10:49 P.M. And Undefinite With What To Write
there is this sickness that compels me to write. There is this nausea that makes me
capture the words.
There is this pain that opens me up
to images
all images that soon appear like shadows of birds on the side of a hill
above
the full moon.
there is this void that behaves like a big mouth but cannot speak.
there is this silence that
dignifies
my loneliness. It is like an old woman waiting for no one by the stairs facing
the dusty road in an old country.
i have these eyes that look for nothing like a dead man staring without feeling
what lies there in front of those who scrutinize an event.
there is this trembling of the flesh in the arms while facing the monitor
inside a closed room.
there is this peace in exhaustion.
there is this knowledge of a dead end and there are no cars there.
there is this walk without a definite direction.
there is this purpose that you cannot describe.
there are lots of lost meanings that slip from our tongues and which we cannot
utter.
there is this game of boredom where we are all losers.
there is this acceptance without question because there is nothing worth
asking anymore.
after all these years
when we age and we do not care.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Related quotes
When I Write
when i write i do not wish to please
anybody
it is more of a selfish endeavor
i am lonely and i want to please myself
to get rid of this feeling
so i can function well
in this society
when i write i am engaged in therapy
looking for a cure
of this sickness of humanity
this void inside our hearts
something that asks
always asks
and we are left without any answers
but we go on
because we have no choice
the world spins itself
even without us
this search for meaning
this self wanting to be full
i write because there is this sickness upon ourselves
it is lovely
beautiful and true
feel it, to every syllable, every letter
every poem
at night when the loneliness becomes deeper
when the stars become too far away
when the silence stabs
when the pain becomes too unbearable
the mind opens
the words build themselves
like stairs, and
this is it now... another poem.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Images
I think images are worth repeating
Images repeated from a painting
Images taken from a painting
From a photo worth re-seeing
I love images worth repeating
Project them upon the ceiling
Multiply them with silk screening
See them with a different feeling
Images, oh, images
Images, oh, images
Some say images have no feeling
I think theres a deeper meaning
Mechanical precision or so its seeming
Instigates a cooler feeling
I love multiplicity of screenings
Things born anew display new meanings
I think images are worth repeating
And repeating and repeating
Images, oh, images
Images, images
Im no urban idiot savant
Spewing paint without any order
Im no sphinx, no mystery enigma
What I paint is very ordinary
I dont think Im old or modern
I dont think I think Im thinking
It doesnt matter what Im thinking
Its the images that are worth repeating
And repeating, oh, images
Images
If youre looking for a deeper meaning
Im as deep as this high ceiling
If you think technique is meaning
You might find me very simple
You might think that images boring
Cars and cans and chairs and flowers
You might find me personally boring
Hammer, sickle, mao tse tong
Mao tse tong
Ooohhh, images, images
Images
I think that it bears repeating
The images upon the ceiling
I love images worth repeating
And repeating and repeating
Images, images
Oh, images, oh, images
song performed by by Lou Reed
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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This Is Mumbling This Is Rambling
do not care to read me carefully, just skim over
some words that may call your preferential attention.
do not mind the smaller ideas, or the images that
you find hard to imagine. They may not be images
after all but just blotches of my stains, the negligence
of my trembling fingers, the lapses of my brains,
the slip of my tongues, the cliches of humanity,
seeking meaning in the meaninglessness of words.
this is mumbling, this is plain rambling
do not ever mind what i am writing. this is not about you.
or myself, or the society that like sheep simply graze on the grass
not knowing that on the next step is the landmine that kills them,
or why look for the meaning of loneliness in words or lines or poetry.
are you going home tonight? on a train. sit there. look over the window.
see the line of trees, do they shout at you? No.
and move your eyes, as though you are scrolling for names on the
cell phone, like roving camera, you do not have to look that far on the
20th person sitting across the other side.
someone is sitting next to you. listen to his silence.
feel the vibrations of all his problems. try to unmask the cover of his face.
are there words covering his face? none.
or if words cover his face and body, try reading them all silently.
most of the truths are not said. Not even written. You always see them
next to you. Be it on the train, the bus or the plane. Or simply when you
walk along the cemented paths of the park. Here comes another
lost soul. Talk to him. Do not write poetry.
this is mumbling this is plain rumbling. Do not speak poetry.
write them and let them cover your face. That is the best way to speak.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Silent Conversation With Myself
do not care to read me carefully, just skim over
some words that may call your preferential attention.
do not mind the smaller ideas, or the images that
you find hard to imagine. They may not be images
after all but just blotches of my stains, the negligence
of my trembling fingers, the lapses of my brains,
the slip of my tongues, the cliches of humanity,
seeking meaning in the meaninglessness of words.
