If Only
With great sorrow I read these lines
over and over: ‘Your body is a pure
reflection of the balance of thoughts
that you think' - a headache caused
by my addiction to taste and quick
pick-me-ups; attempts to break this
enslavement by sitting still without
sensory stimulation except for
words on paper and a screen with
pictures in between - terms which
do not sing, meaning unrelated to
spelling & sound is all that counts
The only sensation the unalloyed
boredom of being ensconced on
a high chair to straighten my back
only the air-con's soft susurration
And voices - relaying information on
work problems - if only I had access
to metaphysical thoughts to lift me
up like a spiritual Indian Fakir
My body would have been happy to
exist in limbo without experiencing
any kind of sensory stimulation, a
sense of taste is the only thing
That makes me think I'm alive - the
official lines on death, destruction
and fraud leave me cold - dead
in my chair - dying some more
poem by Margaret Alice Second
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Related quotes
Space Unlimited
1. Foolish Enterprise
Struck dumb, overcome by this day’s exigencies,
opening a document written in Tunisian legalese,
no Internet access, looking up terms deepens the
mystery, no email messages, no communication
Mental files locked in a mist of incomprehension,
eyes flickering, images on screen moving, trying
to get anything done when my brain is on the
blink proves to be a foolish enterprise…
2. Space Unlimited
A spiritual website claims Internet communication is
only an externalization of an already flourishing tele-
pathic network between minds everywhere, I cannot
agree, it seems to me my mind is closed in its own
experience and nothing leaks into another person’s
head as I am sitting here
No osmotic movement of information between the
sources of awareness which comprises everything
in existence according to another spiritual source, I
love the idea that sources of five-sensory evidence
are endowed with consciousness as attested to by
non-verbal communication
Through chemical signals by ants, bees, trees and
the electromagnetic agitation on lie-detectors con-
nected to philodendrons by their loving owners; I
remain unaware of such messages since human
antennae cannot be tuned to these wavelengths;
when spirit separates from body
Vibration will no longer be limited to a holographic
universe constituted by the laser-light of a prism-
brain forming surrounding frequencies into sound,
light and form; consciousness free to experience
Ding-An-Sich, being without sense interference,
free from assumptions and preconceptions
Unlimited universes existing in parallel dimensions,
infinite, eternal; probability, improbability, potential,
possibility and impossibility realized according to
taste without trespassing on the other universes
of every single individual, floating free in space
unlimited – now this makes sense to me!
**** **** **** **** **** **** **** ****
After writing the above my head feels lighter, as if
the heavy thoughts were taken out to be stored in a
pensieve, now I can breathe, the content is dense,
few might endeavour to understand the meaning,
yet this lovely feeling of relief helps me to sit here
without the pain of total isolation…
poem by Margaret Alice Second
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Cogitation
if this chair does not exist
will i, this, chair, me, who asks,
if this chair, exists at all,
can i, exist, too? will i be dependent
on the thought of a chair
a thought of me that i think i
can touch, that i think thoughts
touching this thought of a chair
does the chair think about me,
i ask, looking for that therefore
beside the chair that i thought
is a chair, that i thought is I,
am, therefore, a chair, thinking
chair, on four feet?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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But Life Is Not As Simple As You Think
really?
as you sit on a chair enjoying the place
new guests come in, and let me enumerate them
unpaid rental of the house
the credit card that is due
threats of foreclosure
a death threat
some thoughts about the pain on your left side
(can it be a cancerous mass?)
family feud, soon cases will be filed,
a possible criminal prosecution for
tax evasion
a brother caught as drug mule
a cousin committing suicide
secret sins, mortal enemies
tears fall, thoughts of suicide come
fast heart beats, pulse drumming
heart failure, you cannot think clearly
problems tripling, begetting more problems
than solutions
so, is this chair comfortable
the coffee is cold now, and it is raining heavily
you run back to the house
you are embraced by dead arms.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Poem For the Everyday Routine College Student
Days roll by with endless work here
I know it is not much as it appears
But if you were sitting here, if you were me
With this clock ticking by you would see
That it truly isn’t easy
“All work and no play makes jack a dull boy”
Same here goes for me; where there’s no company or joy
Alone with a desk and a notebook filled with paper
And it’s true, the silence makes it harder
Music should fill the air
Laughter should break out everywhere
There should be dancing all around
Not this room, empty of all sound
Only a couple more days left
Although this work is committing theft
So now I think it’s time to close the book
And end the work that has always been the crook
Let me enjoy the next few days
I’ll go outside and enjoy the sun’s rays
Goodbye chair, notebook, and boredom
Hello to a new day with its new freedom
Written: November 18,2010
poem by Ryan Collins
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To Be Abandoned (Revised)
I am a machine, replaying in French an
expression of English synonyms so bare
of feeling my mind empties, spirit dissolves,
soul absconds; my chair contains an empty
shell of dark despair
I hope my spirit returns, soul again whole
after retrieving scattered fragments from
ends of the earth, I am so lonely without
feelings - utter loneliness remains the
only sensation, a curtailed sensory
event, an appearance without
emotional investment
abandoned at the outer layer of life,
no access to warmth of feeling and
meaning inside
poem by Margaret Alice Second
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It seems to me the book has not just aesthetic values-- the charming little clothy box of the thing, the smell of the glue, even the print, which has its own beauty. But there's something about the sensation of ink on paper that is in some sense a thing, a phenomenon rather than an epiphenomenon. I can't break the association of electric trash with the computer screen. Words on the screen give the sense of being just another passing electronic wriggle.
