A Pain In The Neck
too many words,
too many promises,
too many loves
meant to be forgotten,
too many woes
these telling and retelling,
how can i be so submissive
to these literatures of lament, these incantations of madness?
a pain in the neck
a migraine, somehow, i lack sleep and the dogs keep on barking
on the streets of sorrow,
on the boulevard of broken dreams,
lights shutting off slowly like fireflies dissolving in the horizon.
it is morning,
and a yellow bird with a black beak is chirping on a twig
just beside my window.
i breathe the breeze from the sea.
The seagull pass by.
A yacht with a white sail and white banners is approaching the port.
My loneliness like an island
A broken port, a history of a typhoon, a rope, and a fallen coconut.
Someone farther from this house is waiving a hand.
A white handkerchief. A truce.
I am sleepy.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Seagull Flying On A Dimming Horizon
just that, what do you have to say more about it
just that
a white seagull flying towards a dimming horizon
a ship sailing away
the sun receding towards the other side
deep down the sea and then gone
just that, do not ever say that the seagull is heading home or running away
that is not so, there is no basis for such a personal conclusion
or just another imagination of your own loneliness by
association of that
white seagull flying towards a certain darkness
the ship turning to a dot dissolving on a horizontal line in front of you.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Shattered windows, Colors of white
Across the street is a new house with a room painted red, with no holes of white.
Next to me, a house purple, with its color pealing off, with holes of black and white
At the end of the street, an old house once yellow, what now remains white.
The sound of a hammer building a house, entering a place with a color unknown.
On the street,
Windows covered with ice
Some shine with light.
Some broken
Some fixed
Some lost, out of sight.
A house, two blocks from here.
Shines with lights of yellow, red, and green everywhere.
A wall keeping the wind from blowing anywhere.
The house next door, at the dawn of the day.
Paints its room black, and peals the color away.
The wall crumbles.
The wind blows across the colors of yellow, red and green
Breaks all the windows.
Turns the yellow to blue, red to black, and green to white.
The house two blocks away.
Adds a line of yellow red and green everyday.
To allow the house of blue, black and white to shine for us some day.
poem by Linda ErikssonBique
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Her Own Departure
Her own departure is a show.
a big bag hanging on her
shoulders, her left hand
holding a coin purse,
her right crumpling a
white handkerchief wet
with her tears.
she is crying. Her blue
blouse fits her fat and her
black pants are loose
like two shirts.
She wears her white rubber
shoes, sort of telling me
that she will be running
towards the place
that she will be hiding
for days.Or just towards
the airport. Or bus station
or port.
I don't really care.
She takes the ATM
with her, and the credit cards.
She does not tell me
where she is going.
She gives the hint that
it will be far away from
this cold house.
I am staying. I am glued
to this house.
I am silent and peaceful
now. I still have many things
to think and write.
My first poem after she leaves
shall be titled, 'Good riddance! '
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Moment
She walks through the rain, the pain locked behind her cold eyes
She sees the lights of the houses, those Christmas lights,
She sees her home, no lights, no tree, it is dark and still
The rain falls on her long white hair, her white gown flowing tears stream from her eyes
They are silver and full of sorrow and pain they splash against the wet street
And shine like silver perils against the black cold surface.
A car passes and for a moment she thinks the driver saw her, in her gown
For a moment she thought she was alive
Just for a moment
She sees the road stretch before her, she sees the lights that line each house
It is Christmas eave her mother and father are at church for their first Christmas sermon without her there, her eyes fill with more tears and more perils fall to the road
A bird flew above her, a dove
Her mothers favorite bird is a dove, she always says look to the dove for answers
The girl never understood her mothers words, now she knows
For a moment she smiles
For a moment she feels no pain
Just for a moment
She lifted her hands to the Dove
“Take me with you” she pleads into the sky, into the falling rain
The dove fly’s around her and grasps a small twig in his beak
The twig falls into her outstretched arms and she grasps it
She looks at her palm of her hand and sees the holly
The berries shine red, she knows what it means.
For a moment she sees the light stream from the Dove
For a moment she knew to follow
Just for a moment
poem by Bethany Maxwell
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A Picture Of A Cat
a gray cat on a brown
window sill
blue bird on a
green twig against
a white sky
black man on
a red chair
white butterfly
against a white
eye
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Fallen, Empty, And Broken
fallen soldier
fallen sky
fallen angel
from on high
fallen heartache
fallen soul
fallen man
losing control
empty bed
empty arms
empty dreams
empty heart
empty wallet
empty hands
cant take nothin'
from an empty man
broken promises
broken vows
broken spirit
wont allow
broken fences
broken lives
broken tomorrows
broken nights
fallen, empty, and broken
every road is the same
bent, bruised, and shaken
still numb from the pain
now you dont answer
when i call out your name
fallen, empty, and broken
walking in the rain...
fallen, empty, and broken...