this is mumbling, this is plain rambling
do not ever mind what i am writing. this is not about you.
or myself, or the society that like sheep simply graze on the grass
not knowing that on the next step is the landmine that kills them,
or why look for the meaning of loneliness in words or lines or poetry.
are you going home tonight? on a train. sit there. look over the window.
see the line of trees, do they shout at you? No.
and move your eyes, as though you are scrolling for names on the
cell phone, like roving camera, you do not have to look that far on the
20th person sitting across the other side.
someone is sitting next to you. listen to his silence.
feel the vibrations of all his problems. try to unmask the cover of his face.
are there words covering his face? none.
or if words cover his face and body, try reading them all silently.
most of the truths are not said. Not even written. You always see them
next to you. Be it on the train, the bus or the plane. Or simply when you
walk along the cemented paths of the park. Here comes another
lost soul. Talk to him. Do not write poetry.
this is mumbling this is plain rumbling. Do not speak poetry.
write them and let them cover your face.
That is the best way to speak.
This is what is life is all about.
Speechless. Alone always.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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That Unusual Search Of The 'in' Thing
when ideas rule the world
it thirsts for images and so images
are made like shadows and
mirages
concrete mountains where
we put our feet and walk
real rivers where we swim and
drown
stones that we feel
stray dogs that we stare at
and be afraid of
it is always a story of what is not there
and gathering them all
and then the trend is lost and we wish
for something else
that one which is always coming
and soon to come and soon to be
worshiped
another idol another hands that turns
fruits into gold
another hunger of Midas
another dead Sphinx another
myth rising from the ashes of
centuries
this afternoon i sit upon a white easy chair
facing the blue sea
my search is over
actually there is nothing there
everything is just
hearsay
a rumor passed from one bad mouth to
another
from one moron to another
i need sleep and i assure you
everything is fine
it is enough.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Staring At The Monitor
i know i am not alone
experiencing this kind of stare
at the monitor when you think you cannot write
not because there is nothing to write anymore but because
you will not to.
of course you regret such kind of decision
that negates what you are what you do what hardheaded man
are you,
you begin again not thinking what thoughts are shaped of
there is no form that convinces you
everything is fluid like air shaping itself upon every
emptiness of
its container
what makes this void that takes a shape inside our brains?
what keeps us busy thinking about nothing
what makes us so passive
like empty balloons taking the shape of air pushed from the
mouth of our beholder?
ah, you may say
you are beholden to no one
it is the same thing that i keep on saying to myself
we like to think that all are smooth that at the end paradise reigns
again
that we are welcome
that no one shall be punished and forsaken
but i have seen the death of one
there inside his locked room
three days
gunned
foul
his body rotten
the guide was the group of flies
telling
here is the one
who thought there are no rules
even in love
here is he
he is dead and those who are alive
has something again to think about
the void that fills the spaces
of our pores
our hearts hungry again for instruction
our bodies
waiting for the next line
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Sticking To Each Other Alone
3 p.m. meeting
it starts with a hesitation
to go or not to go
but i have decided to
go and speak
as they listen
offering some solutions
which i should have kept
as mine alone, what is there within me
that opens up
to those that have been putting me into disgrace?
i am trying to capture words
to help me understand this void
hoping that there must be something as concrete as a stone in there
or perhaps a snail
feeling the smooth feel of a plant skin
i drive me way home
imagining the grimaces of those who pretended to listen
and who signified that they will
consider my points
for ponder
a reflection in a mirror as that old wicked woman was trying to say
but i closed my mouth
and did not blink
staring at her saying silently to my soul
'this is the enemy
that i must pulverize'
and for which for years i had no courage
she is here
in a confrontational situation still mocking me with her
yeses.
i look at my watch signifying that i must leave now
as the driver is waiting
my wife signals that she is going with me
we do not ride the car
we tell the driver to wait as we still need a walk
have pizza and start to review matters and talk
about what are we doing with our lives
why are we anchoring it on them
i am silent
i will not tell her that that will be the last
i don't fit there
i am neither round nor square.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Lawyer's Wife Has Stage IV Cancer of the Breast...
she lies there in the living room
on that sofa,
her body swells, and her husband says
she is another hopeless case
in whispers seeing to it that she does not hear any word
about
being hopeless, but i think she knows it, she is not dumb after all
that all these are obvious enough
her body does not feel anything now
her eyes speak a lot
but her mouth does not release a word
her tongue coils inside her cheek
the room is filled with the smell of death
urine, fecal matter,
i say a prayer for her repose.
