Pray Only
I minup coffee,
coconut rice breakfast,
continued smoke one stick.
She was sick.
Her tears couldn’t lie,
but I Did not know what really was,
I was also still confused
to look for her sad
Just what I going to do
I continued to pray
only
poem by Prasetya Utama
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Continued Journey
This is only the start of
my continued journey,
despite the heart breaks, the test and the trails
the departing of acquaintances
she shedding of many tears,
and wondering if I could have made you LOVE me as your wife?
After it's all over I realize no one will do what is not in their
heart to do in the first place,
When they never intended to do right by you. Continued Journey
I learned to and did tolerated things I should have went ballistic about due to your drama.
This continued journey lets me know that I will be LOVED and give
Love again God has a plan for me and I've come to that part of
my Continued Journey.
poem by Sylvia Loven Carter
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From You Fall.
The two catholic priests sat
in the Breakfast Room
off the refectory
in the abbey.
They looked up
when you entered
then continued
their conversation
about Dante
and you poured
yourself a coffee
and a small bowl
of Cornflakes
with a little milk
and sugar.
You sat down
and sipped the coffee.
There were prints
of Michelangelo
on the walls
and a crucifix above
and between
the two doors
that led to the
refectory
where the monks ate
three times a day.
The priests conversed
but said nothing to you.
Their words were uttered
in posh well bred voices.
One said
Few believe in Hell these days
and even fewer in Paradise
and those that do
have vague ideas
gathered from odd books
you find on airport
bookshop shelves.
You listened half heartedly
as they talked.
You wanted to ask
about the place.
Wanted one of them
to hear confession.
Maybe one
to give absolution
and perhaps offer a solution.
You could hear
the footsteps of monks
in the other room
getting their breakfast
of bread and jam
and black French coffee.
One priest laughed.
You never heard the joke.
The other guffawed loudly
in a girlish voice.
And the woman was seen
leaving by the back door
semi dressed and in great distress
the priest continued
And Father Denton
was never the same.
Then they were silent
and stood and smiled
and went their way.
You sat alone in the room.
The Michelangelo prints
reflected the single bulb
hanging above the table.
The Crucified seemed
above it all.
You would find some other
to hear confession.
To give absolution
from your fall.
poem by Terry Collett
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In Michigan, a liberal democrat raised taxes and kept their government programs at the same level. And guess what? Their economy continued into the toilet, it continued down.
quote by Rick Perry
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Breakfast In Malaysian Stalls
Listening to the radio DJs,
Driving through the traffic
This match is quite all right,
When these guys poke fun,
At one another and with public,
The sun is just awake,
Chasing the darkened thoughts,
Bright yellow spike, so soft,
The arrival of another morning,
As the windows start to open,
To allow the fresh air in,
The smell of freshly brewed coffee,
Fragrant coconut rice with fried anchovies,
Sliced cucumber, sambal and egg,
That is served under the cool trees.
The early birds drive to these haunt,
To have their breakfast,
Under the pleasant sun,
The breeze move around them,
To bring the heaven to earth,
Young and old, rich and poor,
Everyone wants to sit in the open air,
To have their breakfast and dinner,
On this land, where my mother was born,
poem by Veeraiyah Subbulakshmi
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The Meeting At Noon
They met at a coffee house
every day at noon.
They chose the same table
in the back of the room.
The aroma of the coffee
filled the air.
And while they smelled it
they continued to stare.
How was it, they wondered
that life could be
filled with remorse
that never let them be?
She, with a husband
whose mind was gone,
he, with a wife
whose body was gone,
They met each day
just to hold hands
and talk about
life's harsh demands.
They could not leave.
They were not that kind
but this meeting at noon
became the focus of their mind.
He watched her cry
and touched her face.
He knew her tears
he could not erase.
She watched him die
a little each day.
They prayed for the smell
of the coffee to stay.
and bring them peace
from these minutes at noon.
