A Bow To Simplicity
you go to church every morning
model catholic of this town
you listen to the sermon of the priest
you take the body of Christ
in your body
somehow these matters give you
comfort and so you have no time to
ask for more answers
because there are no questions asked
anyway
in any way, you dwell in the comfort zone of
religion
you are not a philosopher with all the wrinkles
on his forehead
you do not envy all these
search for wisdom
you do not need it anyway in your everyday
morning existence
about those joys you claim you have
the contentment of an achievement
no wars
no confusion even in small matters about
real happiness
in some ways you smile
and by all means we think that you are the child of God
smiling to everyone
sometimes i envy you
as i tremble over my thoughts
grinding every bean of coffee
in the machine of my mind
hot temperatures here
like hell
are questions part of hell?
doubts and regrets
they come together
trying to hit me with their fists
me, the philosopher
still unable to hold the beautiful arms of an
answer
i talk within and there are many selves talking
within
you pity me
for thinking too much
on such a simple existence
as breakfast and lunch and dinner
that you serve on my table
and for which
due to my self-inflicted fever
on a trembling mouth
i cannot eat
and then
i decided to keep silence in the middle of this
turbulence
i wash my face
comb my hair
and face you
saying the words that i do not mean
just to please you
like
i love you and then you smile
and you do not bother
what wisdom is
nothing bothers you
what more? what more is there?
you tell me
there is nothing more between the two of us
not even space
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Related quotes
Sunday 4: 44 A.m.
the church bell sounds.
you wake up.
you wash your face.
comb your hair and
wear the best dress
on sunday.
you look again
in the mirror to check
if all about you is well
and presentable.
you take the rosary
and the prayer book.
you read the gospel.
you mumble your prayers,
you thank your husband.
you take the puppy.
you smile again in the
mirror. you thank God.
now you open the gate
and head for the nearby
church and hear mass
and the usual sermon
of the parish priest.
90% of your life
is devoted to religion.
10% is devoted
to anything else.
you have aged.
you still mumble.
i still wonder whether
it is you who misunderstands me
or i misunderstanding you.
everything seems to be
mangled and mingled.
when you come back
breakfast is ready and
everyone in the house
pretends that there is nothing
wrong with the table, or the
cover, or the broken pieces
of the glass.The maid is
quick in sweeping them
away from the door into
that thick grass beside
the window of this house.
sunday morning is still
our morning. A nice one.
the sun has come and
we are planning for another
picnic in the nearby beach.
there will be no questions.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Upon Being Numb
at the end
one sees what matters
nothing really
matters
one finally says yes
to everything
whatever comes
without question one embraces
as part of
its existence
whatever is taken
one nods
and admits that it is always
rightly taken
at the end
you arrive at a dead
end
it is destiny
it is always that fate that tells you
you are here and you have
arrived
always at the right hour
there are no more questions
and so
as a matter of consequence
there too are no more answers
it is empty as light and space
it is an erasure of everything that is written
at the end
one really can see nothing at all
nothing matters
nothing taken
nothing given
at the end you smile
what a wasted lifetime!
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Untitled 6
now the questions are asking you
what now? quo vadis?
where to? what for?
why?
yes, why above all.
the questions are asking you
and you must answer with the very same questions to the questions
you beg, and they beg too
the answer to the questions
but you have no answers really
you have learned the art of wisdom
its own ways
its own manners of not answering with answers
who knows? no one knows?
oh, ahh, i must start from where wisdom
was born
here i am and i know nothing....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Conversation
He comes for conversation
I comfort him sometimes
Comfort and consultation
He knows thats what hell find
I bring him grapes and cheeses
He brings me songs to play
He sees me when he pleases
I see him in cafes
And I only say, hello
And turn away before his lady knows
How much I want to see him
She removes him, like a ring
To wash her hands
She only brings him out to show her friends
I want to free him
Secrets and sharing soda
Thats how our time began
Love is a story told to a friend
Its second hand
But Ill listen to his questions
Ill give my answers when theyre found
He says she keeps him guessing
But I know she keeps him down
She speaks in sorry sentences
Miraculous repentances
I dont believe her
Tomorrow he will come to me
And hell speak his sorrow endlessly and hell ask me why
Why cant I leave her?