the images of a woman playing tennis during saturday mornings
in sneakers, drinking wine with her husband at the veranda
a lawyer fed up with life's drama
their children have lives of their own
and soon
he will be facing life all alone
when she finally closes her eyes
to see another world
before her
closed eyes
saturdays will never be the same again
but he is strong, he will always be strong
he will have another defense... it is too painful an image to see
and so i shifted my gaze
to the durian tree
lush leaves, strong branches, and
fruitless
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Dead inside
I feel dead inside,
Feeling my body shaking,
Feeling the numbness,
Watching my tears fall down,
The fault was my own,
I caused these things to happen,
Can’t believe that I felt this pain I feel along,
I can’t do this alone,
I need someone to help me cope with this feeling I feel,
I never knew the pain I feel for so long,
I wanna feel as if I belong here,
I don’t want to feel dead inside no more,
My body is shaking its aching,
It’s the same way,
Same rhyme,
Same poems I write over and over again,
Some change, some stay the same,
I feel dead inside,
I am all alone,
Facing this pain alone,
No one there to help me.
poem by Jennifer Rondeau
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Before My Eyes
I see before my eyes the wonderful words,
Speak them around the mouth to sustain,
So that meanings are clear to the birds.
I saw so many reasons to master and also afterwards,
Seen so many sessions of praise of this book to attain,
I see before my eyes the wonderful words.
Created and longed for, the books and pages are blizzards,
Looking for times so tight with sin again,
So that meanings are clear to the birds.
May we attain longevity when we read books backwards,
Leaning against the wall to hasten the air plane,
I see before my eyes the wonderful words.
Pleasing us one way is like living a way of life with hazards,
Leading is a disease of words, so frightening for after pain,
So that meanings are clear to the birds.
Can the heraldry of our country be the same innards,
Liking this sign captures the books’ meanings from the brain,
So that meanings are clear to the birds,
I see before my eyes the wonderful words.
poem by Naveed Akram
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So you are back reading this poem again
I see you sitting alone in a coffee shop
Two cups of coffee now, just to pass the hours away
Waiting for nobody
You pretend
Busy with your wireless laptop
Typing some words
Looking at the road beyond the glass walls
Cars keep passing by
Not one is stopping
Shall you pretend some more
That any of those cars is the inspiration
Of your write-up for today?
Okay, you are into advocacies for women
For the underprivileged
For the kids
For those who do not know how to smile
But let me suggest
As you read this poem
Back to my arms again
This time
Take more time with me
In this game
Of loneliness this passion for boredom
Have compassion to both
Of us-lonely souls searching meanings
In laptops in coffeehouses on more
Cups of coffee
I am taking the mug, it is bigger
And its holding effect is a little longer
And some cigars this time.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Facing Hell
You make promise of protection
To a future after life
To the final resurrection
And to eternal paradise
But then I'm blinded with temptation
And to every mortal sin
Is it God that sits there waiting?
Or will the darkness suck me in
Let's wake up the dead
Oh yeah
It's better that never you know
More tears are shed
Oh yeah
I'm praying that you'll never know
That I'm facing hell
Oh the children sit and listen
The belief was in their eyes
In a land without tomorrows
Through the night you hear their cries
But then your eyes just skip the pages
Of a book that never ends
Is it God that sits there waiting?
Do you hear the call again?
Let's wake up the dead
Oh yeah
It's better that never you know
More tears are shed
Oh yeah
I'm praying that you'll never know
That I'm facing hell
It's just crazy world we live in
And I'm out of my mind
You pray tomorrow but your leaving today
Evil one is coming and he's knocking your door
Cause todays the day you'll pay
Let's wake up the dead
Oh yeah
It's better that never you know
More tears are shed
Oh yeah
I'm praying that you'll never know
Let's wake up the dead
Oh yeah
It's better that never you know
More tears are shed
Oh yeah
I'm praying that you'll never know
That I'm facing hell
That I'm facing hell
That I'm facing hell
That I'm facing hell
song performed by by Ozzy Osbourne from Down To Earth
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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This Is Not Your Country
Road blocks and fire
Barb wire upon barb wire
This is not your country
Armoured cars, corrugated scars
Grafitti scrawls:
This is not your country
Home sweet fortress
Gunshot - we hate your kind
Get back !
This is not your country
I need some air
And Im stopped and repeatedly questioned:
Born and raised ?
But this is not my country
Were old news
Alls well
Say bbc scum
One child shot, but so what ?
