A Primera Luz
you wake up only to find out
that at this hour you are confused with
what to do first
you rise put on propriety
you walk towards the fridge
you open it to
have a cold glass of water
to drink and feel
the coldness of this
still gray hour
there is no difference
it is the same cold moment
like last night's
old temperament
when you had problems about
what to do
with your life when you took off
propriety
and lay your self naked against
light of the ceiling's
indifference
there is simply no one that fits
the one that you dream: so sweet
and enduring
the eternal goodness that you
still hope for
there is no one,
no one
perhaps there could be good news
on a primera luz.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Related quotes
A Glass Of Water Please
and so the story wants to end itself with a
glass of water.
those who cry after always need
a glass of water.
those whose hearts are broken
those who sob
those who close the window of the niche
those who have nightmares
those who wake up at 3 o'clock in the morning
those who sit on bed and cannot sleep back
always go to the kitchen
open the refrigerator
get a glass and splash
a cold glass of water
this time, i am asking for a glass of water
for i could be
all of the above or you could be one of those
i have described
but who knows we are not one of those
who knows
we are but just anyone who is normally thirsty
and with nothing to ask
simply ask
for a glass of cold water.
and cheerfully, we do not forget to say
please....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Little Disturbed
at 2: 01 in the morning
you switch on the light
a little bit dim
not to hurt your eyes
and you get out of bed
naked
you open the door
towards the kitchen
and get a glass of water
you drink
you want to satisfy thirst
wetting your tongue
and gargling the coldness
swallowing it gently
feeling this creeping
coldness to your
throat down
to your abdomen
something is burning
inside
and the water is
not killing it
you sit and think
a while and stare
at the light
there is nothing there
except the glare
now you wonder
sleep is still nowhere
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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When You Feel The Coming.....
there is a time when you feel the coming
of the end of time,
mind you, i may be subjective
too subjective on this,
i may ask you to pause for a little
understanding
like: we go naked in bed and i do not feel anything
and you sleep soundly and the rain comes in
through a half-open window and i do not close it
but i open the door and naked
still i go outside the yard
and it is too cold and i let the rain fall throughout my body
and i know it is very cold at this hour of
the night
but as i am telling you
when you feel the coming of the end of time
you disregard cold
and warmth and yes that is it:
you feel nothing anymore
at all.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Fact....
they pretended to be there
and they want us naked
one day, and it is as usual cold
they ask us to undress and hypnotized
we do everything just as they wanted...
they are drinking their cups of tea
and their bodies are well wrapped with their clothes
their heads with caps and their
feet with their socks and shoes on...
we believe what they are always telling us
that everything is all right
that there is nothing to worry about these truths
that when naked everything will be fine and
as the rule keeps on saying
we shall soon be happy and free....
it is nighttime
and there is no star
not a single star in the heavens
and we follow their orders
and we plunge into that cold and wide river
we are like the buffaloes
we shiver
it is so cold in here
and there is no star in the heavens
there is only the whisper of the incoming rain
the stoic silence of the night
the sighs of the air
we think we are dreaming
for when we open our eyes again after we dip ourselves in the waters
they are no longer there anymore
leaving us
with the traces of their laughter
the coldness of their indifference
the acridity of their
hatred
we are fools
we follow the orders and we have never used those innate lights within
our hearts
our heads bow
our feet in complete surrender
our toes protrude in the open
but it is not late yet
we still have time to wake up
and to get away from this cold river
we rise
we dry our hair and resume with the comfort of the heat of our clothes
we take our walk toward the house
back home
and settle in our own fireplace
we take our seats now
properly as we listen finally to the dictates of our conscience
our own songs
as we make ourselves open
to the coming of our own destinies
beside us
is reason.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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When the spring mornings grew more long
When the spring mornings grew more long
early I woke from dream that told
of dreaded parting and the cold
of the gray dawns when I should long
to see once more that clear light fall
upon my hands and know that near
the yellow meadows shone with dear
small flowers and hear thy laughter fall
— as now I long only to wake
once in that quiet shine of spring
and dream an hour the hour will bring
thy laughing call that bids me wake
poem by Christopher John Brennan
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Not Beer
at the end of the year
i open a page
of my journal where
i wrote my one
and only dream
a goal,
a wish,
something
that i have longed
for and
may even die for,
i must tell you
i never realized it.
i close back the page
and begin to move on
with my life
it is another year of
broken dream
under the moon
i drink alone
this cold, cold glass
of water.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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From Mother To Daughter From Mother To Daughter.
Drink in some,
ice cold water little girl,
drink in some ice cold water,
some day you'll be big and strong,
but water will carry you all along.
Drink in some ice cold water little girl,
the day has been harsh to you,
the times are tough,
and getting rough,
but water will carry you though.
