88
i just had the number
88
inside my head.
it is not a grade
not money.
it is a mark of what i have done
on the other side
of my life.
i outlive 3,000
going on to 4,000
i clap my hands, give myself a toast
of red wine
when i had my first 1,000
you must remember my 1,000 cranes
paper cranes
paper poems on cranes and other creatures
like butterflies and birds and wind and dust
they have taken upon themselves the burden of flight
they promise me
and i have it now.
88, is my new number now.
i am inside an elevator and i am going up with you
to the nth floor.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Recalling The Thousand Cranes
if you recall i made a thousand
paper cranes too
hoping to save a soul
from the body of the burning
flesh
the ten thousand cranes
were useless
she died.i live.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Origami Me....
the way you fold a piece of paper
to make those cups and flowers and cranes
never stops to amaze me,
you know how to make use of mere scraps
into art, into something as useful as a cup
into something more meaningful as
those hundred cranes flying in the skies
on the minds of excited children
origami me, make me more artistic,
more useful
i am a mere scrap of paper flat on the table of this universe
Oh God...
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Ball And Chain
(Colin Moulding)
Save us from the ball and chain,
Save us from the ball and chain,
Save us from the ball and chain,
oh yeah,
The diggers and the tower cranes,
The diggers and the tower cranes.
Don't want demolition,
Don't want your compensation,
It's not just bricks and mortar,
We are lambs to slaughter.
Save us from the ball and chain,
Save us from the ball and chain,
Save us from the ball and chain,
oh yeah,
The diggers and the tower cranes,
The diggers and the tower cranes.
Must we live in fear,
From those who shed no tears?
Our one and only shelter,
Your games, your helter skelter.
Motorways and office blocks,
They're standing on the spot
Where stood a home,
Crushing on the memories of people,
Who have since turned to stone.
(Ahh)
They've turned to stone,
(Ahh)
They've turned to stone.
Save us from the ball and chain,
Save us from the ball and chain,
Save us from the ball and chain,
oh yeah,
The diggers and the tower cranes,
The diggers and the tower cranes.
song performed by by Xtc
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Cranes carry this heavy mystical baggage. They're icons of fidelity and happiness. The Vietnamese believe cranes cart our souls up to heaven on our wings.
quote by Mitchell Burgess
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Ball & Chain
(colin moulding)
Save us from the ball and chain,
Save us from the ball and chain,
Save us from the ball and chain,
Oh yeah,
The diggers and the tower cranes,
The diggers and the tower cranes.
Dont want demolition,
Dont want your compensation,
Its not just bricks and mortar,
We are lambs to slaughter.
Save us from the ball and chain,
Save us from the ball and chain,
Save us from the ball and chain,
Oh yeah,
The diggers and the tower cranes,
The diggers and the tower cranes.
Must we live in fear,
From those who shed no tears?
Our one and only shelter,
Your games, your helter skelter.
Motorways and office blocks,
Theyre standing on the spot
Where stood a home,
Crushing on the memories of people,
Who have since turned to stone.
(ahh)
Theyve turned to stone,
(ahh)
Theyve turned to stone.
Save us from the ball and chain,
Save us from the ball and chain,
Save us from the ball and chain,
Oh yeah,
The diggers and the tower cranes,
The diggers and the tower cranes.
song performed by by Xtc
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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You Are Always Electrifying
by the simple touch of your fingers
accidental intimacy like bumping on the street
and then quickly
parting ways like you don't know me and i do not know you
this pretense of strength
of white cranes suddenly in motion to the skies
as i clap my hands near the lushing cogon grass
oh they fly, oh they fly like white pebbles thrown to the sea
and then they are gone
i get electrified the moment i see you
(how can i ever tell you about
this secret that grows like a cancerous mole on my face?)
sizzling simply sizzling this feeling
of loving with the loved one not knowing anything
why flowers bloom and then die
why the leaves are falling
the white cranes in the rice fields this June
oh how they flap and fly like white pebbles thrown to the sea
perfect flight of silent love
my eyes are so delighted
my heart sings
it has never known how to scream
in silence i gaze at you and then you walk away
the street where you walk narrows down like a throat choking
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Insomnia. Homer. Taut canvas.
Insomnia. Homer. Taut canvas.
Half the catalogue of ships is mine:
that flight of cranes, long stretched-out line,
that once rose, out of Hellas.
To an alien land, like a phalanx of cranes –
Foam of the gods on the heads of kings –
Where do you sail? What would the things
of Troy, be to you, Achaeans, without Helen?
