A Nickname....
on early dawn
while you are writing those letters
(still on the grip of tradition
emails are impersonal and lack
the sentimentality of distance
and the grace of the
strokes and
tendrils)
you hear those chirping birds
cocks crowing
sounds of the streets being swept
and occasional hushes of the wind
from the sea
your letters sound as though
they are anticipating the birth of the world
on the seventh day
when the Lord said he finally rested
at the end you say what they always write
Sincerely yours,
your nickname.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The New Routine
dinner at six pm
blackout comes at 7
so we sleep as early as that time
and with nothing to do
we make love in the dark
and too tired
we oversleep till 5 the next morning
when electricity resumes
we sleep without air-conditioning
pre-conditioned now
to this long lasting emergency situation
i content myself to the sound of silence
some chirping birds sometimes
and crowing cocks at dawn
and screaming chickens landing
on the ground
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Wicked Postman
Why do you sit there on the floor so quiet and silent, tell me,
mother dear?
The rain is coming in through the open window, making you all
wet, and you don't mind it.
Do you hear the gong striking four? It is time for my brother
to come home from school.
What has happened to you that you look so strange?
Haven't you got a letter from father today?
I saw the postman bringing letters in his bag for almost
everybody in the town.
Only father's letters he keeps to read himself. I am sure the
postman is a wicked man.
But don't be unhappy about that, mother dear.
Tomorrow is market day in the next village. You ask your maid
to buy some pens and papers.
I myself will write all father's letters; you will not find
a single mistake.
I shall write from A right up to K.
But, mother, why do you smile?
You don't believe that I can write as nicely as father does!
But I shall rule my paper carefully, and write all the letters
beautifully big.
When I finish my writing do you think I shall be so foolish
as father and drop it into the horrid postman's bag?
I shall bring it to you myself without waiting, and letter by
letter help you to read my writing.
I know the postman does not like to give you the really nice
letters.
poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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A Certain Preference On Early Mornings...
sometimes forgive me
but i do not like to hear bird chirping by my window
on early mornings for honestly i prefer
the silent sounds of the wind
from the sea,
and so when i hear those chirping birds
perching on the tree
those still feeding their fledgelings
i exercise that right of having to close my
glass windows
preferring once again
the privacy of my room and the exclusion of the
outside world
by the curtains and then i begin to sip my coffee
reading a poem
listening to the words seeping like rain to the
hair of my own soul.....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Early Morning Symphony
silence is a
blank sheet of paper
the notes come from
the birds
this early morning
i hear the most beautiful
song, a choir of birds
chirping, winds gently
blowing, hushes from
leaves, drums from my
footsteps, beatings of
my heart
whistles from my soul.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Industrialization
an early morning treat
to the chirping sounds of the birds
the engines arrive in the form of the bus
the tractors and the caterpillars
the birds fly away carrying their songs
the chirping sounds fade
the buzz of the day is in the machine
paving, drilling, cementing, screaming.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Abstraction Fo The Word Chirp....
i hear birds chirping
early morning
on those trees
clouds arrive, light
spreads,
green becomes too green
in the fields of
life,
i hear birds chirping
sweet to my ear
i give it priority
abstract. delet morning
move out clouds from the picture
double click green fields
focus on life
delet birds
add volume to chirping
it is all chirping now
just chirping
chirping chirping
the essence of chirp.
i have abstracted it from
everything else.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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An Autumn Letter
I want to write a letter to someone in the autumn
In the Autumn, I see lonely fountain streamed from a deep valley
And want to wet the lonely heart
I write a letter in the autumn night but knowing that cannot be sent in the morning
Now there is a postman who delivers letters in the air in the days and nights
So I am sending letters
I regret but the unsent letters always cry
I send the thread tied letters in the air without stamps
The letters of the poet opens its eyes with holding their breaths
poem by Kyungdae Min
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Sketches Of Life
early morning
it will be the same sound
of cocks
crowing,
harbingers of
a new day
up on the tree
their only guide whether to
take the jump
to the ground is the
sun,
she is safe in sleep
as i take the usual journey
again
with all the cocks
crowing
the trees have black leaves
roads and fences are bold strokes
of the Chinese brush
from a painter in Vietnam
i remember
his feet are cut
one wonders if we can be whole
again
when the fragile glasses of our arms
are all broken
early mornings when
the hens are silent
when the ref murmur
a nameless song
when i sound like an empty
gong
love emaciated
like a malnourished
African child
one exhibits the boredom
of his words like
one malling without anything
in mind to buy
nothing specific except
the will to kill time
that does not serve
any use
at the pasta room
where the tea people are not around
on one table the two lesbians are drinking beer
while the two queers on the
other table near the rest room
are exchanging some pleasantries
of notes
they are not singing
but giggling
a man that they call as dark and handsome
passes by
it is strange because he is not wearing anything
his face is covered with black cloth
as though he is bound
for the gallows
there is yet no food on my table
the waitress is busy biting her nails
the mother beside a kid is slapping herself