He comes for conversation
I comfort him sometimes
Comfort and consultation
He knows thats what hell find
song performed by by Joni Mitchell
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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What Now?
now the questions are asking you
what now? quo vadis?
where to? what for?
why?
yes, why above all.
the questions are asking you
and you must answer with the very same questions to the questions
you beg, and they beg too
the answer to the questions
but you have no answers really
you have learned the art of wisdom
its own ways
its own manners of not answering with answers
who knows? no one knows?
oh, ahh, i must start from where wisdow
was born
here i am and i know nothing....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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My Visitors This Morning
she comes early this morning
blue all over
and i give her tea and let her speak what is in her mind.
like she is a storm today,
she has given me turbulence, speaking about how abuse
can be inflicted, verbal physical emotional, against her
a woman of virtue
and intellect, she sips the tea and breaks some cookies
her breakfast today, and she continues about
what he did to her
i am listening then the door bell rings
it is him, and he gets another tea
for sympathy and he listens to her outpouring too,
these kinds of abuse
inflicted by one to another
getting to be
so normal an occurrence, that everyone seems to accept
without question,
she is his wife
the man has white hair, and balding, and his shirt
is not well ironed, his face still unwashed,
wrinkles on his face,
she is complaining about his abuses on her person
and he merely listens
and he wants to explain how these matters started
and how they may not be true
how violent can she become
when provoked by her
mood swings
her face changes from calm to something
you will not like
and she does what you may now believe
because she kicks him
she slaps him
and he merely listens
i guess, that explains the mess, that this couple
now intruding my privacy, has found themselves into,
i tell them i have other things to do today,
and since their tea is consumed, then they must now take
their leave
my morning is not that great, actually, i do not like it
and them too.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Descartes' Despair
How can we affirm our own existence?
Cogito ergo sum, Descartes said,
I think therefore I am.
But wait!
Who is doing the thinking?
The body?
Am I my body?
Well, Descartes explained, we are talking about
Two incompatible substances:
The unextended and indivisible mind
In contrast with the extended and divisible matter,
Res cogitans versus res extensa.
Yes, but am I my body?
How is the contact created
Between the mental
And the physical worlds?
Princess Elizabeth of the Palatinate asked.
Well, somewhere at the base of the brain,
In the pineal gland, replied the philosopher.
Oh, I have a problem with that,
The princess remarked.
For, if the brain exists in space,
How can the non-spatial mind dwell in it?
And Descartes threw up his hands
In despair.
poem by Paul Hartal
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Mistaken Identity
There are many times I have been mistaken
for something I am not.
People mistake me as an ordained priest,
but in fact, I am not.
You could call me an actor
who just happens to live the part.
Admittingly I do most things
a real priest would in their lives do,
give comfort to the sick and dying
and other things do.
However please do not be mistaken
that is not acting, its just part of my personality,
something I have always done
even before I got the part.
Those who needed my words of comfort
always seemed to find me,
and I would never turn them away.
Don’t ask me why I am this way;
there is no answer I can give you.
I hate to see suffering
whether it be in friend or foe.
I made a promise to myself
a long, long time ago
that if I could make someone smile
each and every day,
then I would be smiling too.
There have been a very few times occasions
when that promise has been broken,
because sometimes I could not do it.
They were mainly when
great sadness caught up with me,
but most of the time you will find me
with a smile on my face
and mischievous twinkle in my eye.
That is because at heart
I am something of a clown
and a practical joker.
One thing I am not
and something I will never be
is what many people call me,
and that is an angel
as there are too many faults
that lie behind me.
