En.Citatepedia^®.ro

A Happening Within

there is something in us that grows
into a complication,
the sophistication of the labyrinths that
we create in every word and line,

it used to be just a simple house with
one door without walls and ceiling
a theater for the dance of the wind
and the fireflies & perhaps

one window and a little patio to appease the senses
of simplicity
dressed like a rag doll

but it can't be prevented
as time grows more hands and feet and even wings
and horns

many subways are built
secret chambers
foxholes and slaughter houses
or tea tables

restricted areas and hidden homes
and buried cemeteries
and lost treasures
that will never be found

perhaps that is our nature
and also the nature of our poetry

there is a room where we make love
and there is only one person there
name not revealed
no one has a hint

there is a kitchen where no cooking is done
for fear of smoke and fire

where firewood is taboo and where cigarette speaks
a language of puffs

like Indian warriors communicating to
themselves
in the smoke of their palms

i, myself, create signs
that are designed more to confuse
than to
make bridges

the rivers are happier
and the clouds celebrate the success of
the floating

i am into this again
this chasm between two selves
split carrot stick

that falling that is endless
that bliss that is as silent as the star at night

when you are alone
and missing no
one.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Abandoned House And The Man Who Drags His Shoes To Make The Necessary Sound

when you arrive in the house
(the house that both of you built 17 years ago)
no one is there
not even the three white dogs

you have accepted this face of loneliness
without a mouth

it is its nature now
gentle in silence

there is nothing to talk about with someone else
when someone else is far away and seemingly taking all the hearts out

the door and the hinges have to keep things for themselves
for in truth, those who left the stairs
they still love

you have the key to the door of the kitchen
and that is where you start the journey towards the living room

you scurry on some little memories
it is like putting some words in your notes
in here and there beyond the margins

but it is not that endless really
for whatever it be
joy or death there's got to be an end
that is the truth of the meaning of
this word

it could be a dead-end
a street of walls
& then actually you are caught
in flagrante
where your only choice
is to go back,
retrace,
remember,
refresh
refrains, refrains
of a
love song

you go back to the room look longingly at the bed
the blankets are dusty and the pillows are stained with so much emptiness
or guilt
scruples
Freudian analysis
Carl Jung's other possibilities
of reconciliation

this is a very soundless world and
every part here is keeping its mouth shut
their layers of concealment are thick
and their canopies of
self-defenses are hard

you feel like this is one kind of a giant shell
and you are inside it
its flesh
all blistering
flesh

you decide to wear your shoes all throughout this scrutiny
this journey into marriage
into childlessness
into what if's

you drag your feet with your shoes on
as though someone is suffering and wanting to die
and you hold the collar
and you hurt the backbone
and in that open window
you imagine that someone may finally
jump like a scared cat

nine lives
thirty-six softest feet

you purposely make a sound with your shoes
tapping and tapping
and tapping
to create those sounds
of the past dances
just to fill an empty room

some thoughts jump out of the window
dressed in euphemisms
as the ceiling creates its own crankiness
its cloudiness

nine cats in you jump out that window
falling softly on the grass below
all thirty-six
dreams

it is nice to see of course
nine unharmed cats like fluffy cotton blown by the wind and gently
softly land on the grass

it is no wonder
why men sometimes invoke the sound of their whistling

indeed it is by this time
very relaxing

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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When I Am Alone

now i learned
what they want me to understand
when i am alone
at least i need someone to talk to
someone who listens
and when i am as silent as cigarette stick
lighted
at least something knows
where the smoke may go

i smoke now
but not because i like it
it is a necessity
the smoke at least talks to me
and the light in the cigarette
gives me the eye of the
cinder
a word of light
a comfort of flame
in the dark

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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You Great Goddess Of Nature

