En.Citatepedia^®.ro

A Troubling Moment

It was all very troubling:
after seven years of marriage to her whiny husband
with whom he exchanged a functional loathing
when their virtual twin-ship must needs be admitted
in spite of biological differences, by all involved,
when Fortune seemed to shine again,
his sister began to show; smiled mysteriously
informing the table at dinner one night, 'Yes, it was true'
confirming her first pregnancy at thirty-three.

He contributed to the round of clapping
the oohs and ahs of genuine delight;
too, tinked his water glass with a nearby fork,
the tedious wedding enacted again
in a smaller, more intimate version,
but it made him uneasy.
It was the usual thing: love-neutralized venom-
he didn't like it-it gave him indigestion,
the now-endless prospect of blame.

And then she raised her glass
and took a sober little sip of water
having given up table wine a month before
and looking sideways at her father swallowed
her eyes full of love and shared, secret triumph
in acknowledgement of their unassailable,
their special bond. She had done what she could:
the future was up to itself.

poem by Morgan Michaels
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A Round Table

we have this round table
and we put all our hands
on it when we eat and
drink and just talk for
hours and hours and
listen. And we ask what
is happening: Karding
broke a leg and Delia
is looking for the money.
Always it is the money.
Always she is short of
the money. And there
were jewelries hanging
on her neck and arms
and fingers, and we all
ask at this round table:
what is happening?
Nothing, don't mind at
all, this is just a part of
the round table, some
wine glass that broke
and must be swept at
once. We keep away the
sound of a crying pig.
We eat pigs here at this
round table. Then we shifted
the talk about our dead
parents. We pray. We
remember we keep on
saying this. We finish eating
the pig. We drink a very
cold water. Our throats
are irritated and we step
out of the room wanting
to pull away our tongues.

when we come back the
round table is empty.
and we laugh about a
joke that we remember.
our childhood games
the river, and the boat
that father made for us.

we turn off the tv and we
begin to talk about the
beautiful flowers in mother's
old garden, the secret one.

we agree. we miss it.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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An Invitation.

She invited Joey
to her apartment
on the second floor

and as she opened the door
her dog came
barking along the hall

Shut up Bonaparte
she said
Go away

and the mutt walked back
with its tail
between its legs

to its basket
under the table
and she ushered Joey in

and closed the door behind her
and said
What would you like to drink?

tea coffee coke beer?
Coke will be fine
he said

and she told him
to go sit in the lounge
and once he sat down

he looked around the room
and on the small table
by the sofa where he sat

was a photograph of her
and her husband
taken on their wedding day

she dressed in white
and smiling
and he in a black suit

like a hit man
in a mobster movie
and she came in

with his coke
and set it on the table
by the sofa

and then went out again
swaying her behind
which made him smile

then she was back
with a tall glass
of white wine

and she set it down
on the table beside him
and sat down

and began talking
about the night
he had met her

and her husband
in the bar in town
and how she had invited

him over to meet her husband
and he had bought them
both a drink

and while her husband
talked to his friend
she had flirted with him

and made him laugh
and how after that
they'd all meet

on Friday evenings
in the same bar
and her husband

had invited him
to their place
to play chess

and he remembered
how he used to play chess
holding off letting

her husband win
so he could stay longer
and see her more often

and then she leaned over
to get her drink
and she put one hand

on his thigh
and reached over
for her wine

and he smelt her scent
and the brush of her hair
as she leaned over him

and having her glass
she leaned back
her hand still resting

on his thigh
and that look of mischief
burning in her eye.

poem by Terry Collett
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Accident Prone

Accident Prone Pilot.
The ship was going up river to unload
containers full of scooters and tractors;
rain upland water level higher than usual.
There is an overpass across the river and
the ship´s bridge and communication mast
collided with it. It took a month to repair
damage to the ship and she was ready to
sail down the river, out to deep sea again.
There had been no rain for rain for a month
water level was lower than usual.
Going under the bridge was a piece of cake,
nervous pilot and anxious captain smiled,
but then the ship shuddered and got stuck in
the mud.