it is strange here and i put some money on the table
and leave
i need some air to breathe
this world is suffocating.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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untitled ONE
early morning
it will be the same sound
of cocks
crowing,
harbingers of
a new day
up on the tree
their only guide whether to
take the jump
to the ground is the
sun,
she is safe in sleep
as i take the usual journey
again
with all the cocks
crowing
the trees have black leaves
roads and fences are bold strokes
of the Chinese brush
from a painter in Vietnam
i remember
his feet are cut
one wonders if we can be whole
again
when the fragile glasses of our arms
are all broken
early mornings when
the hens are silent
when the ref murmur
a nameless song
when i sound like an empty
gong
love emaciated
like a malnourished
African child
one exhibits the boredom
of his words like
one malling without anything
in mind to buy
nothing specific except
the will to kill time
that does not serve
any use
at the pasta room
where the tea people are not around
on one table the two lesbians are drinking beer
while the two queers on the
other table near the rest room
are exchanging some pleasantries
of notes
they are not singing
but giggling
a man that they call as dark and handsome
passes by
it is strange because he is not wearing anything
his face is covered with black cloth
as though he is bound
for the gallows
there is yet no food on my table
the waitress is busy biting her nails
the mother beside a kid is slapping herself
it is strange here and i put some money on the table
and leave
i need some air to breathe
this world is suffocating.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Three Little Words
Three little words
Oh what I'd give for that wonderful phrase
To hear those three little words
That's all I'd live for the rest of my days
And what I feel in my heart
They tell sincerely
No other words can tell it half so clear-early
Three little words
Eight little letters
Which simply mean I love you-ou
And what I feel in my heart
They tell sincerely
No other words can tell it half so clear-early
Three little words
Eight little letters
Which simply mean I love you
Simply mean I-I love you-ou
song performed by by Nat King Cole
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Alphabet Lost And Found
On this fateful day, in the history of whenever,
An epidemic of missing letters has swept the land.
Whatever the cause, for the sake of future generations,
In the limited time we have been permitted, these stories must be told.
There was an apple that lost his 'a'
There was a zebra that lost his 'z'
There was a chauffeur that left his 'auffer' on the dashboard
Of the car that lost its 'r'
Well, the car had lost its 'r' in a pothole
On a street that lost its 'e'
When the garbage collector with a missing 'ector' swept it up
With a broom that lost its 'oom'
Where they gonna go without their letters?
How could they survive without their letters?
Where they gonna go to find their letters?
They gonna have to get together-
At the alphabet lost and found (alphabet lost and found)
At the alphabet lost and found (alphabet lost and found)
There was a school that lost its 'cool'
when they tired to ring the bell that had no 'l'
With all the letters gone, the spelling bee was canceled
Science teachers had their hands full
English classes could not be complete
Where they gonna go without their letters?
How could they survive without their letters?
Where they gonna go to find their letters?
They gonna have to get together
Where they gonna go without their letters?
How could they survive without their letters?
Where they gonna go to find their letters?
They gonna have to get together
Crowds of people, animals, and incomplete words have been seen at a previously unknown place to be referred to as-
The alphabet lost and found (alphabet lost and found)
At the alphabet lost and found (alphabet lost and found)
At the alphabet lost and found (alphabet lost and found) (how could they survive without their letters)
At the alphabet lost and found (alphabet and lost found) (they gonna have to get together)
At the alphabet lost and found (alphabet and lost found) (they gonna have to get together)
At the alphabet lost and found (alphabet and lost found) (they gonna have to get together)
song performed by by They Might Be Giants
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Letter To Heather
I am writing you these letters
to let you know that I miss you
I think of you all of the time
And I wonder how you're doing
Have you been thinking about me
As much as I have been of you
Or have you found a lover
In the time I've been away
If so I can understand
Why you have forgotten me
I have not forgotten you
Nor do I think that I could
I've written you love letters
And one day I'll mail them too
I hope that day arrives soon
Because I really miss you
I'll try to write more later
But for now I have to go
Just remember I love you
As much today as ever
If not as much even more
Did you get the letters that I
sent to you my love
Love Always
Just Alpha
poem by Edwin Tanguma
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Letters From Earth
Well its a cold world
And Im in the middle
Caught in the in-between
I dont belong here
So Im writing to you
Its wrong here
Where Im sending you some
Chorus:
Letters from earth, yeah
Well its a new world
And now Im a stranger
Stranger than you know
I dont belong here
And Im writing to you
With blood on my hands
What if I send you madness
What if I send you pain
And letters from earth, ooh
All right
Come on its another game
But you gotta play on
Cause they say its just pretend
Ask them why they say youll never, never die
Come on - the game is called the end
Well its a cold world
And Im in the middle
Caught in the in-between
I dont belong here
So Im writing to you
Hey let me explain
What if I send you confusion
What is the time and the pain worth
Oh no no
Im only sending -
Letters from the earth
Letters from earth, ...
song performed by by Black Sabbath
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Letters To No One
I wrote a letter to my love
and never received a reply.