Drink in some ice cold water little girl,
although it's not getting easier,
refresh yourself,
from a nearby creek,
and maybe you'll see just what you need,
maybe water will show it to you.
Drink in some ice cold water little girl,
although you have grown much bigger,
you maybe be growing up strong and tall,
but water has carried you through.
Drink in some,
ice cold water little girl,
drink in some ice cold water,
some day you'll be big and strong,
but water will carry you all along.
poem by Sandra jacks
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Blinded By Shades Of Gray
Sometimes I feel confused and like my heart is broke.
Sometimes I think I'll find inner peace with smoke-
As I inhale the poisons and then exhale them away…
Sometimes I don't know why I think that way-
I guess because I'm blinded by shades of gray-
As I blindly try to find my way...
Sometimes I fly so high-
But the problems are still there, I cant deny-
Because eventually, I have to come back down to reality,
And that's one thing, From which drugs can never permanently set you free...
Sometimes I don't know why
I think that way-
I guess because I'm blinded by shades of gray-
As I blindly try to find my way...
Sometimes I think I'll find my answers,
At the bottom of a glass and I'll try to drink my problems away-
As the world around me blurs-
With bitter-sweet intoxication...
Sometimes I don't know why I think that way-
I guess its just my sometimes foolish imagination-
As I blindly try to find my way...
Sometimes I like to feel pain on the outside-
To mask the pain on the inside…
Sometimes I'll cut my wrists-
Sometimes longing just to end the pain and darkness-
With all this suffering inside-
Thinking that suicide,
Would be okay-
Hoping to bleed to death and fade into oblivion…
Sometimes I don't know why I think that way-
I guess because I'm blinded by shades of gray-
While I feel like the world is a place, Not worth living in-
In which I blindly try to find my way...
I hope its not to late,
To escape
This dark fate-
But for now, I guess I'll just have to wait-
As I long to escape the pain-
To never have to face it again...
But for now, I'll just take my medicine-
To help me forget this dark world, I'm living in...
poem by Philip Alarie
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My Fridge
My fridge has a life of it's own
It's own
Why don't I have a life of my own?
I, plug it in, [that is the fridge]
And still it has a life of it's own
As it whines and sings
It's broken sonatas
So 'postmodern' for a fridge!
I, on the other hand only moan
Sometimes I think it is haunted
Possessed by the ghost of a fridge long dead
Do fridges have souls? , they are too cold
Full of white glossed metal
How can a fridge really feel?
This is getting surreal
But at night all alone
I hear it weeping
Could it be speaking
In 'fridge morse code? '
Filling in the gaps
Between sleeping
And waking
Wondering if life is there for the taking
What it would be like to have a life of my own
yvette m smith great poetess of the uk
april 09
poem by Yvette Smith
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Another On The Rise
I was taken by surprise
I was haunted by his eyes
And the drink I came her for
Doesnt matter anymore
And the night wind falls
With the moonlight from above
Is it winter is it summer or is it love
And its probably cold outside
But I dont really feel it no
Every hour that passes by
Is another heart healer
And you cant stop the rain from falling down
On the new leaves of summer on the ground
And for every bright star that falls from the sky
Theres another
Oh another on the rise
Ive been broken
Ive been blind
Been afraid to look inside
But his words were soft and warm
What did I come her for
An abandoned garden lost
In bittersweet and queen annes lace
Looked inside where a single rose grew
There I saw loves face
And its probably cold outside
But I dont really feel it
Every hour that passes by
Is another heart healer
And you cant stop the rain from falling down
On the new leaves of summer on the ground
And for every bright star that falls from the sky
Theres another
Oh another on the rise
And its probably cold outside
But I dont really feel it
Every hour that passes by
Is another heart healer
And you cant stop the rain from falling down
On the new leaves of summer on the ground
And for every bright star that falls from the sky
Theres another
Oh another on the rise
On the rise
song performed by by Indigo Girls
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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97
even on the late hour of the night
even when late,
try getting in, they will not notice, you are not famous,
try being a nobody
and they won't bother, so get inside the room and pretend
you are not a part of them in this
discussion,
behave like you are the waiter bringing them a glass
of water,
no excuses this time, do not talk, do not bother them,
and they too will not bother you,
try being nothing
just be the ordinary you, and they will not notice,
even on the late hour of this night
they still have eyes only for themselves
within their circle
and you are still an outcast, simply because from the very
first day of this meeting
you are just being yourself
and you remain being so,
you have not become like them,
mimicking each other
into conformity
for fear of rejection, so at this hour of the night when they seem
to enjoy each other's likeness
get inside,
just be yourself and take your own kind of drink
your self-identity
your name that they will never know
when tomorrow
you will soon part and they will be themselves again
alone.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Morning
Its the same old situation
Same old faces, but a different town
Nowhere to run and nowhere to hide
Im dancing with the shadows,
In a cold moonlight.