poem by Oskar Hansen
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On Your Wedding Day

it was time for the cake and the wine
the usual ceremony
like all weddings in our place
where everyone gets invited on a grand party

and there you are on your white suit
polished hair, shiny locks, the wedding ring now in your finger
the silver knife was handed
and you slice the chocolaty wedding cake with white icing laces
and some roses and tiny leaves

you sliced a big chunk and with a plate and fork
you handed it to her mouth
she was confused how to swallow such a big chunk
but she managed just the same
to take it
she did not ask you to divide it into smaller pieces
but how she wished
you were kind enough to do it for her

then the wine
the cork was too tight and then it was opened
your again poured much
more than half the glass and your arms entwined
you hand her
and she was obliged to drink that much
she whispered
it was too sweet and she did not like it
she wanted the usual wine
sour and sweet and a little bit bitter

and then yes the doves
you were not gentle in taking them out from the cage
held them too tight
and without taking any cue from her
you released your dove ahead adn she was again confused
and even slighted

a big chunk, a very sweet wine, doves that did not fly together
it was not just me who noticed it, some people who saw
what happened did not talk about it

now, the town is making a guess
whether you marriage will last
whether the pattern in your broken family shall not be repeated

your brother, your dad, your sister
they now live separately from his wife, from your mother, from her husband

but who knows, you will be the last to stand up
the last of the mohicans, the movie that you have not watched yet

but soon you will
because from there you must take your important cue

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Wedding Toast

St. John tells how, at Cana's wedding feast,
The water-pots poured wine in such amount
That by his sober count
There were a hundred gallons at the least.

It made no earthly sense, unless to show
How whatsoever love elects to bless
Brims to a sweet excess
That can without depletion overflow.

Which is to say that what love sees is true;
That this world's fullness is not made but found.
Life hungers to abound
And pour its plenty out for such as you.

Now, if your loves will lend an ear to mine,
I toast you both, good son and dear new daughter.
May you not lack for water,
And may that water smack of Cana's wine.

poem by Richard Wilbur
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Midnight Special

Well, you wake up in the morning
Hear the ding-dong ring
You go marching to the table
See the same old thing
See the fork on the table
Nothing in your pan
If you sing a thing about it
Youre in trouble with the man
Let the midnight special shine a light on me
Let the midnight special shine its ever loving light on me
If you ever go to houston
Well, you better act right
And you better not gamble
And you better not fight
For the sheriff will arrest you
Then hell take you down
And before you understand it
You are prison bound
Let the midnight special
Shine a light on me
Let the midnight special
Shine its ever loving light on me
On me, on me

song performed by by ABBA
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Breaking Boundaries

Cheers of the same glass
Here we live in togetherness
In a classy wine glass or just a table cup
But, still in layers, we never mixed up
As oil and water forever split up

A line of separation
Draw boundary between us
Touch each other surfaces but never hold phases
Never, upside cross the line to reach down
While, impossible is the line, false mind?
Forever isolating us, you and I
As you an oil and me, water

Undelivered lavender fumed words by you
Stayed there without pass the unbreakable line
Never, i know, cant have your adored scent in me
As there is a boundary, a thin door, locked for us
Tried, yes we tried, again and again
Essence of crimson red heart color
Dropped in our shared glass
Tried to be one by persuading our eyes
Hiding the differences of our layers
Again it can't, dissolved in me, unstained you
We stay as two layers of colors and perfume
In a traditional destiny of oil and water

Together we live, but by layers we always be
In a crystal glass or in that old jar
Close enough we are but a line make it far
Here we still, but our life never be one
Because of this boundary, nothing is easy

Expanding our hearts, as yours surfaced on mine
Exchange understanding, transferred between us
Emulsify the boundary, dissolving separator line
Resolving mind, for heart to heart bind
Holding together after found a place to fit
Swirling our souls, breaking all boundaries
As whole applied to share a fumes of lavender
Be in the bliss of red heart, crimson color
The rule of oil and water now is gone
For a mixture of love

Bound heart to heart
Understanding, breaks boundaries
Unison of different classes
Cheer in the same glass
Togetherness, we share life,
Finally, be as one
Just one
A class in a glass
Cheers! !

poem by Unwritten Soul
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for Juvy...