You great Goddess of Nature I see the beauty you create every day
In saying you are the only God I know of I do mean what I say
'Tis said that you and Mother Nature are one and of the same
Goddess of Nature or Mother Nature you go by either name
The beauty that you create is for all to enjoy
I have loved the beauty you create ever since I was a boy
If others have their own Gods well that's okay with me
Each to their own belief as some do say for that's how it ought to be
You great Goddess of Nature of you little I know
Your great and ancient waterways to your huge oceans flow
The Goddess of the Seasons the creator supreme
You do not have an equal that's how to me 'twould seem
You great Goddess of Nature though to you I never pray
My love for you grows stronger with every passing day.

poem by Francis Duggan
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Burning In The Skies

I used the deadwood to make the fire rise
The blood of innocence burning in the skies
I filled my cup with the rising of the sea
And poured it out in an ocean of debris
I'm swimming in the smoke
Of bridges I have burned
So don't apologize
I'm losing what I don't deserve
What I don't deserve
We held our breath when the clouds began
to form
But you were lost in the beating of the
storm
And in the end we were made to be apart
In separate chambers of the human heart
I'm swimming in the smoke
Of bridges I have burned
So don't apologize
I'm losing what I don't deserve
It's in the blackened bones
Of bridges I have burned
So don't apologize
I'm losing what I don't deserve
What I don't deserve
I'm swimming in the smoke
Of bridges I have burned
So don't apologize
I'm losing what I don't deserve
The blame is mine alone
For bridges I have burned
So don't apologize
I'm losing what I don't deserve
What I don't deserve
And here's the dead wood to make the fire
rise
The blood of innocence burning in the skies

poem by Pawan Kumar 'Meonlafesta'
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You Hear Nature's Voice

You hear Nature's voice in the river that ever flows on towards the sea
A voice destined to live forever that has lived for untold centuries
From the foothills of the high country it babbles downhill night and day
By groves and by ditches and hedgerows to saltwater it winds it's way.

You hear Nature's voice in her birdsong their music carrying in the breeze
The sounds that the freshening winds make rustling in the leaves of the trees
Some of the happier sounds of Nature though to Nature there's another side
When Nature she shouts out her anger all others from her seek a safe place to hide.

When Nature she grows very angry the fear of the World is in her cry
She shakes the Earth flattens great buildings she roars and her lightning flashes in the sky
She crackles when her forests burn leaving blackness and smoke everywhere
With the power of Nature in a fury none other can hope to compare.

You hear Nature's voice in all Seasons Winter, Spring and Summer and Fall
And you hear Nature's voice in the night-time when her nocturnal creatures do call
Nature's voice will live on forever 'tis something not destined to die
As Nature herself does not have a time span as such are for mortals such as I.

poem by Francis Duggan
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Same Forever

The same poetry has occurred forever,
To barge into walls is like bringing poems.
The basics of writing believed in characteristics
Of style and knowledge, too many poems occurred.
Walls and more walls make rooms
In the whole world of homes, the very domes.
I create a missile of hate to be shot at the rich,
Who happen with poetry all their life.
A sane man is also rich as poetry can offer,
Offers of successful nature are again made.

poem by Naveed Akram
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When The Smoke Comes Out

when the smoke comes out
they are there to say that there is fire
on the chimney
when the smoke is black
they all say i have decided
when the smoke is white
they keep on praying since
no one is chosen
to lead the lost flock
without their grazing ground
during winter time

what if the smoke comes out
from my eyes and the smoke is black
and there is no fire in my heart?

what if i am lost? shall you care?
please don't. I must tell you i am happier
when left alone.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Perhaps Then... (Not A Man)

perhaps then, i am not a man....
i am the creek hidden
deep in the woods,
singing the hymn of rocks,
and stillness.
i am the gun laid down,
for the last time,
by the conscience of discontent.
i am the cry of the child,
born into a hungry world,
the eyes of the mother,
defying hope!
i am the snail that dances,
the deep growl of the dog,
i am firewood, cut and stacked,
in waiting.
i am the kiss of the chapter,
you read again and again...
i am the crossroads,
devoid of signs.
i am the headstone faded
by a hundred years,
the old chair rocking by itself.
i am the lamp left on,
the door that creaks,
the breeze that knows your hidden name.
i am the tongue unlocking
passions not yet defined,
that you didnt even know you had.
i am boots in the corner,
that dance to the beat,
awaiting feet, as if a lover.
i am a new set of strings,
on the old guitar,
the sound hidden inside of music.
i am the language of birds,
the sign on the forehead.
i am sin undressed and intimate.
i am smoke from the chimney,
of the abandoned house,
the tin roof electric with rain.
i am nothing a hundred times made over,
the crease in the blanket,
the indention on the pillow....
i am the grunt of god revealed,
and the shovel of eternity!