quote by John Updike
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Some Days
SOME DAYS I’M TOO TIRED TO BE INSPIRED
AND SOME DAYS I’M QUICK AS A WINK
WHEN I DON’T HAVE TO THINK.
THE THOUGHTS WILL FLOW LIKE WINE IN A GLASS
SHOWING THE PRESENT, FUTURE AND THE PAST.
IT IS NOT REALLY HARD TO DO
IF TO YOURSELF YOU BE TRUE.
LOOK AND LISTEN TO EVERY SIGHT AND SOUND
IT WILL PICK YOU UP AND PUT YOU DOWN.
TO ALL THE BEAUTIES THAT CAN BE FOUND.
PUTTING ALL YOUR THOUGHTS, FEELINGS
AND DREAMS ON PAPER
NOTHING CAN BE MUCH SAFER.
YOU TELL OF STORIES THAT THEY
NEVER HEARD OF, OR DARED TO DREAM
INTO A FEW LINES.
AND IN THEIR MINDS WILL LAST
FOR A VERY LONG TIME.
WHEN THOSE “ SOME DAYS “ COME TO YOU
AND YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO.
SIT AND WRITE JUST A FEW LINES
THEN YOU’LL SEE YOU HAVE THE TIME.
TIME TO ENJOY ALL THE BEAUTIES
THAT SURROUND YOUR LIFE
WITH FAMILY, FRIENDS, HUSBAND AND WIFE.
poem by Louis Rams
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Wish For Release
Scared to return to the office to sit
in a chair that does not meet the
need for a correct sitting position
as the desk is too high for the office
chair I bought myself and the bar
stool I have is causing neck-ache
I don't know who to ask and where
to go to get my work station fixed
and raise the computer screen so
my head is not forced to hang down
and increase the pain in my neck,
I receive medication to force
my brain to ignore the pain
Will this help me to sit in the wrong
position until I am dead in my chair?
I ardently wish for release in what-
ever way if I cannot be freed from
the chair and the pain...
Saturday 21 June 2012
poem by Margaret Alice Second
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Pictures
The thoughts in my head are about as certain as the weather
I always want them witty but they don’t come out…
Like that
And I gotta go back to the drawing board, sharpen my pencil
Cause I can’t buy metaphors
Like I can buy stencils
So the sand keeps falling 'til my mind is all clear
And ideas stop spinning
Like I’m drunken off of beer
Then I stare and I leer in the direction of nothing
Soon ugly comparisons look
Like that little duckling
The swan looks great but must still fly to paper
And stick...
Nah that’s too easy, I’ll think of something later
An hour has passed and I see the top half of the glass
I’ve got two good lines now
But I’ll save ‘em for last
What I need is some inspiration
That’ll get the ball rollin’
From still frames to animation
Now the feature’s goin’
*This is a peek, a sneak look around
On how I take my thoughts and process them down
From a thousand different pictures with one thing in common
This is how I translate the world that I’m in
I can hear the sound effects and see the movie playing
Cross out words like an editor
As my lead gets to slaying
Every single word that’ll make you think twice
Like an anagram racecar throwin’ snake eyes?