Juvy is a thirsty woman
she is thirty, a widow for three years now
her husband died on a car accident
leaving her with
a daughter

tonight she cannot sleep
her breasts are making fire

she goes out of the house
and finds the brook nearby outside the fence
of her house

when she gets there
it is cold and dark but her breasts are glowing like cinders

she undresses herself
and goes into the water
her breasts are playful on the ripples of the water
she goes deeper
and dives
opens her eyes looking for happiness

she opens her mouth
drinks the fresh water of the brook

she is thirsty and wants to drink
everything

satisfied for now
she goes out of the water
dresses herself again
under the moon

she goes home
opens the door of her room
and with her hair still wait
she lays in bed and begins to sleep

the picture of her husband
is no longer
on top of the table

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Glass Of Water Please

and so the story wants to end itself with a
glass of water.

those who cry after always need
a glass of water.

those whose hearts are broken
those who sob
those who close the window of the niche
those who have nightmares
those who wake up at 3 o'clock in the morning
those who sit on bed and cannot sleep back
always go to the kitchen
open the refrigerator
get a glass and splash
a cold glass of water

this time, i am asking for a glass of water
for i could be
all of the above or you could be one of those
i have described

but who knows we are not one of those
who knows
we are but just anyone who is normally thirsty
and with nothing to ask
simply ask
for a glass of cold water.

and cheerfully, we do not forget to say
please....

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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for Juvy...(a little correction)

Juvy is a thirsty woman
she is thirty, a widow for three years now
her husband died on a car accident
leaving her with
a daughter

tonight she cannot sleep
her breasts are making fire

she goes out of the house
and finds the brook nearby outside the fence

when she gets there
it is cold and dark but her breasts are glowing like cinders

she undresses herself
and goes into the water
her breasts are playful on the ripples of the water
she goes deeper
and dives
opens her eyes looking for happiness

she opens her mouth
drinks the fresh water of the brook

she is thirsty and wants to drink
everything

satisfied for now
she goes out of the water
dresses herself again
under the moon

she goes home
opens the door of her room
and with her hair still wet
she lays in bed and begins to sleep

the picture of her husband
is no longer
on top of the table

her decision is to empty
her past and free it from dusts.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Lunch Is Ready

you must have read before

that when a man is made to choose
between lunch
and poetry

he must choose lunch
it is 12: 20 noon

and if you wish
please finish this poem for me

make it say something
about hunger
the pinch in the stomach
the lack of guts
the impatience about life

for the meantime
i'll take what is offered on the table
i still have to chew
another idea that is fed in my mind
another poem
shaped like a fried chicken
scents of lumpia shanghai
images of white rice
exuding some fumes in
the light to the ceiling
clinking sounds of silver spoon and fork
and flowing clear drinking water
in the glass
in a whoosh

and the usual conversations
of sweet nothings
displayed on the table
like a soup
of bird's nest

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Water On Glass

Written by ricky & marty wilde
Cascading down
Theres a sound vaporising into vision
Its a sound in my head
That I feel and it shuts me in a prison
Say it wont last
Say it will pass
Always the sound in my brain
Can you hear it
Water on glass running down again
Water on glass that sound
Water on glass running round again
Help me, the sound of running waters
Coming down
Dancing away
Like the lights on a moving coloured river
Sounds in my head seem to run
And again I feel a shiver
Say it wont last
Pray it will pass
Always that sound in my brain
Can you hear it (can you hear it)
Water on glass running down again
Water on glass that sound
Water on glass running round again
Help me, the sound of running waters
Coming down
Water on glass running down again
Water on glass that sound
Water on glass running round again
Help me, the sound of running waters
Coming down

song performed by by Kim Wilde
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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To A.C.

To A.C.

Marriage held but just ourselves
For years and years on end
Then Nature cried- A son was born
We raised our glass again.

Who knows the wine of that first toast
With vows lingering on the glass
With hearts and eyes in nuptial bliss
Mindless of the years to pass.

Now 32 have blessed our vows
Each day defining a new “holy” role
The casks overflow with Cana’s wine
Sanctified by your faithful soul.

poem by Michael O'Rourke
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Happy Wedding Anniversary Meggie

Marriage is a bond of love
sealed under the eyes of God.
An arrangement of love for one another,
and the enrichment of their two lives.
Wedding Anniversaries celebrate
the bond of both man and wife,
of their choice to live together
for the rest of their lives.
So as we say Happy Wedding Anniversary to someone.
We are celebrating two people
whose lives have now become one.
We are wishing them love,
luck for the future
and that more anniversaries
they will share together.
Happy Wedding Anniversary Meggie
with many many more to come.
From a special friend.

poem by David Harris
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Its Our Wedding Day