The sea, or Homer – all moves by love’s glow.
Which should I hear? Now Homer is silent,
and the Black Sea thundering its oratory, turbulent,
and, surging, roars against my pillow.
poem by Osip Emilevich Mandelstam
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Waradgery Tribe
Harried we were, and spent,
broken and falling,
ere as the cranes we went,
crying and calling.
Summer shall see the bird
backward returning;
never shall there be heard
those, who went yearning.
Emptied of us the land;
ghostly our going;
fallen like spears the hand
dropped in the throwing.
We are the lost who went,
like the cranes, crying;
hunted, lonely and spent
broken and dying.
poem by Dame Mary Gilmore
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I can’t sleep
I can’t sleep. Homer, and the taut white sails.
I could the list of ships read only to a half:
The long-long breed, the train of flying cranes
Had lifted once the ancient Greece above.
The wedge of cranes to alien far frontier --
On heads of kings, as foam, crowns shine --
Where do you sail? If Helen were not here,
What Troy then means for you, Achaeia’s people fine?
And Homer and the sea are moved by only love.
Whom must I listen to? Homer is silent yet,
And blackened sea with roar comes above,
Sunk in triumphant noise, head of my sleepless bed.
poem by Osip Emilevich Mandelstam
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A Paper Boat On A Murky River
on your hand is a paper boat
you made last night
on a rainy day like this
you put on a gray rain coat
the river rises
perfect for your scheme
you put the boat gently
on the brown water
white paper boat
carried by this murkiness
your hands push
the paper boat leaves
tonight you sleep on
the wooden floor
it is mahogany brown and you
become the paper boat
sailing inside your dream
the floor becomes the big river
your thoughts become the wind
your eyes become two moons
the room is as dark as the night
the dream is so alive like a mother's song.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I prefer to be a monkey than a donkey!
First standard girl
called me for a funny play,
She wrote a few words for her display,
in a folded paper and hide it for a while;
She asked me to say a number
from one to ten and open the paper,
She gave me a clue and asked me to say four
Four denotes that I am a good boy;
But I said the number 2 instantly,
The number 2 interprets monkey,
The number 1 denotes donkey,
I prefer to be a monkey than a donkey!
poem by V.K. Kanniappan
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[ Untitled]
What do you think--what do you make out of that recording?
I dont know, gloria, I just--
Some kind of singing. they sound like all kinds of people, right?
Yeah.
And then it says another child is born in india every time you call this number, right?
Yeah, right.
Does that make any sense to you?
No, it doesnt make no sense to me.
And the guy that spoke--i dont know who he is.
Yeah.
But that--it doesnt sound like no answering machine, right?
No, it aint an answering machine because theyre not saying anything, theyre just--
But what does he get--how does he make money on this? whatever hes advertising in the paper, thats the part that dont make no sense.
Oh, hes advertising this in the paper you saw it.
In the village voice, yeah. they got--thats where the kiss clinic, but they give you another number if you wanna join it. and I got intellectuals meet with other intellectuals.
Yeah.
Speak another language.
Yeah. oh.
They meet at la mai--la maisonette restaurant. they give you the price. then they give you another number to call if youre interested. this guy, all you get is this here recording, but I dont
Ow he makes money.
Yeah, yeah.
You know what Im saying? its just--they got the craziest things in that paper.
Yeah.
They come over with all--they got the craziest things. but this one here-- there must be giants, its called. and it says, call machine, and they got the phone number.
Yeah.
But what kind of money does he make? it dont make no sense. well, he dont make any money, right?
No.
But, then--then hes a nut, right? do you see--do you see any sense to that? there may be giants? that re--that recording I have on. the new one. did you hear it? I changed it. I too
The intellectuals. I put on there may be giants.
What?
Whos they may be giants?
What are you talking about?