poem by Eric Cockrell
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A White Yacht I See
a white yacht i see
on a very blue ocean
far away
at the port
a shadow of a girl with a long black hair
against a very strong sunlight
waves at me
still
i figure out as i wait on the top of this mountain
where the air is fainting
she must be the one
destined to die
because no one helped her
because
i have no way of becoming
this wooden boat
to sail and save her
from him
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Promises Made
(mark paul/john duarte)
You said goodbye
And broke this heart inside of me
Teardrops fell
Like hours to eternity
The room was silent
As some forgotten melody
Your words of steel
Still echo in my memory
Promises made, promises broken
Promises made, promises broken
I thought we had a chance
To really make it last
Now the future looks to me
Like some unwelcome guest
Ill be alright
As soon as I get over you
But this time it wont be
Such an easy thing to do
Promises made are
Promises broken
Caught up in the sorrow
Tangled in dreams
In the lonely hours
Of silent screams
In the heart of the darkness
I break down
I feel the spirit of you
All around
Promises made are
Promises broken
Promises made are
Promises broken
song performed by by Tiffany
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Do I Really Like Being Lonely?
here you are, a vortex,
and i am a point just below the line that runs
like a bridge
trying to connect us both
as though
we are one kind of a
connection: a telegraphic wire
a letter between two lonely people
or a chat
an email that has not been read for five days,
here you are, saying lots of irreconcilable
concepts: loneliness is a friend
a company
and loneliness actually is likable
like it is sort of a friend
who keeps me company
you are telling me that
loneliness is happiness:
are you sure? try going alone in a faraway island
and strolling along its beach
where a typhoon is raging
no seagull, the waves gigantic
the shore all crumpled
the sands all noisy
the abandon, is this something that is
a happy moment?
tell me, remember, the moment
once, when your heart was broken
and you are so lost
you cannot even pick a piece.
loneliness is loneliness.
i am running away from it.
it is a void. i am avoiding it.
but here she comes.
and i am telling her,
i am incurable.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The White Lady Loves You More
Keep your things in a place meant to hide
But I know theyre there somewhere
And I know thats where youll go tonight
Ill be thrown over just like before
The white lady loves you more
Need a metal man just to pick up your feet
Its a long time since you cared enough for me to even be discrete
I know what this metal is for
The white lady loves you more
Im looking at a hand full of broken plans
And Im tired of playing it down
You just want her to do anything for you
There aint nothing that you wont allow
You wake up in the middle of the night
From a dream you wont remember flashing on like a cops light
You say shes waiting and I know what for
The white lady loves you more
The white lady
song performed by by Elliott Smith
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sabbaths, W.I.
Those villages stricken with the melancholia of Sunday,
in all of whose ocher streets one dog is sleeping
those volcanoes like ashen roses, or the incurable sore
of poverty, around whose puckered mouth thin boys are
selling yellow sulphur stone
the burnt banana leaves that used to dance
the river whose bed is made of broken bottles
the cocoa grove where a bird whose cry sounds green and
yellow and in the lights under the leaves crested with
orange flame has forgotten its flute
gommiers peeling from sunburn still wrestling to escape the sea
the dead lizard turning blue as stone
those rivers, threads of spittle, that forgot the old music
that dry, brief esplanade under the drier sea almonds
where the dry old men sat
watching a white schooner stuck in the branches
and playing draughts with the moving frigate birds
those hillsides like broken pots
those ferns that stamped their skeletons on the skin
and those roads that begin reciting their names at vespers
mention them and they will stop
those crabs that were willing to let an epoch pass
those herons like spinsters that doubted their reflections
inquiring, inquiring
those nettles that waited
those Sundays, those Sundays
those Sundays when the lights at the road's end were an occasion
those Sundays when my mother lay on her back
those Sundays when the sisters gathered like white moths
round their street lantern
and cities passed us by on the horizon
poem by Derek Walcott
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Black and White and Red
Black and White
And Red I see
Demons they do
Torture me
Black and White
And Red all day
The voices are real
Or so they say
Black and White
And Red abound
I'm lost I call
I'm never found
Black and White
And Red flow out
I scream but you
Don't hear me shout
Black and White
And Red so bright
Exit blood and
Enter light
Black and White
And Red of death
Now I breathe
My final breath
poem by Anonymous Ghurl
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Native Son
Ive seen many moons through these wrinkled eyes
The years have made me old but theyve made me wise
Now the white man lives where our rivers run
For now better days have passed
We walk the streets of broken glass
Our people vanished as snow before the summer sun
Like dogs we were driven from this place
Such injustice, time will not erase
All these changes cannot be undone
When you feel the anger inside of you
Hold your head high - let your aim be true
Though your heart beats like a drum
My native son
Once there was a time my little one
Before the wagons - before the soldiers guns
When this land was ours as far as the eagle flies
No white flag - no broken truce
With few words one can speak the truth - I dont hear it
Time wont heal it now
With each new day that comes to pass
Will the great spirit free us all at last?