It's your Wedding Day So perfect and fine,
One man to stand by a woman's side;
One woman to cherish being the bride.
The love between partners comes shining through
Today you are joined in marriage,
remember to always…
Be understanding of your partner’s needs.
Hold each other in the highest regard.
Have a sense of humour as you meet life’s challenges
Honour one another, Respect each other’s differences
For a new life together as just began,
Enjoy the good times, Make your dreams come true, together…
May your love grow ever stronger as you share
your lives together, look forward to a shared future
of love, friendship, and the wonderful closeness that is
MARRIAGE

poem by Simon Jones
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Nothing Will Be As Wonderful

Nothing will be as wonderful, as that spring had been
the trees were full of flowers row upon row
the water in the channels reflected bright like glass

in the distance seagulls turned around a ship’s mast
flew away in lines above us.
Nothing will be as wonderful, as that spring had been

where your hand had fitted fine and precisely into mine
where I fell more intimately in love with you
the water in the channels reflected bright like glass

we had seen an otter splashing at rocks in the sea
while the boat floated recoiling over the sea.
Nothing will be as wonderful, as that spring had been

where now I reach in vain for you
and forever you are separated from me,
the water in the channels reflects bright like glass

while the hot spring rain, wash away my tears
with dire pain cutting through me;
nothing will be as wonderful, as that spring had been
the water in the channels reflects bright like glass.

poem by Gert Strydom
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A Border Ballad

OH, I haven't got long to live, for we all
Die soon, e'en those who live longest;
And the poorest and weakest are taking their chance
Along with the richest and strongest.
So it's heigho for a glass and a song,
And a bright eye over the table,
And a dog for the hunt when the game is flush.
And the pick of a gentleman's stable.
There is Dimmock o' Dune, he was here yesternight,
But he's rotting to-day on Glen Arragh;
'Twas the hand o' MacPherson that gave him the blow,
And the vultures shall feast on his marrow.
But it's heigho for a brave old song
And a glass while we are able;
Here's a health to death and another cup
To the bright eye over the table.
I can show a broad back and a jolly deep chest,
But who argues now on appearance?
A blow or a thrust or a stumble at best
May send me to-day to my clearance.
Then it's heigho for the things I love,
My mother'll be soon wearing sable,
But give me my horse and my dog and my glass,
And a bright eye over the table.

poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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On The Brink Of Something...

I've seen a glass
full of
water on an edge of
the table

on the brink of
falling,

i am watching it
and i very well know
how it feels

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Colonel

What you have heard is true. I was in his house.
His wife carried a tray of coffee and sugar. His
daughter filed her nails, his son went out for the
night. There were daily papers, pet dogs, a pistol
on the cushion beside him. The moon swung bare on
its black cord over the house. On the television
was a cop show. It was in English. Broken bottles
were embedded in the walls around the house to
scoop the kneecaps from a man's legs or cut his
hands to lace. On the windows there were gratings
like those in liquor stores. We had dinner, rack of
lamb, good wine, a gold bell was on the table for
calling the maid. The maid brought green mangoes,
salt, a type of bread. I was asked how I enjoyed
the country. There was a brief commercial in
Spanish. His wife took everything away. There was
some talk of how difficult it had become to govern.
The parrot said hello on the terrace. The colonel
told it to shut up, and pushed himself from the
table. My friend said to me with his eyes: say
nothing. The colonel returned with a sack used to
bring groceries home. He spilled many human ears on
the table. They were like dried peach halves. There
is no other way to say this. He took one of them in
his hands, shook it in our faces, dropped it into a
water glass. It came alive there. I am tired of
fooling around he said. As for the rights of anyone,
tell your people they can go f--- themselves. He
swept the ears to the floor with his arm and held
the last of his wine in the air. Something for your
poetry, no? he said. Some of the ears on the floor
caught this scrap of his voice. Some of the ears on
the floor were pressed to the ground.

May 1978

poem by Carolyn Forché
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A Body In An Island Of Light

the left hand holds the glass of wine
another hand on the table
someone dances
gyrates and signals with a finger
that the show of lust begins
you have only your eyes
and your silence
the rest moves like a war of conquest
inside your mind
you pretend you are a rock
unmoved by the rage of the big water
a hard heart
gazing, until when? until when?

you take the wine inside your throat
you begin to forget but it will not be over

someone there gyrates
like a planet sucking your orbit.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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