Now the sands reverse with the opposite effect
And I see every line
Like it’s satellite direct
That’s how my thoughts beam down
Didn’t mean to barrage ya
But these words are my own
Kind of like Natasha
poem by P.R. Prosper
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Meditation Poem-I Ask My Physique These Questions
I ask my body
Have I wronged you?
expecting you to behave
like what others have
described in the book?
tell me your true self
dance it out in each nerve
leave me on the chair
let me be an audience
in this theatre of realities
spiritual, physical, or metaphysical
when all has unfolded
perhaps you and me
would be the best of friend till
the end of time or all eternity
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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My Soul Untouched
My body has given up on me even as
I have given up on life, if THIS is all I
can achieve, it is not meaningful to
continue in this physical world
In my youth I thought to render service
even as I gathered knowledge - yet -
though reading everything in books and
on the Internet, I still understand
Only a few things and my wisdom - such
as it may be - has never been tested, with
regard to service, I have not rendered any
or very little - I smile continuously - so
Everyone asks why I seem happy - I reply
because I work in paradise - and it is true,
the only thing is that there is no-one to help,
no big challenge, the mental stimulation of
Every translation does not fire my heart,
my soul is untouched, if there is no way in
which I can change my life, only moving on
to become pure consciousness - is left…
-------------
Started French revision while watching
television, why not, at school we did our
homework to radio and later to television
as soon as we got one
Soon the repetitive request to rephrase little
questions to indicate knowledge of gender
and verbs as used in French drove me to
distraction, luckily boredom of evaluation
Of every aspiring dancer made me go on
long past my boredom threshold, tonight
I am surprised to find that I feel empty, it
should have been different, I should be
Happy and proud about all I have done -
yet the question remains - what is the
sense of it all - and the reply makes me
feel dumb - realising that it is all
A mental game in the end, we make it
up as we go, I need to make up a new
world because repeating things over
and over ad infinitum is driving me
To despair….
poem by Margaret Alice Second
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The Reality Of Touch
not everything can be imagined
lest your words become the 3D leeches
that do not really exist
pure breeze from a mountainside of nowhere
it is safe to open the door
go down the stairs
walk along the street
feel the sun on top of your head
swim in the air of this city
dive into the crowd
hear their open conversations
listen to the horns of the cars
create more distance
tire your feet
sweat things out
making thoughts more sensitive to the twitches of the faces of all the people
that you meet
carefully evaluate
the lines of the tongue in cheek
scrutinize
slips of their tongues
follow the lines of the curve body of the woman that you love
using the soft tip of your tongue
the power of taste-buds
one cannot really just survive on the theoretical wings of angels
the feet of the dragon phoenix
the prancing hands of the
wooden saint
shallow and deflatable
as toy balloons are
do not draw the street and alleys in your mind
with a
wind pencil
walk upon them and feel
the water and the mud
and pebbles and sands
to every pore of your skin
feel the tickle of the bacteria of the
mind
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Wood-Cutter's Night Song
Welcome, red and roundy sun,
Dropping lowly in the west;
Now my hard day's work is done,
I'm as happy as the best.
Joyful are the thoughts of home,
Now I'm ready for my chair,
So, till morrow-morning's come,
Bill and mittens, lie ye there!
Though to leave your pretty song,
Little birds, it gives me pain,
Yet to-morrow is not long,
Then I'm with you all again.
If I stop, and stand about,
Well I know how things will be,
Judy will be looking out
Every now-and-then for me.
So fare ye well! and hold your tongues,
Sing no more until I come;
They're not worthy of your songs
That never care to drop a crumb.
All day long I love the oaks,
But, at nights, yon little cot,
Where I see the chimney smokes,
Is by far the prettiest spot.
Wife and children all are there,
To revive with pleasant looks,
Table ready set, and chair,
Supper hanging on the hooks.
Soon as ever I get in,
When my faggot down I fling,
Little prattlers they begin
Teasing me to talk and sing.
Welcome, red and roundy sun,
Dropping lowly in the west;
Now my hard day's work is done,
I'm as happy as the best.
Joyful are the thoughts of home,
Now I'm ready for my chair,
So, till morrow-morning's come,
Bill and mittens, lie ye there!
poem by John Clare
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Cherry Tree
[ robert buck/natalie merchant ]
Over your shoulder, please dont mind me
If my eyes have fallen onto your magazine
For Ive been watching and wondering
Why your face is changing with every line you read.
All those lines and circles, to me, a mystery.
Eve pull down the apple and give taste to me.
If she would be wonderful, but my pride is in the way.
I cannot read to save my life, Im so ashamed to say.
I live in silence, afraid to speak
Of my life of darkness because I cannot read.
For all those lines and circles, to me, a mystery.
Eve pull down the apple and give taste to me.
If she could it would be wonderful.
Then I wouldnt need someone elses eyes to see whats in front of me.
No one guiding me.
It makes me humble to be so green
At what every kid can do when he learns a to z,
But all those lines and circles just frighten me
And I fear that Ill be trampled if you dont reach for me.
Before I run Ill have to take a fall.
