A House Full Of Peace
no laughter from children
no conversations from visitors
a couple not on terms with each other
closed doors and windows
dusty slippers
empty thermos bottles
rusty door knobs
unused toothpaste
hard water
unfolded blankets
cold pillows
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Remembering A Summer Fling
we were short of pillows
and blankets
and it was raining hard
and so cold
inside an empty room
in fact
antiquated, abandoned
and dilapidated
windows
where we hear the
thunder and see
the lightning
cast two shadows
fusing as one
in fast motion
two short lived
and swift
but i can still
prettily remember
the sweet scent
of our sweat
the moaning sounds
drowned by the
heavy rain
and the silence
of bliss
which reigned
after
we left early
morning
since then
there is no
word for
each of us
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Witch In The Old Castle Nearby...
as you, foolish dog of my life,
my life in utter peace, a pond of less ripples,
as you, stupid dog of my life
barks at my feet, and tries to distract my own
solitude, that of the candle still in the middle
of my room, the blankets soft on my bed,
the pillows all too silent like flower petals
on a dew filled morning leaf,
as you, twitchy wicked witch
calls my name, i finally give up and
face myself, and leave you, all cracked up,
and i go inside my room and lock my door
and tell my windows, to shut you up,
do not ruin my life, do not ever attempt to do
that which creases my blankets and
stabs my pillows,
for i shall return to you and burn your
furrowed faces, dissolve you in the acids
of my test tubes,
erase you like some misspelled words,
i am a man of peace, and i am stone.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Sharp Contrast
at a friend's party
drinks are served and some
christmas food, dessert and
conversations and laughter
of reminiscenses
we left at the right hour
when the hosts are sleepy
time to be back
to my room,
in sharp contrast
the bed and the pillows
and blankets are
soundly asleep
no snores, not a scratch
of an ant's feet
not a sound from
the walls
deafening silence
questions without answers
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I want to be warm so freaking bad
I want to be warm so freaking bad
While the big winter freeze sets in
All this condensation and precipitation
With little perspiration and evaporation
Everywhere I go
There are blankets of white snow
I am indoors having phone conversations
With minus freezing temperature
The cold affects every living creature
This is the cold side of nature
When little drops of water have an adventure
I want to be warm so freaking bad
That's why I can not get out of bed
In houses hide the mass populations
While the nation is in depression
Faced with buses and train cancellations
Right now I face hibernation
When I open my doors
The cold wind blows hardcore
It bites into my bones
And I retreat back home alone
I want to be warm so freaking bad
That's why my heating is constantly on
I want to be warm so freaking bad
That's why I have so many clothes on
Because every time I open my windows
I don't need a pair of binoculars
To see that walking on thin ice
Is not a comforting struggle
I want to be warm so freaking bad
And I know my thoughts are not all that mad
I want to be warm so freaking bad
While the big winter freeze sets in so bad
poem by Sylvia Chidi (2010)
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I Step Out Of The Door
i step out of the door
from my dark room the windows are not opened
it is humid
it is cold
and i step out of the door the windows still closed
i lock the door and step upon a patch of green grass
the dews are hanging on the blades
and shaken
i look upon a sky
and there is this star still shining despite the opening of the
mouth of the morning
after a deep sleep
i see your face but i promise there shall be no tears.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Relics Of Love
the moon took away the memory
of you
the wind conceals the secrets
your shadow dissolves in the
days of my life
the river constantly murmurs
about what happens to the forest
jewels
my hands are closed
they do not open to the water
the rain is no exemption
to this hiding
but then the blankets and the pillows
where the locks of your hair are homed
still whisper your name
in the crevices of artful rocks
your face is carved
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Repost Of The Past Poem
i step out of the door
from my dark room the windows are not open
it is humid and cold
i step out of the door the windows are still closed
i lock the door and step upon a patch of green grass
the dews are hanging on the blades and shaken
i look upon the sky
and there is this star still shining
despite the opening of the mouth of the morning
i was in deep slumber
i close my eyes
i see your face but i promise there shall be no tears.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Son Never Shines (On Closed Doors)
I saw her there from afar
Her hair grey charcoal
Takes a drag from her tar
I kissed her a smile
But her blood red shot eye
Said the son never shines on closed doors
It's been eight long years since I saw
The woman who's labored
Since the day I was born
These wrinkles now face
To that cold dark damp place
Where the son never shines on closed doors
She said the son never shines on closed doors
I open to find only hurricanes blow
Take me away back to the green fields of May
Because the son never shines on closed doors
Death comes like a theif in the night
To steal while you sleep
The soul's flickering licght
Well maybe it's then
She said
song performed by by Flogging Molly from Drunken Lullabies
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Southern Narrative
The tired old farm buildings
Were slumping into the ground
Like exhausted children,
Fighting to stay upright,
But too old, too tired
To try much longer.