poem by Eric Cockrell
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New Millenium Homes

Hungry people dont stay hungry for long
They get hope from fire and smoke as the wheat grows strong
Hungry people dont stay hungry for long
They get hope from fire and smoke as they reach for the dawn
Tha spirit of jackson
Now screams through tha ruins
Through factory chainsand tha ghost of tha union
Forgotten remains
Disappear to their new homes
Tha knife tha thrust
Tha life burns to the raw bone
Tha blood on the floor of the tear is still dryin
Cover the spread sheets
Tha dow jones skyin
Cell block live stock
Tha bodies their buyin
Old south order
New northern horizon
Violence in all hands
Embrace it if need be
(violence in all hands, embrace it if need be)
Livin been warfare
I press it to cd
(livin been warfare, I press it to cd)
Violence in all hands
Embrace it if need be
(violence in all hands, embrace it if need be)
Livin been warfare
I press it to cd
(livin been warfare, I press it to cd)
A fire in the masters house is set
A fire in the masters house is set
A fire in the masters house is set
A fire in the masters house is set
Hungry people dont stay hungry for long
They get hope from fire and smoke as the wheat grows strong
Hungry people dont stay hungry for long
They get hope from fire and smoke as they reach for the dawn
Yo, yo
Check tha high tech terror
Yes tha new order athletes
Peer into tha eyes of tha child already on trial
Armies rippin families apart
Get em on file
Convictions fit tha stock profile
All tha while films of dogs
Cutting through homes
Ripping skin from bones
Yes tha new millennium homes
Privatizing through private eyes
An era rising
Of tha old south order
New northern horizon
Violence in all hands
Embrace it if need be
(violence in all hands, embrace it if need be)
Livin been warfare
I press it to cd
(livin been warfare, I press it to cd)
Violence in all hands
Embrace it if need be
(violence in all hands, embrace it if need be)
Livin been warfare
I press it to cd
(livin been warfare, I press it to cd)
A fire in the masters house is set
A fire in the masters house is set
A fire in the masters house is set
A fire in the masters house is set

song performed by by Rage Against The Machine
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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For The Love Of God

Love is eternal.
Love is beauty.
Love is beauty found in uglyness.
Love can be found in hate.
Love can create hate.
Love can hate.
Love can create.
Love can destroy.
Love can confuse.
Love can mislead.
Love can bleed.
Love can cry.
Love can hurt in more ways than one.
Love can be takin back.
Love can never be lost.
Love can always be found again.
Love will understand you.
Love will guide you.
Love will pick u up when u have fallen.
Love will help u along when u havnt the strength.
Love will get u to ur destiny.
Love will make u beautiful.
Love will make u true.
Love is not hate.
Love will create.
Love will destroy.
Love will confuse.
Love will mislead.
Love will bleed.
Love will cry.
Love will hurt in more ways than one.
But when it is all over and done love comes back to you.
But this love is not the love of another.
It is the love of urself.
The love of ur soal.
The love of god.