And I cant wait until the morning
I cant wait another minute, hour day or night,
I cant wait until the morning,
You know it wont feel so cold.
Its 5 am, and I just got into bed
And the heart of the city is almost gone,
And I know what is right
And I know what is wrong
Im dancing with the shadows,
In a cold moonlight.
And I cant wait until the morning
I cant wait another minute, hour day or night,
I cant wait until the morning,
You know it feels so cold.
Sometimes in between my dreams at night,
I walk alone Im going underground.
And in the distance I can hear a crowd.
It makes me wonder what its all about.
All about...
All about
Its the same old consolation,
Different faces in the same old town,
Nowhere to run to
Nowhere to hide,
Theyre dancing with the shadows,
In a cold moonlight
And I cant wait until the morning
I cant wait another minute, hour day or night,
I cant wait until the morning,
You know it feels so cold
song performed by by Wet Wet Wet
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Good News- Bad News
Bad news-I am driving along and a car is bearing down me from the rear.
It keeps coming.
Bad news-The car hits my little car at 60 miles an hour-bam!
Good news-I keep control of the car for a second or two
then the car begins to skid.
Bad news-The car skids, swerves and overturns, flipping, flipping.
The world outside the wind shield revolves upside down.
Bad news-Things go blank and I see water coming into the car;
I had landed in the river.
Good news-I am sinking but not yet under water.
Bad news- The water starts to come in faster and faster.
Bad news- The water keeps coming in the car. It is sinking.
It is over my head.
I am drowning.
Bad news- I hold my breath for 30 seconds and decide that I will die here.
I regret that it has to be in the mud and silt of the river. Undignified. I take a deep breath ready to go.
Good news, The car suddenly bobs to the surface from an air bubble
inside just as I take that breath.
Bad news-I look around and notice that the car is sinking again
this time even faster.
Bad news- I look around to try to open a door. But the door won't open.
Good news- I hear voices above. Someone saw me go in.
Bad news- The water is rising so fast I am sure they won't get me in time.
Bad news- I bang on the wind shield but it does not break
Good news- Someone from the outside breaks the wind shield and asks
if I can get out.
Bad news- I drag myself out over the cut glass-
blood in the water, gasoline and mud.,
Good news-Outside, there are men with a floating flat board and they float me to the shore.
Bad news-They ask me who is President and what is today's date.
And they are my rescuers, I think, and don't know this stuff?
Good news- The helicopter air-lifts me to the hospital with broken ribs, eye
smashed, blood everywhere.
Good news- I recover and can't get a cigarette and thereafter quit for good
as a way of thanking God that I lived.
Bad news- Broken ribs lead to pleurisy and later pneumonia.
Good news- I recover.
Good news-People at work give me a snorkel for my birthday; lol.
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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The Insomniac Who Drew The Head Of A Sheep Wildly On A White Paper
the insomniac's heart is bleeding. she is in pain tonight like the other past night.
she thinks she is dying right on her own bed. changing positions. finding the right way to sleep. she could not find it. she is lost in the darkness of this loneliness. she goes naked towards the refrigerator to get a cold glass of water.
ice cubes. water rushing to the glass. clicking sound of glass and another glass.
coldness rushing to her esophagus. Coldness multiplying in her burning heart. her blankets burning. She could not sleep tonight. She gets a white paper, a pen and begings to scribble her life: wildly, some lines run. Shaping the head of a sheep. one. two. three. four. five. Five eyes. She stops. She needs five eyes to see everything. Awake. The ceiling where the lizards grow to become alligators on the plywood swamp. No grasses but cobwebs of sleepy spiders.
Five Jacks are hidden on the ears. On the ears are hairs of corn. Blonde. On the nose are paper clips. With them, she is cruel. Then she hides a bull inside her pharynx, the one that shits inside her mouth. She stinks. The bull makes a call for desire. For lust. She closes it with the prison wall of her teeth and gums and lips. Her lips are sealed now. All the five eyes are open throughout the night. Looking for love. Love is not found. Her heart bleeds. Stains of blood penetrate the white paper.
She had not slept for five nights. She will add another five eyes. She knows
if this happens again and again, she will die. She pretends that she is strong.
She will not forget these nights. Preludes to her death. She writes some hieroglyphics all over the empty spaces of the white paper. She will not forget
what each line and curve and sharp edges mean. She codes them. She writes the date 9.2.2008.
She does not put her name. It is enough that no one knows and remembers.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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This Is Our Hour
A word for you,
A word for me;
The hour of the legend-to-be.
The moment is here,
The moment is now;
We will not lay down.