He said we were the chosen ones
For all we had theres nothin left
We wont forgive - we cant forget
You know that your day will come
My native son
With each new day that comes to pass
Will the great spirit free us all at last?
What has happened can never be undone
When I was young - not yet a man
The sun rose and set upon our land
We were the chosen ones
My native son
song performed by by Bryan Adams
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Bonny Port of Sydney
The lovely Port of Sydney
Lies laughing to the sky,
The bonny Port of Sydney,
Where the ships of nations lie.
You shall never see such beauty,
Though you sail the wide world o’er,
As the sunny Port of Sydney,
As we see it from the Shore.
The shades of night are falling
On many ports of call,
But the harbour lights of Sydney
Are the grandest of them all;
Such a city set in jewels
Has ne’er been seen before
As the harbour lights of Sydney
As we see them from the Shore.
I must sail for gloomy London,
Where there are no harbour lights,
Where no sun is seen in winter,
And there are no starry nights;
And the bonny port of Sydney—
I may never see it more,
But I’ll always dream about it
As we view it from North Shore.
poem by Henry Lawson
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For A Friend Who Lived Only For A Short Time
the white butterfly
will always be your metaphor
and it flies one rainy morning
finding shelter in my house
through the window
it passes gets in and rests for a while
it does not wait for sunshine
goes out of the window again
and then goes away like
a distant star dissolving in the black sky
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Ignored. (a Seagull Story)
Ignored. (A seagull story)
At the seaside restaurant it was busy everyone was eating lobsters,
I tried to catch the waiters’ eye. I was ignored and got the feeling
that I was Invisible, or that I was so small that my head didn’t reached
over the table. A seagull landed on my table a beautiful bird,
yellow beak and feet, plumage snowy white its wings light grey/blue
and its eyes were green; it also had the aroma of the Atlantic Ocean.
Waiter came, looked at the bird asked what it wanted, lobster, I said
when the dish came I gave it to the bird. Got up, left and no one tried
to stop me.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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White Comedy
I waz whitemailed
By a white witch,
Wid white magic
An white lies,
Branded by a white sheep
I slaved as a whitesmith
Near a white spot
Where I suffered whitewater fever.
Whitelisted as a whiteleg
I waz in de white book
As a master of white art,
It waz like white death.
People called me white jack
Some hailed me as a white wog,
So I joined de white watch
Trained as a white guard
Lived off the white economy.
Caught and beaten by de whiteshirts
I waz condemned to a white mass,
Don't worry,
I shall be writing to de Black House.
poem by Benjamin Zephaniah
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Port Adelaide
It is the great City of Port Adelaide
Where heroes are born and legends are made
In the Australian Football League they have their own football team
For to play for Port Adelaide many Port teens do dream.
A place where Indigenous and white Australia meet
And different races live on every street
The Indigenous tribes had their corroborees long ago
By the trees near the banks where the Port waters flow.
Many nineteenth century buildings in Port Adelaide remain
Which one does suppose goes in part to explain
Why so many visitors come to that Town
Port's history is far more than football renown.
The Port river dolphins are famed far and wide
One can see them surface from the harbour side
A tourist attraction and it would be fair to say
That seeing them has made many a vistor's day.
Where the cultures meet Indigenous and European
Port Adelaide a Town where all races are seen
When in South Australia I feel at home there
Few Towns with Port Adelaide can hope to compare.
poem by Francis Duggan
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White Shadow
Ten coaches roll into the dust
Chrome windows turned to rust
'hand on inside they know they must
Hanging on the green backed words "in god we trust"
No one knew if the spirit died
All wrapped to go like kentucky fried
Tring to read the flight of birds
Low on fuel, getting low on words
And she comes out like a white shadow
She comes out like a white shadow
Each one drawn to empty spaces
Outsiders, borderline cases
It's hard to tell black from white
When you wake up in the middle of the night
Weighed down by the absence of sound
Broken now by the cry of a hound
Looking for movement withing the haze
Light can be deceptive with her rays
And she comes out like a white sadow
And she comes out like a white shadow
She comes out like a white shadow
song performed by by Peter Gabriel
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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That Afternoon
i was there again
standing by the side of the old
glass windows
hazy because of the dust
it is hazy, hazy
the sea is linen white
the coconut trees as tall as they are very old
planted perhaps before the war
before the Japanese came
and ravished the spirits of our innocent people
i was there again
standing on a moment
always seeing
that rusty van parked
without its front wheel
nobody from there is asking
what is happening
it is hazy, as hazy as dusts
on that old glass window
then a black bird flies through
it breaking the thin old glass
into shattered pieces
the afternoon ended
on that sudden noise
i am telling you
i am not shocked because
i am not new to this
how can i be? i am as old and as
tall as that coconut tree
i am from this place
and i know each grain of sand
on the shore
of that white linen sea.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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