poem by Simon Bear
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A Guideline To Readers

if you really want to be with me
i can sacrifice your presence like a lamb burned so the gods may smell the reality
of the smoke of death and pain and
sorrow

we can be together in all these realities
the first pact is: acceptance
you see what you get and you get what you see
as simple as that
no tricks no magic
plain hands nothing rubbery or plastic

we do not expect anything
in here there is no disappointment of what should have been or ought to be
anyway
the agreement reached is the voluntarism of our two wills
you invite yourself
and i invite you to invite me in return

we live in one house with only one door the getting in
we have two windows our two views on every matter presented by nature everyday
the sun in the morning the moon at night and some stars as bonus or the wind
and the trees, all these cliches of reality less the complicating ones those
sophistication of
sophistry and those fingers of an octal arguments
we are tired we ought to know better than tired

we make a river of course to justify our thirst for bridges
and some boats for easy rides
the paddles can come later when we are ready to learn to swim
whatever that
comes first in our mind shall all be welcome guests
no barrier no social mores no restrictions no exclusions
that is the rule here
openness of the roof and soon there will be no roof even

then we have a garden of grass and stones delineated well by the aid of
the grace of our imagination
more words that do not really help
but we tolerate it anyway to keep things going like a line of cars waiting for the go signal

did you hear the drivers sing? did you notice the silent passengers afraid that
we will cheat them into these useless endeavor to keep on talking
though
we really mean nothing?

stupidity is a trail a tail of the rainbow where actually there is no pot of gold out there
it is trail that we all are taking now and yet
we refuse to stop we refuse to recognize that we are all fools
who take pride that we are the only ones who change our minds
and then we call ourselves
wise people.

i step out of the line and i am going somewhere because as you see
i am all dressed up as though i am dying.
do not follow me, you do not know me, i may be dangerous.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Regarding Art

Sometimes, I, too, tell the ah's
of my heart one by one
like the blood-red beads
of a ruby rosary strung
on strands of golden hair!

But my
poetry's muse
takes to the air
on wings made of steel
like the I-beams
of my suspension bridges!

I don't pretend
the nightingale's lament
to the rose isn't easy on the ears...
But the language
that really speaks to me
are Beethoven sonatas played
on copper, iron, wood, bone, and catgut...

You can "have"
galloping off
in a cloud of dust!
Me, I wouldn't trade
for the purest-bred
Arabian steed
the sixth mph
of my iron horse
running on iron tracks!

Sometimes my eye is caught like a big dumb fly
by the masterly spider webs in the corners of my room.
But I really look up
to the seventy-seven-story, reinforced-concrete mountains
my blue-shirted builders create!

Were I to meet
the male beauty
"young Adonis, god of Byblos,"
on a bridge, I'd probably never notice;
but I can't help staring into my philosopher's glassy eyes
or my fireman's square face
red as a sweating sun!

Though I can smoke
third-class cigarettes filled
on my electric workbenches,
I can't roll tobacco - even the finest-
in paper by hand and smoke it!
I didn't --
"wouldn't" -- trade
my wife dressed in her leather cap and jacket
for Eve's nakedness!
Maybe I don't have a "poetic soul"?
What can I do
when I love my own children
more
than mother Nature's!


Trans. by Randy Blasing and Mutlu Konuk (1993)

poem by Nazim Hikmet
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A Dirge For Transience

On a dead dull night
When the moon goes hiding
And the barn owl hoots for its love
The fireflies romance the darkness.
The glowing beads dance to celebrate
The nights of long past buried for good
With the treasures of lost happiness,
Wind sings a dirge for transience.

poem by Pradip Chattopadhyay
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Saturation Points...

buying furniture
is not an option, where
do you put them
in this crowded house?

clothes are a
no no,
he is fat and
clothes don't fit anymore

the spoons and forks
we have enough of them
left unattended
they rust in their secret
places

in the kitchen
the porcelain plates
are glossy
we become speechless
of such
beauty in fidelity
despite the fact
that we stop giving parties
and they have
become of no use

unlike before
we cook the traditional way
with firewood
and chimney and we
send the smoke to the
sky

our way of communicating
to God
daily.

now, we have become
too secretive with
technology
in our privacy
we do not keep any smoke
because we know
we cannot hold them
no matter how closed the
windows are
they always keep and
tell the story

guess what?
there is a need to buy
more blankets
we are feeling this
kind of indescribable cold
for the moment

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Building A House Of Your Own

to a newly wed couple
building a house is poetry
each nipa shingle is a memory
put on top of another to make
a roof, an imagery of protection,

each wall is respect for privacy
each beam is stability
each door is a security
each window an eye

the house is the nest of this
new found love
and then a baby is born
giving them hope
as they both shower their affection

and as love grows there
like a well tended tree
as time strengthens their company
the house you know
has become their home

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Who Lights The Fire?