She stirred his coffee
and licked the spoon.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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The Mountain Of Poverty
this is what i can tell you:
the children are running in the hills
looking for their favorite butterflies to play
chasing dreams, i suppose, who knows
what they really know and
feel, i was once a child myself, perhaps i have the right to guess
what simple wants they have,
freedom, but i can tell you about something else,
their breakfast today is only brown sugar and rice,
and they have not taken their baths in the river because
the water is dirty, and there is no water system in the hills,
primitive, and still undeveloped, the grasses are not cut
tall and wild, and the coconut trees are not bearing much fruits,
there is drought, and the tenants do not have a good harvest
of their upland rice and there are rats infesting the rice fields,
it rains so hard, the road is slippery and we all have to walk slowly
to keep themselves warm, the men drink wine and smoke
the women do not weave mats anymore, they're sold cheap
and they are so disappointed with what they are getting
sugar is a precious commodity here, no coffee,
salt is expensive, salted fish is a luxury,
bread is like gold here and children do not know what is bread all about
cookies do not exist here
stone age, this is stone age in the midst of an expanding world
the children here are left out
i stare at them as they throw stones at play,
dirt and foul smell, but on the other hand i look at the pictures
that i took on that day
less the smell, less the dirt on their faces,
they are so beautiful, and the mountains are still hopeful.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I Have To Walk Away Again Looking For The Fresh Air
one finds a hard time nowadays
looking for fresh air
i step over a good view of the rice fields
from an Asian perspective
the rice fields are flowering
dews still sticking on the blades of grass
the sun is slowly rising from the mountains
a lot of fog hang on the sides
coconut trees are towering
not much winds today from the sea
a middle aged farmer stands under a tree
with his sweater on and his long bolo on his side
smoking his cigar
the woman in the house is cooking mud fish for breakfast
meanwhile she goes out and
starts a fire under the mango tree
burning a rubber tire
to drive some insects away
which she thinks are destroying
the tiny white flowers of
the tree
i smell the smoke coming from the cigar
it is floating in the air
the smoke from the rubber tire burning
is choking me
somehow that is what is being done to this world
brought about by ignorance and superstition and bad habits
i have to walk away again
looking for the fresh air
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Little Sunshine
a grain of rice
on a table cloth
beside
a cup of hot
coffee
imperceptible
but when a connection is found
soon
the spoon and fork
shall understand
some pieces
no matter what
do not fit
on a reasonable landscape
what is the grain of rice
doing on a breakfast table?
your mind is furious
i think it is cool
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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When I started writing this, I found that I simply couldn't take fantasy seriously, so it became humorous, and continued from there.
quote by Piers Anthony
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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People were very affected by the war. But it didn't mean you stopped painting unless you were called into the Army; then you just couldn't paint. But otherwise one continued.
quote by Lee Krasner
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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(Hide and seek)
My father gets the wooden stick
he counts from five
i run and hide...
My father is coming with the wooden stick
he counts from four
i close my bedroom door...
My father is looking for me with the wooden stick
he counts from three
as he searches for me...
My father is close by with the wooden stick
he counts from two
my face turns blue...
My father is right next to me
with the wooden stick
he counts from one
now i'm done...
My father finds me
with the wooden stick
he counts from zero
...yes i know, i'm in trouble...
My father says
'there you are!
i found you
now it's your turn to count
and my turn to hide'
...and the game continued...
poem by Allen Steble
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Do not expect too much
This is it, this is poetry
Written by this man
He is looking by his window
To the world like a little boy
Still wondering, scribbling
Some figures of man and
Superman, putting them wings
Imagining that soon they will fly,
Do not expect too much
I myself do not have wings
I do not promise you any
I am simply writing the view
The green ricefields I do not
Have rice for you to cook I do
Not have water for you to drink
I have these words, only you
Can convert them to steamed
Rice to cakes to bacons to ham
To fish to sea to clouds to sun
Or simply coffee for you to sip
When you still hunger for breakfast.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Throw Them Out
Let their continued deceit...
