Swindle
A request to have a door,
On hinges installed...
Is a great idea,
For one seeking privacy.
But a door on hinges,
That does not close...
Or has a lock with a key,
Is just another swindle!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Upon Your Request
it is
upon your persistent request
that they all learned to
speak to you
the floor of course keeps its
deep voice
like the voice of the cave
and the well
and the windows have mastered
the songs of the soprano
aided by the wind
the ceiling keeps the alto
tickled by the spider and the
lizards
but the door keeps itself
mum
treasures its silence
closed
with hinges that never budged
that keeps the impossibility
of this harmony
as others sing that single door
shows its protest
you kicked it once
on a Sunday.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A New Door
i remember
this door was made
12 years ago
the day when i married you.
we chose clear lacquer
to keep its original
mahogany grain
we keep the gloss
and we were never
at loss.
there were loud slams
oh, i hate to remember
but there were also gentler closes
of this door
with all the tender intents
of not having to disturb
a single soul.
then the hinges begin to rust
and the door creaks and
screams getting louder
like the madness of the one
who fears
that love is finally gone.
the termites came
and the frames get hollow as
time pierces it
showing the emptiness
inside it as though
it was mere kind
of a seashell
the knob is finally broken
and the key to open it again
was lost
then we come back to our senses
after twelve years
the door has to be replaced
with a new one
this time white in paint
the hinges glossy copper
the knob in shining silver
and the key fits in without any sound
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Door Of The House Of My Ancestors
this morning i am
confronted with an old door
of the old house of my
ancestors,
the rust that eats the hinges
finally frees the door
at last!
it was enslaved by the haunting
sounds of the sudden
slam
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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And This Will Be All....
And this will be all?
And the gates will never open again?
And the dust and the wind will play around the rusty door hinges and the songs of October moan, Why-oh, why-oh?
And you will look to the mountains
And the mountains will look to you
And you will wish you were a mountain
And the mountain will wish nothing at all?
This will be all?
The gates will never-never open again?
The dust and the wind only
And the rusty door hinges and moaning October
And Why-oh, why-oh, in the moaning dry leaves,
This will be all?
Nothing in the air but songs
And no singers, no mouths to know the songs?
You tell us a woman with a heartache tells you it is so?
This will be all?
poem by Carl Sandburg
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The Door's Grief
ah, the door's grief is not really brief,
it has been there since the hinges were fixed,
though it does not sound like an old man
grumbling, though its creaking sound
is hidden on a dropp of mechanical
oil,
there are those who still slam it
and out of too much fear
its grief lies hidden continually
on every closing
when you open it, it gives a respectable smile
yet you fail to understand
what was suppressed from what was not so valiantly expressed
there is no word for this
even the door cannot describe it
till this moment
when you close it again and again
as it becomes
another wall of the house again.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Death is a door
Death is only an old door
Set in a garden wall;
On gentle hinges it gives, at dusk
When the thrushes call.
Along the linted are green leaves,
Beyond the light lies still;
Very willing and weary feet
Go over that sill.
There is nothing to trouble any heart;
Nothing to hurt at all.
Death is only a quiet door
In an old wall
poem by Katie Evans
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Doors
A door may open
Or it may close
It may be wooden
Or steel, I suppose.
A door keeps us in
Or may lock us out,
A door may be silent
Or with noise, may shout.
Doors are for safety,
Our protection -
May rot in antiquity
Lose purpose and mission.
A door like chance,
Can open a dream.
A door like romance,
Can cause some steam.
But there is one door
With its key - never part,
Freely open, evermore -
The door of your heart!
Cynthia BuhainBaello
February 19,2012
poem by Cynthia Buhain-Baello
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We Will Find a Way Out
We've been in this room eight days now.
The food supply is low.
And there is very little water.
Perhaps we should listen to that young kid.
He does have a flashlight.
The others have been studing that map...
Discussing whether the hinges on the door,
Swing in or out.
They have few matches left to strike.
We will be in total darkness soon.
That kid keeps saying there's a light switch...
And a door next to it that is unlocked!
Why don't they listen to him?
'First of all...
He is black!
Second,
He has no experience!
How do we know he can be trusted?
You just mind your business.
We will find a way out.'
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Fixation Of Disbelief
If to them,
Others determined did not provide light.
Or encourage with an insistence persisted,
For them to open a door...
After explaining what the door was there for,
Not one of them would know its purpose.
They would have stood for hours glued,
With a fixation of disbelief.
With a slow approach to examine,
Closely...
To inspect,
Attached hinges.
Enabling the swinging back and forth,
Of the closed door.
And in complete and dumbfounded amazement,
There they they would stand,
With jaws dropped...
Astonished by what was revealed on the other side.
If to them,
Others did not provide this light...
The would still be on the inside,
Debating the significance...