14 August 2008
poem by David Harris
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Nothing Even Matters
Now the skies could fall
Not even if my boss should call
The world it seems so very small
'Cause nothing even matters at all
Nothing even matters
Nothing even matters at all
Nothing even matters
Nothing even matters at all
See I don't need no alcohol
Your love makes me feel ten feet tall
Without it I'd go through withdrawal
'Cause nothing even matters at all
Nothing even matters
Nothing even matters at all
Nothing even matters
Nothing even matters at all
These buildings could drift out to sea
Some natural catastrophe
Still there's no place I'd rather be
'Cause nothing even matters to me
Nothing even matters
Nothing even matters to me
Nothing even matters
Nothing even matters to me
You're part of my identity
I sometimes have the tendency
To look at you religiously
'Cause nothing even matters to me
Nothing even matters
Nothing even matters to me
Nothing even matters
Nothing even matters to me
Now you won't find me at no store
I have no time for manicures
With you it's never either or
'Cause nothing even matters no more
Nothing even matters
Nothing even matters no more
Nothing even matters
Nothing even matters no more
Now my team could score
And make it to the Final Four
Just repossess my 4x4
'Cause nothing even matters no more
Nothing even matters
Nothing even matters no more
Nothing even matters
Nothing even matters no more
song performed by by Lauryn Hill from The Miseducation Of Lauryn Hill
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I Envy Nothing But One
I don’t envy the angels with wings who can fly
I’ve been soaring in the beautiful sky of your love
I don’t envy the beauty of the rainbow
You’ve made me the most beautiful woman in your love
I don’t envy the freedom of the dolphins swimming in the ocean
I’ve been swimming in the ocean of your loving eyes
I don’t envy Shakespeare for his love poems
I’ve become the greatest poet since I met you
I don’t envy Romeo’s faith to Juliet
You’ve never turned your heart from me, not even once
I don’t envy the softness of the dew the morning has
You’ve been kissing me gently with your tender lips
I don’t envy Monalisa’s wonderful smile Leonardo has
I’ve got one of mine on your face
I don’t envy the sweet sound a harp has
I’ve got a sweeter one when you whisper in my ears
I envy nothing but one
The way you love and make me feel this way
poem by Santi Dewi Sihombing
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Probing Questions
Is there something more to life, than endless days of toil and strife?
Is there something after all of this; a Hell below or a Heavenly Bliss?
Can there truly be life after death, this when we take our final breath?
That question always asked is why; do innocent people have to die?
Why do righteous people perish, while evil seems to always flourish?
Friend is there truly a Living God, who rules above the earth we trod?
And does God truly care for us; mortal beings that return to the dust?
Can anyone have true peace of mind, in this world that is so unkind?
Why’s there evil darkness everywhere, if He is a God filled with care?
And why would a God full of love, simply sit and watch from above?
These are just a few of many more, questions asked about my Lord,
Questions that you may have asked; some in the not so distant past.
Many questions are Satan’s reproof, to keep many from God’s Truth,
Let none of them keep you from, Christ who from Heaven has come,
With answers to these and more, on questions about Heaven’s Door.
The Spirit leads to God’s Word, with the answers to questions heard,
Eternal answers which you will find, fill your heart not just your mind.
Where God not just answers them, but gives new life to all my friend.
Then all the questions are second to, the Eternal Life He’s given you.
And now an answer in my life, is to Heaven I’m going in Jesus Christ.
(Copyright ©06/2007)
Conjoining
you see your face in the mirror
this morning and you begin to see the lines
of age
the white hair of wisdom falling out
from the hold of your forehead
time has conquered your brow
and your eyelashes
dropping lower than you have expected
your body is drooping
taking in the weight of your years
hefty thoughts the worries of your age
leave the shocking marks in the wrinkles
of your eyelids
age and the feelings of uselessness
feast your body
your eyes begin to see the threats of sunsets
you dream about the beauty
of a hundred glowing sunrises
but it is not too late to learn again
as you welcome the new things
the sons of our weariness
the daughters of our selfmade worries
they all come
these new ideas to comfort us about the coming
of a new age
where we must accept that we are destined to leave
that we have finished what we are tasked to do
that we are finite on this body
that we have something infinite hidden in our souls
the new comes conjoining with the tired wings of the old
and they become one new bird
singing and braving the winds of change
the current of the raging rivers even still unnamed
and together we shall chart and together we shall rage again
towards the paths of eternity
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Question Anyone
We have in life
a surfeit
of those who step to the mark
to declare
what should and can be done.