And then pick myself up, so slowly Ill devour every one of those books in the tower of knowledge.
song performed by by 10000 Maniacs
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Who You Are To Me
if you read these lines this morning
these lines that miss you
these lines that say i love you
these lines are dying to touch you
to hug and kiss you
these lines that know every inch of you
if you read these lines well enough
then you know who i am
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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If You Read These Lines This Morning
if you read these lines this morning
these lines that miss you
these lines that say i love you
these lines that are dying to touch you
to hug and kiss you
these lines that know every inch of you
if you read these lines well enough
then you know who i am
i, who is nothing to you.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Revelations
Revelations took me by surprise. The look of the party's the eyes. The cry's the intellectual thoughts of reprise. Trying to better my relations, changing sanctions. Of my heart the time I was young. Left with a gun in a lonely place far from here. A man sitting in a chair with the crosshairs locked showing problems and needing thoughts. Burning sensation deep in my skin, no more stays no more wins. Graphic states, vision of hate. Burning buildings and the city's fighting. The war is abruptly starting
poem by Joshua Vesofen
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Interactive
I write some lines and you read each word
A word excites you and you take it up to
Seed your fields where you grow your own
Shrubbery of words with tendrils climbing
I look at your garden of words and there is
This word growing into a flower attracting
Me I pick it up this sensual flower and I
Seed it in the lines of my mind now another
Bunch of words like ripe grapes I take one
Swallow it and savor the taste of its sweetness
More lines of words in my throat sliding
Through the lining of my esophagus so smooth
Going straight inside the veins leading to my heart
Sweet, so sweet I could have written the usual
Lines of “ I love you, I miss you” but I couldn’t
There is this roadblock, this writer’s block
The lines stopped, the words are stunted
I stutter, I retreat to my eyes, to see
The face of this woman I love, her eyes
Are gentle, she smiles at me, and waits
For this beautiful silence that gives her life
You stand there, looking for a hint, another
Word to seed the lines waiting to be written.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Perfect Spiritual World
If mastering boredom is a prerequisite to break
out of the circle of reincarnation I still have a long
way to go, trying my best to remain interested I
tried to correct my document for the experts who
drink, eat and breathe news and political texts
But I give up in disgust because it makes me lose
my love of life; if the Buddhists are right and we
return to this world in another life until we succeed
in being happy and quiet when sensory deprived,
never allowing boredom to invade the space
In our heads and turn our brains to mush, my dream
of moving on to another life-form in another universe
where consciousness does not need to manifest to
be and create; will be curtailed until I am happy with
breathing and repeating the same routines
Though I hope it is only a series of chemical disruptions
that will disappear once I am free from the illusions and
inter-subjective distortions created by humanity’s weird
obsession to remake an already perfect spiritual world
poem by Margaret Alice Second
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My Gray Hours (Sonnet)
My heart races touching your deep Spirit's kiss,
The softness of your voice soothes my abyss.
My tear's curb crumbles greening my shrink cry.
My soul torn apart wondering to know why.
Wrong thoughts, so cruel wait the fear to tape
The terrors of love to give them a new shape.
And my loneliness is a shadowy yard
When to sink my reality it's so hard.
In murky ponds of suffocating tadpole
I jag my edges tearing my sad soul,
Which once is tied with bleeding strips to yours
Will twist my fate with the flick of my gray hours.
I wait my hope which will never come to be.
This hope hunger squeezes tighter my soul's knee.
I'm clinging to the past where I want to hide
That part of me that is still alive inside.
While I wait the ocean waves to wash my soul
Big storms can rise up from the horns of your hole.
Much more confused on how to think or feel,
I talk, I dream and I am your balance wheel.
I can live with death while love is a wasteland
When the end comes around against my soul's gland
As showy as the white chalk on a blackboard
And I could lose my way but I pray to Lord.
I wonder if I will feel your love again
Even I accept my resignation's chain
Like an inner sorrow coming on my lip,
Like a song of my flute for my ocean's sleep,
Like a fire fathom scratching my blue rain,
Like a wish to taste you when I strive in vain,
Like a deep taste you place on my nudest wish,
Or like the wish you place on my thinking swish.
Floating are your words rain for my misty cloud,
You can still hang out with my feelings crowd.
When I'm dressed in white masking a selfless gray,
I have my honest smile and nothing to say.
Crops from your soul break the reason of my thought
And break my soul because I love you a lot.
Your body's heat cannot hit my soul's weeps
'Cause my pure thoughts are crowned with white wisps.
You defy my body's weep because it's chaste
And I don't understand what you need to taste.
I'm tired of you, I live with divine things.
I may see your sorrow is rose with black wings.
With your betrayal my love is wont to flow
And I know that your feelings will never glow.
MCN: C3RC5-ESU38-Y6SY8
© copyright Fri Mar 04 07: 11: 10 UTC 2011 - All Rights Reserved
poem by Marieta Maglas
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