapened Craft Master (Proud and Quite Polished)
Quality once meant,
The difference between attention given...
To a service and product produced with love.
And not created to duplicate the earning,
Of a quick buck.
That is shoved into one's pocket.
Or the cussing out of someone precious.
Some determine the eye can be deceived.
Just like a lie is told over and over...
To have another believe.
And passed on to someone else to receive.
And there is no stopping it.
Once fixed and redefined.
Like a knock off design or one's taste,
For a fine wine.
To be given a quick diminishing overtime.
Like one who drips with quick lip...
As a substitute for what is hidden.
With dulled minds finding,
Even in mediocrity...
Pleasures have their satisfactions.
'Where are these fads and fashions heading? '
Cheapened craft master...
A genius of replication without depth to share.
Or a task that is reached to achieve better,
Than what appears.
And sparing little patience,
To appreciate originality.
And who cares about that?
The fact attached to manufacturing.
Or the work involved it takes 'that' to be...
Appreciated for what it is.
Or had been...
Before a peeling began to show,
A rusting that begins to grow.
Flawed up to become neglected.
Whether that is done to a piece that hangs...
Or the luring of someone to screw,
With a tainted point of view that's sold.
To be given its proper disrespect due.
And done with someone's approval.
With an anticipated expectation.
Of course denied but kept obvious.
The cheapened craft master,
Uses techniques that are bold and quite uniquely...
Craved,
By those who can say they possess...
To impress the ones obsessed by images.
Like those dissatisfied in relationships.
Who stay stuck and stick to stubborn beliefs...
They can not have better.
Like the eating of a piece of meat,
Just to do it because it is served.
With a disregard for preference,
One respectfully deserves.
'Once you can afford it your way...
Do it.
Or leave it where it is.
In these days and times...
There are few choices to be made! '
Quality once meant,
The difference between attention given...
To a service and product produced with love.
And kept proud and quite polished.
Knowing 'why' it remains to be valued.
With a love that goes unquestioned.
And today that is rare.
~I'm afraid to ask for something there,
That may be well done.
That's how I like it! ~
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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