Laid my son
In a box, three feet long
And I still dont know why
A short walk home becomes a run
And Im scared
In my own country
Were old news
Alls well
Say bbc scum
Everybodys under control
Of our surveillance globes
Were old news
Alls well
And thirty years could be a thousand
And this peugeot ad
Spins round in my head
British soldier pointing a gun
And Im only trying to post a letter
A short walk home becomes a run
And Im scared, and Im scared, I am scared
Old news
Alls well
Bbc scum
Youve got more than the dead, so zip up your mouth
Zip up your mouth
Zip up your mouth
Zip up your mouth
Youve got more than the dead, so zip up your mouth
Zip up your mouth
Zip up your mouth
Zip up your mouth
Youve got more than the dead, so zip up your mouth
Zip up your mouth
Zip up your mouth
Zip up your mouth
Youve got more than the dead, so zip up your mouth
song performed by by Morrissey
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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85
i wish i have a mouth that knows how to speak my love
i wish i have this kind of mouth that knows to speak
about my love
one that opens so easily and dashes with words like
you know i love you, tell me, do you love me too?
a candid mouth, like a shrew who gambles with words and
will not mind losing
a mouth who kisses your mouth without
shame and if shamed because you slap it
does not bother at all,
one who says, why hide love, why not pour love like a
strong wine to a chalice and let it warm
the glass and let the glass
be nothing but a glass
one that does not mind at all, one that loves and if not loved in
return takes the other possibilities
without regrets
or pain,
the mouth that i have is closed and will not open
afraid
i have kept the words
i love you only for you
like a worm inside my tongue,
wriggling
turning into a little butterfly
that never had the chance to see what is outside
and feel the freedom of air,
yesterday
it died and i keep it for the whole night
now, i spit it out
and my mouth closed again
eating only silence
while you just watch there
asking me
and i said there is nothing to worry
nothing at all
i just don't feel anything and there is nothing
worth saying, i look at you as you go, i hold only to your shadow
and you will never never never know,
this
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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This Poem This Afternoon
this poem
has nothing much to give you
some words
discarded that i
keep again
on this monitor
perhaps garbage
or dust or pieces of
scratch papers,
but somehow
i go on writing,
without any purpose
at all
in mind, just
to let the hours pass
by
the minutes wasted
for having to wait
on something else,
the next scene
another event
of my life
a meeting in
another room
a riding of
a vehicle to the city
and then
wait again for the
students in the
university
i talk much
and write too
little
for hours and hours
until it gets so dark
at the late hour
of the night
and then i go home
drive my car
no talking now
just paying attention
to the road
meeting my face
and the faint sound
of the aircon
of the car until i
arrive on the side
of the house
the gate opens
i turn on the light
and go inside the room
to sleep
on this chilly evening.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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What A Feeling
Nows the time when this will turn to fruit
All the poppies gonna push up through
And I can see the ground below
The places that I know, disappearing
And I can see the winter fade
I dont feel so afraid its clearing
Oh, what a feeling
Oh, what a feeling
Oh, what a feeling
Life is only half way in our hands
Years have passed while I was making plans
And I could never find the words
I always felt absurd, and always outside
But now I know I shouldnt care
Theres a song already there
Waiting inside
Oh, what a feeling
Oh, what a feeling
Oh, what a feeling
And I can feel the crock unwind
The parts of me I tied are running
And all the birds are in my head
The laughter that was dead is coming
Oh, what a feeling
Oh, what a feeling
Oh, what a feeling
The laughter that was dead is coming
Oh, what a feeling
The laughter that was dead is coming
song performed by by Heather Nova
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I Wish I Have A Mouth That Knows How To Speak My Love
i wish i have this kind of mouth that knows to speak
about my love
one that opens so easily and dashes with words like
you know i love you, tell me, do you love me too?