Possibly, the only thing
Holding them vertically
Was the amount of vines
Sprouting out the tops
Of the tilting roofs.
Doors gaped wide,
Hinges hanging away,
Most of their screws missing,
Holding bits and pieces
Of the stout planks
Which used to make doors.
A heavy metal winch
Swung from the upper
Door of the barn,
Creaking and whining
With age.
Where once it had been
The lifter of heavy loads,
It now hangs limply
On a frayed rope,
Empty and useless.
The stalls stand bare as well,
Rotting, sour hay on floors
Which used to be cleaned daily.
Rusted milk cans tilt
Against walls that can barely
Hold them upright.
A saddle still hangs
By the vacant doorway.
Where it had once shone proudly
With bright polish and clean brass,
And smelled of horse,
It now drops bits of dried-out leather,
Like a moulting bird,
Onto the unused floor.
Cans of paint, bits of brass,
Rusty wire, old hoes and rakes
Lay in a jumble on shelves
Falling off the walls.
The homeplace, the house,
Shows the same state of neglect,
Doors ajar, windows sagging,
Tiles tilting and sliding off the roof.
The porch dips and sags,
Dragging the ground
Like the old preacher's wife,
Wearing her finest clothes,
With her slip hanging down,
Tattered and dirty,
And very worn at the edges.
The house beside the road,
Where people lived
And children played,
Is empty now,
And falling down.
The echos of happy feet
Are heard,
Tapping to the sound
Of Poppy's fiddle,
But the house beside the road
Is empty, and forlorn.
When a gentle voice
Is heard in the house,
It is only a singing breeze,
Sifting itself through
The cracks in the roof
Of the house I used to call
Home.
Linda Scarlett Treat
January 6,2010
poem by Scarlett Treat
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Empty Playground
The swings stand empty,
but rock back and forth.
Probably in the memory,
of the children who sat on them.
The slide is also empty,
with no laughter filling the air.
The children have all gone home,
leaving the playground empty
with no one there.
Maybe tomorrow
there might be laughter there,
and the empty playground
will not seem so bare.
(7 July 2007)
poem by David Harris
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Life Is As Simple And Enjoyable As Sipping Coffee Early Morning And Enjoying The Scenery Of A Rustic Place
alright,
we simplify this
it is early morning
they have not awakened yet
the house is very peaceful
the windows are closed still
and the doors too
alright
stand, walk towards the window
open all of them
let the cold air come in
then walk towards the door
unlock it
and open it too and then
let the cold air
come in
you want coffee?
go to the kitchen
take a spoon a cup and saucer and
take sugar and coffee and
hot water
you know what to do, right?
feel at home
this is your home
now take your time
sit on a chair
face the trees
stir your coffee
feel it hot
and then sip
enjoy, savor the scenery of
this rustic place
feel the wind on your cheeks
take the warm side of the cup
alright,
is not life as simple as this?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Closed Door
Do you know that it hurts?
Do you know that I cry?
Do you know that I'm broken,
Deep down inside?
Do you know that I'm scared?
Do you know that I tried?
Do you know that I'm empty,
And I said my goodbyes?
I know you don't love me.
I don't blame you.
Because nobody sees
Behind closed doors.
I am a closed door.
A lock with no key.
I'm trapped inside
My world of Quiet.
I can't let you in.
I can't let me out.
I'm just a Nothing
That the world can live without.
So goodbye, goodbye,
To the sun and blue sky.
Goodbye to a life
That left me behind.
I'm leaving you behind now.
Because it hurts.
And because I'm scared.
And because nobody sees
Behind closed doors.
Behind closed doors
Doors made of steel
others made of wood
life going on behind them
things that are bad and good.
Doors that are always closed
while some are forever open wide
behind doors can lie secrets
and where people can go to hide.
A door opened to a new future
another one blocking your way
families at war behind the door
but where children can happily play.
Prisoners locked in behind solid doors
waiting for the key to turn in the lock
as lonely people sit in their homes
waiting for someone just to knock.