Who lights the fire-that forth so gracefully
And freely frolicketh the fairy smoke?
Some pretty one who never felt the yoke-
Glad girl, or maiden more sedate than she.

Pedant it cannot, villain cannot be!
Some genius, may-be, his own symbol woke;
But puritan, nor rogue in virtue's cloke,
Nor kitchen-maid has done it certainly!

Ha, ha! you cannot find the lighter out
For all the blue smoke's pantomimic gesture-
His name or nature, sex or age or vesture!
The fire was lit by human care, no doubt-
But now the smoke is Nature's tributary,
Dancing 'twixt man and nothing like a fairy.

poem by George MacDonald
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The Independent Woman....

we are in this house
that from our sweat built
there are only two of us
in this house
which we have not really
called as home,
something's missing
you give me a hint
not the glass window or
the ceiling fan,
i know it but how can i
tell you?
i won't tell, it will hurt you,
we continue living
somehow
just the two of us in this house

we have our own careers
and every morning we rush to go on our different ways
the night is the only place
of our tryst
we manage to spend time for love
we sleep together and share
what we can

there will be a time when this house shall fall
because it is not a home for us all

there will be one morning when you will finally leave
and take away everything from me

and then i will write it on the wall
this house is never a home,
she never wanted a child to bear.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Fire By Night, Smoke By Day

It's fire by night and smoke by day
As we lay in our beds just thinking away
We wake in the morning to do what they say
It's fire by night and it's smoke by day

The sun starts to rise and the birds start to sing
We worry about what to do, what to wear and what to bring
We make a to-do list filled with everything
Just like the summer, the winter, the fall and the spring

Fire by night, smoke by day
There's nothing left to blow it away

Our day carries on as we're stuck to the clock
A slave to the ways of the tic and the toc
We carry a key but there isn't a lock
Trying to discover what is already lost

Fire by night, smoke by day
There's nothing left to blow it away
We wait for the water to wash it away
It's fire by night, smoke by day

Our thoughts start to wander as night settles in
Engaged in a fight we're not ready to win
As we wait for a new tomorrow to begin
The fire starts burning all over again

Fire by night, smoke by day
There's nothing left to blow it away
We wait for the water to wash it away
It's fire by night, smoke by day

poem by Navillus Tam
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Another Insomniac Night

last night thoughts came
rambling and we had a guessing game
of what each image mean
for instance the closed door of the dorm
at 1: 30 a.m. when all of us were drank
when the fat one climbs and breaks
open a glass door
i can still hear the shattered pieces
of glass
but no one minds as everyone were
afraid and pretended to be asleep
for instance the bald prefect was surprised
making love with someone we knew inside
his room
no one likes to tell about these anymore
those secrets that must be kept
and buried in the chambers
of our ruined subconscious subways

in the morning i look at my eyes
buried in my sockets
but i always think of some advantages
about those insomniac nights
these bed for hidden thoughts
uncovered by its curious hands
those that want to be
part of who we are now
no one
not even our morbidity
erases them

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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No Common There (Fun Poem 72)

Some outside signs make you wonder
whose brain was in reverse
when they thought them up.
I walked along a promenade there was a sign,
which read No Smoking Zone.
A little further down
was a similar sign facing the other way.
Therefore, for twenty yards
you could not smoke between the signs.
You could smoke an inch before the sign,
but an inch further on
you would incur a hefty fine.
However, there was no sign
to tell the wind not to blow the smoke
into the direction of the smoke free zone.
Any person with a bit of common
could see no common there.

5 April 2008

poem by David Harris
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