a candid mouth, like a shrew who gambles with words and
will not mind losing
a mouth who kisses your mouth without
shame and if shamed because you slap it
does not bother at all,
one who says, why hide love, why not pour love like a
strong wine to a chalice and let it warm
the glass and let the glass
be nothing but a glass
one that does not mind at all, one that loves and if not loved in
return takes the other possibilities
without regrets
or pain,
the mouth that i have is closed and will not open
afraid
i have kept the words
i love you only for you
like a worm inside my tongue,
wriggling
turning into a little butterfly
that never had the chance to see what is outside
and feel the freedom of air,
yesterday
it died and i keep it for the whole night
now, i spit it out
and my mouth closed again
eating only silence
while you just watch there
asking me
and i said there is nothing to worry
nothing at all
i just don't feel anything and there is nothing
worth saying, i look at you as you go, i hold only to your shadow
and you will never never never know,
this
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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On A Storny Day While You Are Driving Alone
you drive towards home
alone
under a strong rain
and wind
the storm has come again
inside the car
you hear nothing
you only see
the mess outside
you
you do not turn on
the radio
there is nothing there
only the buzzing
the FM stations lost
in the midst of this
chaos
you hear the silence inside you
talking
it is tired of the day's
heavy workload
you hear the sound
of the windswiper
you see the water
ahead of you along the
way
as the car cleans itself
so you may see the road
ahead
meeting you
the white bridge,
the thick lines of rain
like walls
like some liquid ropes
bursting on the glass
there are no cars
meeting you
no lights
except the darkness
and
the leaves blown away
from you
you think and you know the
difference:
you are losing your sense
of home
the sense of direction
insists
still towards this road
you do not like it
anymore,
you still think in the middle
of this storn
you want to stop and
watch the river
overflow
you wish the bridge is broken
you want it taken away
dismantled
you imagine there is
no more connection
whatever
you see nothing at the end,
what you see is simply
the storm
you stop again on the side of the road
where the tree shall fall and
you are under it,
you do not think of the car,
or of yourself anymore
what is there anyway?
there is no one waiting,
there is nothing worth meeting
and surely
life is not worth living
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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In Times Of Depression
failure. defeat. setting sun.
dark nights. Bar escapades.
lost hopes. Excitements gone.
feeling like a dead log floating on the river.
silence. Conversations that do not mean anything at all.
dogs howling. Cat naps.
furs left on the sofa. Carpets and dusts
and some bites from mosquitoes
that find themselves
whisking inside this room.
ticks and tic tac toes of boredom.
book waiting to be read. Bookmarks and ears.
sitting on a bench. Sunshine falling on your hair.
warmth spreading inside your armpits.
lips wetting. Saliva on the tongue.
Air getting inside your nostrils.
a bubble of air inside your lungs.
a word shaping inside your mouth. You want to speak.
you choose the mute mode of your life.
You switch on to hibernation.
some leaves fall. The wind arrives. Some flowers
bloom. The bees beginning busy.
Some butterflies. Blue and Yellow lights.
Grass as green as ever with dew on their tips.
There is no depression. There may be denial.
When pain is so much. Try these little things.
inside your mind, there is fullness of thoughts.
Tiny butterfly wings. Shiny wings of beetles.
Aroma of coffee. Scents of roses. Red roses.
Beach bench. Under a tree. Time stops to run here.
You are here. You are not waiting for anybody.
Time runs. But there is no watch to tell you about anything.
Then you think you have something to write about.
It is about this. Welcome.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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if you are on the same boat with me. Come.
as you read these lines
(let me tell you, there is nothing
significant, and i may advise you
to quit and may even ask
that you write your own
instead
it may be good for you
than continue to read
on the next line...
why not write
something about yourself and the
full moon and the lonely tree
that needs badly a
good company to pass the dark
night away)
why not just be
on your own,
solitude and self-introspection?
the secret journey to your heart
looking for
the place that is only for you
happiness, right?
eternal bliss, how about it?
you are curious about my boredom
the ennui of the century
perhaps you like to know how i deal
with the numbness of my being
every night every day
when slowly i die and feel so excited
about ending this ordeal and
how i cope with it
yes, the it.
this it. my it. this self....
attempting on
writing lines
whatever lines that come into my mind
words that try to please my senses
symbols that give me hope
figures of gods who may be able to say
something wise and
inspiring,
images. lots of images...
the image of the wind
on the wings of the seagulls
the colors changing on the horizon
like a swab of orange and red and black
or blood
or pastel green on the shadows of the hills
or the brightness of the sun when i stare at it and hurt my eyes
and then i close them
and see this world as all red
bursting red
like a sunset coming
and then fading away like a song
of a flute faraway
i wish i could stop writing
i wish that i could get a nice sleep
a restive mind
a peaceful state
a harmony of all my sense
up and down
but nothing seems to work right for me
i tried to sing the songs of love
but my ears say
liar! you do not have love in your heart
you do not know the feeling anymore
i tried drawing my thoughts and putting bright colors
on the images of green fields and blues skies
and stars and even seven moons of the other planets
but always they end up so displeasing
i am looking for the meaning of my life and if you are
on the same boat with me
then come and take the ride
on the stormy sea
no lamplight
no island to land
no north star to guide us
i ask you to quit reading but you are just like me
hardheaded human being insisting that there is meaning to all these
and the inability to stop
and be a quitter
quieter, i mean.
hopefully.
in the silence of the cat's feet
cautiously catching another prey
let me stop now. quit me.
Look at the sky. Do you see stars?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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