Of exploring life!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Another Learning
there is a door
between us as though
we are just
two adjacent rooms
to enter into your door
i need to have that key
you keep on telling me
the key was lost and you
do not know
where to find it anymore
there is another door
and you are allowing someone else to come in
at first i say 'This is unfair! ' and
I thought of forcing
that door open
on the other hand
i have my own door too
and the lock is broken
a long time ago i have
thrown out the key
for what use is a door with
a broken lock?
and for what use is your door
to my prayer?
i do not know what force is &
i already stopped begging
i change the frames of my window
i have some other plans in mind
there are nine planets in our
galaxy
there are many galaxies
in unlimited space
and like all those who still hope
they always know
that someone somewhere keeps
on waiting
in a world where doors welcome me
like arms in half-embrace
and so i go to places where
my feet are welcome
& i have learned the happiness
of forgetting.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Nothing Left
so i have to enter
this door of feelings
and lock
this door behind me
so i have to enter
this door of silence
and lock
this door behind me
surely
when i go i take nothing
so you
write your name
and keep
it that way
nuten lep
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Red Door
nothing
is important about
it,
everyone
detests
the built
in superstition
the world
gives it up
except
the hinges
trusting that someday
it's entrance and
exit
becomes
a fad,
until now
the black widow
is not
satisfied about
the reality
of the red
door
she hates the fire
that she had
long lost
to someone else.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Emotions And Money
it is true then
there is a big boundary between emotions
and money
you can't manage emotions
you go awry
senselessly roaming
floating like
an iceberg
waiting for another titanic
but you can manage money
and that is your forte
you hide them and there will be no chaos
no murder
nothing about cutting of intimacies
or ignoring of relationships
attached, we can be as close as door to a frame with
efficient locks and hinges
don't talk about money
i'll spend it with you
but you 'll never know how much
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Ill Go Stepping Too
(tom james/jerry organ)
Dont think that Ill be hangin round
While youre havin fun
I wont sit there cryin over you
Well from now on when you step out
Ill tell you what Ill do
Ill lock the door, put out the cat
And Ill go steppin too
Yes Ill go steppin too, my honey
Ill go steppin too
Ill lock the door, put out the cat
And Ill go steppin too
Now everytime you come in late and we begin to fight
You tell me there are more fish in the sea
But the bait aint what it used to be
And I got news for you
Now after this when you go out
Well Ill go steppin too
Yes Ill go steppin too, my honey
Ill go steppin too
Ill lock the door, put out the cat
And Ill go steppin too
>from now on when you come in
And wont tell where you been
With your hair messed up
And your clothes dont fit you right
Well I dont care if I find perfume on you too
Well you will know that I have been
Steppin just like you
Yes Ill go steppin too, my honey
Ill go steppin too
Ill lock the door, put out the cat
And Ill go steppin too
song performed by by Emmylou Harris
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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You'd Like to Catch Every Moment
Am I satisfied?
Of course I am.
However...
I do think,
You carry this 'togetherness' philosophy of yours,
To the extreme at times.
I would like 'some' privacy as I use the bathroom.
Unless you feel I might fall into a creative spell,
You'd like to witness?
And you'd like to catch every moment,
Of my movement!
'No! No.
I just miss you so much.
I hope you don't feel I am being too possessive? '
Not yet!
But I am tempted to close the door,
From now on.
Maybe even lock it!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Old Door Of Ancestry
it is an old door,
the jams are eaten by termites
the lock is not working
the hinges are rusty
and without the frame of my hands
it will just fall
as pieces
i imagine the house back
to restore
our ancestry, and i travel to places
to gather
what memories are left
the old men in those far places
are telling me stories
my notebook is swelling like
a river of tears
about to flood the banks of my
heart
many have abandoned
what the house of ancestry has to offer
there is nothing to eat
there and no one is cooking
some
noble concoctions
i am the son of Gregorio and my
grandfather is Domingo
who is one of the five children
of Juan who was married
to Rosa
they sailed away from
Maribujoc
and it was Modesto's rebellion
that carried them
away
to the island of Mindanao
and they cut the trees of the forest
built their homes
and cared for
their families
now i am moving places
into some other places of
no interest
the hours are fading
and the heirlooms are forgotten
i am looking for my roots
for i do not have what i call my own
i knock at the old broken door
of my ancestry
asking for pity.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Slip Away
Friends have said to lock the door
And have an open house no more
The said the factory must change
And slowly slip away
But if i have to live in fear
Where will i get my ideas
With all those crazy people gone
Will i slowly slip away
Still there's no more billy name
Ondine is not the same
Wonton and the turtle gone
Slowly slip away
Slowly slip away
If i close the factory door
And don't see those people anymore
If i give in to infamy
I'll slowly slip away
I know it seems that friends are right
Hello daylight, goodbye night
But starlight is so quiet here
Think i'll slowly slip away
What can i do by myself
It's good to here from someone else
It's good to hear a crazy voice
Will not slip away
Will not slip away
If i have to live in fear
My ideas will slowly slip away
If i have to live in fear
I'm afraid my life will slip away
If you can't see me past my door
Why your thoughts could slowly slip away
If i have to lock the door
Another life exists no more slip away
Friends have said to lock the door
Watch out for who comes through the door
The said the factory must change
But i don't
song performed by by Lou Reed
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Fade Into Heaven
Fade so swiftly into a shadow, for you are evil,
It certainly suffers, poor is your soul and might;
Open the door to pain and mayhem, killing you
By its grip, it felt cold but then warm.
Entrance is superb, fully enticing, more than a friend,
Lulling the demons causes peace in this quarter,
Where friends of God tell angels what to do.
I adore and admire, I have spirits surprising,
Warm is my tongue with blasphemy so fresh,
As if words were meant to be written in order to police
The general heavenly populace, a state so crowded.
But angels are in knots, in wool, fastened to the door
More than what we think or describe or what we teach.
The door must give way to man and woman,
Its hinges creak, the story is transferred
And I am young in this grasp, in what is appealing.
poem by Naveed Akram
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