Ideas pour
from their open mouths
enunciating in grave tones
and solemn decrees
making claim
to the Wisdom
of the Knowledge Tree.
Regard these not
or follow those
who claim Secret Lore
and urge 'follow me.'
Hard Truth:
Every one claims answers
but cannot tell you what is the question;
every one thinks their answer
if true for them
is also true for you;
from that silly stance recoil.
Every sage can tell you what to do
but none can identify the first step.
All can see the path to follow
but none can answer
if a first step
is consistent with several paths which may follow.
None can answer
if you deny their answers offered,
(which are commonly either or choices)
but note life most often shows either/or
most often is neither/other.
None can tell you what is scientific about the scientific method.
None can separate in a simple sentence the difference between
book learning and common sense.
No sage alive can claim to know why Progress Now
has crashed so low-
despite all the Smart Ones
gone before.
Why is it that ignorance always fills the void
that Knowledge leaves?
Why are there always a surplus of answers
but few good questions?
I don't know
but I know what I don't know
hopefully,
that makes me one step ahead
of those who know the answer
before the question.
I think
those that always know
what they think they know
without ever asking
what is the question
that their knowing
is the answer to-
don't know
anything.
Best to smile faintly,
turn
and leave.
In life,
deep wisdom states:
we must learn to ask our own questions
so that answers are our own answers
drawing upon our own experience.
Ask not what the wise think
but ask instead
what questions did they ask
when it counted
as now,
at the brink.
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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Villanelle: Blest Art the Poor
God keeps me better than many others!
And yet, I seem very dissatisfied;
I envy my poorer sisters, brothers!
Despite their troubles, nothing them bothers;
They seem to wear a smile on sad a face;
God keeps me better than many others!
Neither the sun or moon or rain or cold matters;
They laugh away their problems most, always.
I envy my poorer sisters, brothers!
Some shelterless do wear clothes in tatters;
Their children play amusing all in ways.
God keeps me better than many others!
They bathe happily in river-waters;
They play in mud and run in sand a race.
I envy my poorer sisters, brothers!
The forests give them wood, berries, feathers;
No grief or strife can halt their living pace.
God keeps me better than many others!
I envy my poorer sisters, brothers!
Copyright by Dr John Celes 1-28-2005
(my first villanelle)
poem by John Celes
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A Sunday Prayer 07
Dear Lord there is so many questions
that plague our mind each day.
We hear of wars fought constantly,
each side declare God is with them.
Oh Lord, how can this be?
Who is right and who is wrong?
Pray help me understand.
A blind man when told
he could have his sight returned.
He refused to have it back,
saying he did not want to see,
the deprivation of man to his fellow man.
Oh, Lord surely there has to be explanation.
I pray to you to help me understand.
If there is to be hope for the human race,
we must understand each person’s problems;
never turn our back to those in need.
So Lord I ask you today,
grant us with your eternal wisdom,
so that we may understand and help,
all of our fellow man,
through their indignation and sorrow
that so many face everyday.
Send your fateful lightning
to guide us on our way.
We need your wisdom and guidance
to help us each day through.
Oh Lord, as you hear this prayer,
grant it for us so we can show,
others the road to heaven and happiness,
And lead them into the safety of your open arms.
Oh Lord, grant us also the wisdom
of the answers to the questions
that constantly torment our mortal mind.
poem by David Harris
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Questions Above
Many questions, seventy times seven, may be asked once in Heaven,
Our thoughts about the patriarchs, one or more questions this sparks,
Or maybe questions about this life, just why so much pain and strife?
Or the things we can't comprehend; may prompt questions in the end.
But with a pure mind and heart, many of those questions shall depart,
This when we enter into Eternal Life, now, with the pure mind of Christ,
Former things remembered no more, as we step on that eternal shore,
With an eternal mindset instead, as past is behind with Eternity ahead.
The things we could not comprehend, shall come to light at that bend,
The final turn at the end of our life, as we see the face of Jesus Christ,
With our glorified body and mind, those former things are well behind,
Many questions we may have asked, may be faded things of our past.