With their thieving greed,
Go bankrupt.
They've been warned before,
To produce drastic changes...
Or they would experience closed doors.
Let their continued deceit...
With their thieving greed,
Go bankrupt.
What will it take before their faking ends?
No bones have they thrown from their feasting,
Like fat hogs on their private jets...
Flying in to beg politicians in Washington!
How you seen the communities where these big industries are?
Have you observe the suffering
Who are the homeless and can not afford cars?
These fat cats who drink their scotch and smoke big cigars...
Could care less about their own mess they have created.
Or who is left to bare a lifetime of scars!
They profess that millions will lose jobs,
And a way of life if they aren't bailed out!
Those millions are now trapped in debt.
Trying to squeeze payments...
To feed these crooks of twisted mouths!
Let their continued deceit...
With their thieving greed,
Go bankrupt.
They've been warned before,
To produce drastic changes...
Or they would experience closed doors.
Closed them and locked them out!
And let those competent...
Apply those changes.
Leaving those sleaze and greasy beasts,
To earn their keep.
Regardless of who among them pouts!
Throw them out!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Evening Coconut
The statue of liberty is breathing in the air
Atlantis is waiting down below.
Late at night, flashing lights are sighted in the air.
Its no secret, what everybody knows.
It really dont matter much, which way I go.
But remember to pull over in the storm.
Have you seen the evening coconut
Bobbing on the bay?
Standing on the waters edge of stone
Someone there besides you
To hear the words you say
To show you things your eyes have never known.
Evening coconut, evening coconut
Evening coconut, evening coconut
Evening coconut, evening coconut
Evening coconut, evening coconut
Evening coconut, evening coconut
The statue of liberty is breathing in the air
While atlantis is waiting down below.
Late at night, flashing lights are sighted in the air.
Its no secret, what everybody knows.
Evening coconut, evening coconut
Evening coconut, evening coconut
Evening coconut, evening coconut
Evening coconut, evening coconut
song performed by by Neil Young
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I don't think there's a shortage of material in the world. Or in my head. I just pray for continued good health, because I've got other stories to tell.
quote by Richard Russo
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Decay Of A People
THIS the true sign of ruin to a race—
It undertakes no march, and day by day
Drowses in camp, or, with the laggard’s pace,
Walks sentry o’er possessions that decay;
Destined, with sensible waste, to fleet away;—
For the first secret of continued power
Is the continued conquest;—all our sway
Hath surety in the uses of the hour;
If that we waste, in vain walled town and lofty tower!
poem by William Gilmore Simms
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A Microwave Oven
breakfast
microwaved
sandwich and
coffee. it is
flat like
sylvia.
plath, sick
genius.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Coffee!
Coffee beans all ground up,
Coffee in my favourite cup,
Coffee black, coffee white,
Coffee dark, coffee light,
Coffee right, to start the day,
Coffee at work, coffee at play,
Coffee midday, coffee at night,
Coffee to sober, coffee to excite,
Coffee weak, coffee strong,
But maybe instead some Lapsang Souchong! ! ! !
TEA! ! ! ! !
poem by Ernestine Northover
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Just Kiddin' (blame Henny Youngman)
A lovely young lady
was pounding and cursing
at my hotel room door
The other night
The noise was alarming
And quite disarming
So I gave up
and turned on the light
She continued to wail
Continued to shout
no sleep was to be had
this night, no doubt
So I decided to aid
This ungrateful young maid
I finally got up…
And let the young lady…out
poem by David Whalen
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Sick I Am...
i am sick...please don`t be sad...
i am sick...please don`t tell anyone...
i am sick...please forgive me if i hurt you...
i am sick...going so faraway from here...
i am sick...saying this only for you...
i am sick...maybe will never come back...
i am sick...remember me and never forget me...
i am sick...pray for me and wish me all best what you can...
i am sick...all wounds i have inside my heart...
i am sick...please don`t be sad...
i am sick... and you will never see me..
poem by Hazem Al Jaber
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