Thats whats on my--the phone, there may be--argh, well I cant explain it. cause I dont know what it is. look in the paper, dont blame me if the guys a nut.
song performed by by They Might Be Giants
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Jar of Origami Cranes
In rooftops, in trellises
People strut like an alley cat
Gyrating their flamboyance
And trying hard to enthuse
The blasé of the spectators below
In gardens, in sea shores
People will prod for a gazebo
And conceal their precious jewels
Screen them from the thorns and tides
And from the sweltering sight of the sun
In planes, ships, or trains
People would doze in the expedition
And rest their lethargic heads
To miss the motion picture
Playing outside their windows
In bedrooms, in churches
People would utter a prayer
Before looming icons and candles
To deliver them from all evil
Such blinded greedy pleas of fanatics
In bookshelves, in bar corners
People would careen over the macabre
And sulk in inebriated isolation
Titivated by loquacious melancholy
A feigned scream of brazen idiosyncrasy
In poems, in letters
People, like myself, errs
And dispense everything into angst
Rasped by an ineffable trance
Of lackadaisical sycophancy
In simplification, in surrealism
People would lose the rhythm
And reduce the pulp into a gravy boat
Of cheap, mentholated or carbonized,
Gaudy and squalid hedonism
If I would stumble on a place
Where I can make origami cranes
I would pawn a lifetime and craft a sunset
From a folded paper and keep it in a jar
Like a fallow secrecy of a Pandora's Box
If I could build such a place instead
I'd settle to the places where the sun
Rises its head and sets back in attrition
So that all the people, sybarite or saint, could muse
The jars of origami cranes and fondle each other's laments
poem by Norman Santos
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Brown Paper Bag
Brown paper bag
Squalid incomplete
slumped to the side of the street
Like unwanted sacks of garbage
She left her track her smell
And like the brown paper bag
She had travelled well
She had a whole world in her head
Her first love
The man she wed
And the drink and the smoke
And the four o clock bloke
That returned with a bottle in a brown paper bag
And better days before
When she had carried her first round fruit
When the brown paper bag was waxed new
And he carried his bride to the door
Then the four o clock bloke
Full of stale wine and stale smoke
With a bottle in a brown paper bag
How he called her a hag
And that first punch to the floor
And the brown paper bags fell by her side
Crumpled and stained
And the liquor cans and the four o clock man
Who never spoke
Left her broke
Bones shattered in pieces
Flesh bare to the wind
Body out on the street
Skin tanned dirt brown
Hair matted locks
And two brown paper bags tied with string to her feet
yvette m smith 11.2.09
poem by Yvette Smith
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Obstructure
The pet he found at the bar
the status of a new car with it
big money made a new job
To make him feel a less slob of it
new standards changed the ego
the villain now a hero
looks at life, and takes a bite
a piece of paper makes him proud
the silence of success has gotta seem so loud
his future in a uniform
he's just another number in the eye of the storm
obstructure to late
Is a piece he cannot pay - the cost of pride
and still he hides dies inside - alone he sheds a tear
for the memories of before from it
a tribute to the good of the lord
the bible is the way to forget
New standards changed the ego
the villain now a hero
looks at life, it's flee or fight
Its nervous laughter business now
it used to be a trip to circle - seven without
The plan for number one to rise
the world he lives in is a price tag lie
obstructure to late
Is a piece he cannot pay - the cost of pride
and still he hides inside - dies inside
(Have you ever felt alone?)
(Have you ever felt alone in the crowd?)
You keep your mouth shut
But inside you scream out loud
stay real to yourself, be afraid of yourself
Find a heaven in hell
(Have you ever felt alone?)
Are you so together that you unwound?
You got a pulse so loud you cant hear a sound
Of them talking to you, trying to see though you
And you don't know what to do
obstructure to late
Is a piece he cannot pay - the cost of pride
and still he hides inside - dies inside
(can't be alone, he can't)
Dies inside
(can't be alone, he can't)
Dies inside
(can't be alone, he can't)
Dies inside
(can't be alone)
song performed by by 1208
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Scandal
Aren't there bigger things to talk about
Than a window in Greenwich Village
And hyacinths sprouting
Like little puce poems out of a sick soul?
Some cosmic hearsay—
As to whom—it can't be Mars! put the moon—that way….
Or what winds do to canyons
Under the tall stars…
Or even
How that old roué, Neptune,
Cranes over his bald-head moons
At the twinkling heel of a sky-scraper.
poem by Lola Ridge
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A Sheet of Paper
A sheet of paper is wrestled by the wind
Like living tissue inside us.
It is a shown substance of celebration
Like the masses of people in harmony,
As if earthquakes position their young inside themselves,
We are not younger than paper,
We have youth not old age,
But our lessons fade away.
poem by Naveed Akram
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It does not become the sparrow to mix in the dance of the cranes.
When cranes migrate, bad weather can't be far off.
To His Daughter
A little girl sits on the wall
Colouring something on the other side.
The wind shines her hair as she holds up
A flapping paper to my window.
What is on the paper I don't know.
The hornbeam bends over near her head.
Its two-coloured leaves are like her hair.
poem by Henry Money
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