Most things from the former time, shall pale in the light of the sublime,
As the Crystal Sea and streets of gold, with our Lord our eyes behold,
Mindful now, of the things to come, as we enter, His Eternal Kingdom,
A Kingdom that shall not pass away, one, where we'll be there to stay,
Many things that we now ponder, may fade away as we get up yonder,
Earthly things will lose their allure, as we begin a new life for evermore,
Many questions now thought of, will likely fade in His presence above,
As Christ answers more than we ask, when we begin, that Eternal Task.
I Want To Wake Up With You
When the morning coming and i' m opening my eyes,
I want to see your face and your amazing eyes,
Your smile to wrap me in happiness and joy,
I want to wake up with you.
I want to be the first one that you see,
To give me your first smile and a kiss to me,
To feel your warmth, your silence, your joy,
I want to wake up with you.
I want to keep your hand into mine,
And play with my fingers through your hair,
Kissing you tenderly each time you smile,
I want to wake up with you.
To lay my head on your shoulder,
And feel your breath so close,
I want to hold your heart and protect it,
I want to wake up with you.
To listen your tender whispers,
To feel your smooth skin touching mine,
Your arms passionately hugging me,
I want to wake up with you.
So, i had open my eyes in morning,
Surrounded by roses and love,
I feel like a gorgeous woman in your arms,
I want to wake up with you.
poem by Cristina Teodor
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A Question About Art
Our world forgets – has never known, perhaps –
that questions are a treasured magic wand:
the question asked, the answer may, most like, come freshly said
out of a space that’s new alike to teacher and to taught;
your question is today – how factual should I leave
my verse, or should I seek to ‘colour’ it with metaphor? …
this image comes to mind: ‘old master’ in his studio,
famed painter of Madonnas with attendant Child;
demand’s incessant; so he draws the outlines in,
and passes on the canvas to his studio hand;
coloured then, maybe he adds the master’s touch of life -–
the smile of angel’s sweetness on the Madonna’s face;
the glimpse of future in the Christ Child’s eyes;
and off it goes to some great patron’s church,
to comfort all of womanhood in woes and joys,
its colours gleaming candlelit in sacred prayer;
and yet, how connoisseurs may treasure that quick sketch
on scrap of hand-made paper, where the very touch
of sanguine chalk or silverpoint, reveal the immediate mind
of that old master, as it found the new track of the line;
the world will praise, admire, your coloured image of Her face;
but She will see, in pencilled sketch, how love springs from her grace..
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Ch 01 Manner Of Kings Story 07
A padshah was in the same boat with a Persian slave who had never
before been at sea and experienced the inconvenience of a vessel. He
began to cry and to tremble to such a degree that he could not be
pacified by kindness, so that at last the king became displeased as
the matter could not be remedied. In that boat there happened to be
a philosopher, who said: 'With thy permission I shall quiet him.'
The padshah replied: 'It will be a great favour.' The philosopher
ordered the slave to be thrown into the water so that he swallowed
some of it, whereon be was caught and pulled by his hair to the
boat, to the stern of which he clung with both his hands. Then he
sat down in a corner and became quiet. This appeared strange to the
king who knew not what wisdom there was in the proceeding and asked
for it. The philosopher replied: 'Before he had tasted the calamity of
being drowned, he knew not the safety of the boat; thus also a man
does not appreciate the value of immunity from a misfortune until it
has befallen him.'
O thou full man, barley-bread pleases thee not.
She is my sweetheart who appears ugly to thee.
To the huris of paradise purgatory seems hell.
Ask the denizens of hell. To them purgatory is paradise.
There is a difference between him whose friend is in his arms
And him whose eyes of expectation are upon the door.
It...
IT IS everyday
like everything that you do: waking up
washing the face
brushing the teeth
combing the hair
defecating on the
throne
in the comfort room
taking breakfast
reading the news
watching tv
waiting and going
and coming back
on the table
searching for words
to mark your day
above all those
rantings
take the cure: write, write,
write
they follow you and
read and say something
about you
perhaps it will matter
that your existence
is being confirmed
by all
you too stalk as they
stalk you
it is fair then.
They are your ITs
And you are their
It too.
but actually it would have been
a better world
if we did not write at all.
simply because
we have chosen the
right course:
talking.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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