I've often wondered why that was.
Did he up and die?
Yes, he did. It's a fact.
And because I didn't know
I kept writing letters
and kept feeling low.
These letters went to no one.
So no one wrote to me.
I've often wondered if all my words
would come back home to me?
And then one day they all came back.
'Undeliverable'
is what they said.
I guess my lover moved away
or maybe he was dead.
And so I stopped my letters.
I never wrote again.
I still have all those letters,
unopened and unread.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Sound-Thinking
Sound is precious for your thoughts,
Utter them while you describe them,
Let the sounds of the letters be your thoughts.
Such plenty of thinking is mockery and talk,
As felonious as mustard in the tongue
And not musical to the ear or like sound.
Such sound is precious for the mind and
Let the genius of chosen people divide you
And letters must flow on, just flow for your learning.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Writing
My words they no longer flow like a calm river
They rip, through, delicate flowers wither
Not in a long time have I wrote pure gold
One more worthless word and I'll explode
So I write these words to help express
That to me my writing can no longer impress
If the letters I write turn to heavy stone
Maybe I should try changing my tone
Even when words sing a merry tune
When the words hit me like a monsoon
I look back and scowl at scribbles and letters
And know there is a need for them to be better
So I try to write something funny, add humour
Rhythms with big cats, small rats, lions and pumas
But it all seems to lack that special spark
Something with a vicious bite and a gentle bark
Let's try and make it dark, murder and death
Something that literally stops ones breath
Words that hide the killer, build suspense
But this dark angst and pain is all pretence
A rhyme about love, happy and quite light
A poem about everything that can go right
Maybe just maybe it will all fit together
But these words take too long, almost forever
I guess I'll just carry on in this infuriating way
I'll continue writing the words I just can't say
So when I feel the need to write I'll let it all out
Then you will find out just what I will write about
poem by Rebecca Pepper
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Letters Never Sent
(carly simon/jacob brackman)
In a suitcase tied with string
On the highest shelf
In the closet down the hall
Hidden from myself
Fits of madness, pools of grief
Fevers of desire
How peculiar these remain
Slavaged from the fire
For some I crumpled some I burned
Some I tore to shreds
Lifetimes later, here they are
Ones I saved instead
Letters never sent to you
Letters never sent
Never reached their destination
Mostly born of pain
Resurfaced with the purpose of
A trip down memory lane
Broken hearted, breaking hearts
All the way it went
Evidence of what I saw
My experiments
Lifes a riddle, lifes a dream
Lifes an accident
Now Im gonna set them free
Letters never sent
Letters never sent to you
Letters never sent
Once upon a time taboo
Letters never sent
Letters never sent to you
Letters never sent
Incongruous, and overdue
Letters never sent
song performed by by Carly Simon
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Red Letters
Red letters
Cut deep
Soothe the pain inside.
Red letters
Bold and loud
Scream silently.
Red letters
Secret and hidden
But a cry for help.
Red letters -
A way to deal with this pain.
As I cut these words into my skin
I remember seeing red words somewhere before
Then it hits me like a lightning bolt -
Words of Jesus are printed in red. Words of Christ in red.
Red letters
Real truth, piercing deep
Soothes my pain inside.
Red letters
Your passion, Your blood
Covers me.
Red letters
Hope and life
I cry, 'Fill me! '
Red letters -
You were pierced and bloody
So I wouldn't have to be.
'What can wash away my sin?
Nothing but the blood of Jesus!
What can make me whole again?
Nothing but the blood of Jesus!
Oh! precious is the flow that makes me white as snow!
No other fount I know -
Nothing but the blood of Jesus! '
Red letters... Nothing but the blood -
Red letters... Nothing but the blood of Jesus!
poem by Zoe MacRae
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You Sing And I Write
you sing and i write
you sing louder
and i write some more
as i do not sleep
as early as you
want to
to sleep with you and keep you warm
and keep you happy
and so secure
and then you stop singing
as i still go on writing and writing and writing and writing still
without minding that you already stopped singing
and you wished
that this house burns itself
that i too burn myself with it
that i may finally become ash
that i finally be blown by air as nothing but dust
and then she may finally continue
her singing and even dancing
and learn to fiddle the strings her new violin
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I have always been a writer of letters, and of long ones; so, when I first thought of writing a book in the form of letters, I knew that I could do it quickly and easily.
quote by Laurence Housman
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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