The doors of Gold created in Heaven
only opened for the chosen few
behind them lies an eternal life
but will they open for me or you?
poem by Kevin Halls
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Making Our Own Space
this morning i wake up late
i see misplaced things
lots of it, like dirty clothes
on the floor
unwashed dishes on the sink
blankets unfolded
pillow cases removed from
their pillows
unzipped pants
missing underwear
tumbled glass
spilled milk on the table
dogs waiting to be bathed and feed
i stand up to get my empty plate
take three spoonfuls of steam rice
and two pieces of fish
a cup of coffee and i go out of the house
sit on a bench under a tree
sunshine above me and air breezing on my chest
i eat alone
and something's good is growing inside me
i love it this way
my own space of peace
amidst disorder
my capacity to choose
what i do
despite the negligence of
others around me
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Great Empty
closed!
out of business!
building for rent,
or sale!
22 vacant buildings on one street!
small-town America.
even the sidewalks are deserted...
except for paper cups,
and cigarette butts blowing
in the breeze...
empty windows,
boarded up doors....
the echo of voices
from the past,
from another day...
lost to the great empty!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Must i convince you again, if i must, i must
passion, it is the sound of
blankets and
pillows it is the song of
bedroom and
shower that make our hearts
join in the symphony of
the choir of passionate
melodies, remembering and
contemplating
on those satisfied nights
away from the usual crowd
of lonely people,
and so i ask where is the passion now?
what table what space have you
put it? what are those chairs
with no one sitting there?
those cold coffee cups
and burned cigars
a room filled with smoke clearing up
with time
i guess we have a role to play
in this domino of jejune
this long waiting
passion must be reborn in books
and monitors
those poems unwritten
because you have encircled your body
with flimsy arms
fingers melting into water
feet without soles
shoes with molds because of
non usage
dead nails that you have not pulled
or cut
sow the seeds again
on those grassy fertile lands
of forgotten desire
come with me, i am alone in my bed
we can talk and then
decide
what we can fill with those blank spaces
those closed doors
those broken stairs
our eyes may wink again
and be
sympathetic at last....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Eastern River
Do not look for the stones
in water above the mud,
the boat is gone.
No longer with nets and baskets
the river is dotted.
The sun wick,
the marsh marigold flickered out in rain.
Only the willow still bears witness,
in its roots
the secrets of tramps lie hidden,
their paltry treasures,
a rusty fishhook,
a bottle full of sand,
a tine with no bottom,
in which to preserve
conversations long forgotten.
On the boughs,
empty nests of the penduline titmice,
shoes light as birds.
No one slips them
over children's feet.
Translated by Michael Hamburger
poem by Peter Huchel
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Small Town U.S.A
Pizza parlors,
muffler shops
7 Elevens
and I-hops
Boarded windows,
shuttered stores
Cracked windows,
unlocked doors
Dry cleaners,
Laundromats
Empty motels
Vacant flats
One street towns
No traffic lights
No city sounds
Few family fights
Friendly dogs
Friendlier people
Highest thing
Grey slate steeple
Houses with porches
rustic family farm
Weather vanes on roofs
Old American charm
Grain silos
Rusty water tower
Windmills
Water power
Sincere supplication
Sunday school prayer
Organ music, seeping out
Rising into clover scented air
Small town America
Barns and bales of hay
People still say “Good Morning”…in
…Small town U.S.A…
poem by David Whalen
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A Little Spark of Laughter
A little spark of laughter is what we need each day.
It's something like the apple to keep the doctor away.
Some can find the laughter. Their lives are pretty good.
Some would love some laughter. I know that they would.
But, laughter in their lives is only a memory.
It has been replaced with constant misery.
Their lives are torn
Their babies born
With sickness and disease.
They have no home.
They walk and roam
No blankets as they freeze.
No food to eat
No water sweet
And end to all their peace.
And so there is no laughter to help them everyday.
In fact there is no laughter to help in any way.
So, be thankful if you have the spark of laughter that you need.
And pray for those who have none, that God will intercede.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Jetsam
Foaming wave... aftershave
Plastic comb, brittle bone
Bottle top, building block
Wooden spar, plastic car
Thermos top, can of pop
Salt-stained shoe, tin of glue
Tennis racket, empty packet
Car tyre, coil of wire
Pram wheel, rubber seal
Tar-blacked stone, fir cone
Rusty lid, twisted grid
Chipboard, orange cord
Empty and faded
Bottle of bleach
Almost forgotten
On winter beach
poem by Taimour Arshad Ali
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