Tis time to take the stage,
To light our world,
Have our flags unfurl.
Dress for the battle!
Strap on your armour,
For this is our hour!
Instant in season,
Ready day and night.
Ready to carry the fight.
Never asleep, always awake,
Starting in defence,
Finishing in offense.
In the homes and schools,
Parks, capital, and beaches
Will we fill the breaches.
Though weak yet strong;
Though dead yet alive;
Through Jesus we survive.
Even when wounded,
We will our sword swing.
We will never give in.
With our last breath,
Will we push down walls.
We will see giants fall.
We will see mountains move.
We will see the dawn of light.
Upon strength upon might!
For we are called by Jesus:
Jesus Christ our only king.
And so let us sing:
This is our hour!
Rise up ye men of valour!
This is our hour!
Follow the King's example.
Though faced with tribulation,
Will we find elation.
To the weary eye
Comes a fiery gleam,
As we now scream:
This is our hour!
This will be our hour,
This is our hour!
poem by Joses Tirtabudi
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When The Blue Hour Comes
Orbison/ crowell
The good times are all gone
The night keeps coming on so strong
You cant hold on, no matter what you do
Will there be someone who cares for you
When the blue hour comes?
When the blue hour comes?
And when your restless heart
Tears your world apart
And everywhere you turn
Its falling down on you
Will there be a light that shines for you?
When the blue hour comes for you
If theres anything that you would have me do
Just call on me and Ill be coming through
I will always be there for you
When the blue hour comes
When the blue hour comes
Good times dont last forever
Sometimes its now or never
Darling, reach out for me
You know where Ill be
I will always be there for you
When the blue hour comes
When the blue hour comes
When the blue hour comes for you
If theres anything that you would have me do
Just call on me and Ill be coming through
I will always be there for you
When the blue hour comes
When the blue hour comes
I will always be there
When the blue hour comes
When the blue hour comes
When the blue hour comes....(repeat to fade)
song performed by by Roy Orbison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Conscious
His fingers wake, and flutter up the bed.
His eyes come open with a pull of will,
Helped by the yellow may-flowers by his head.
A blind-cord drawls across the window-sill . . .
How smooth the floor of the ward is! what a rug!
And who's that talking, somewhere out of sight?
Why are they laughing? What's inside that jug?
"Nurse! Doctor!" "Yes; all right, all right."
But sudden dusk bewilders all the air --
There seems no time to want a drink of water.
Nurse looks so far away. And everywhere
Music and roses burnt through crimson slaughter.
Cold; cold; he's cold; and yet so hot:
And there's no light to see the voices by --
No time to dream, and ask -- he knows not what.
poem by Wilfred Owen
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A drinking song
Come, brothers, share the fellowship
We celebrate to-night;
There's grace of song on every lip
And every heart is light!
But first, before our mentor chimes
The hour of jubilee,
Let's drink a health to good old times,
And good times yet to be!
Clink, clink, clink!
Merrily let us drink!
There's store of wealth
And more of health
In every glass, we think.
Clink, clink, clink!
To fellowship we drink!
And from the bowl
No genial soul
In such an hour can shrink.
And you, oh, friends from west and east
And other foreign parts,
Come share the rapture of our feast,
The love of loyal hearts;
And in the wassail that suspends
All matters burthensome,
We 'll drink a health to good old friends
And good friends yet to come.
Clink, clink, clink!
To fellowship we drink!
And from the bowl
No genial soul
In such an hour will shrink.
Clink, clink, clink!
Merrily let us drink!
There's fellowship
In every sip
Of friendship's brew, we think.
poem by Eugene Field
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A Child's Amaze
amaze, cold amazement
those faces i saw as a child
those faces that can still trap
me between the lines of their
scowls with mere recollections
those cold cold faces that seemed
to have come out of er somewhere
a torture chamber? a lonely prison?
disappointment land?
i did not know hell, too young to know
wonder who first coined cold as hell
could hell be cold anyway?
well then i did not know
much about fridge either
in backward borneo 40 years back
the coldness of people's faces
racked the mind and dissettled
a budding heart mored used to
cajoles and warm embraces
i still see men with
cold cold faces, demeanor
hell, ice, fridge have become
overused, redundant words
to describe such poor souls
i picture them as homo sapiens
who carry an arctic with them
and wonder how they could make
friends and warm them up
cold cold people with cold cold faces
who could cut deeper to the bone
than ice and snow
inspired by
A Child's Amaze
SILENT and amazed, even when a little boy,
I remember I heard the preacher every Sunday put God in his
statements,
As contending against some being or influence.
Walt Whitman
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Zero Hour
A lost age of forgotten dreams
Reflections in a broken mirror
Hiding the images of hway might have been
Time stands still as the glass water shatters
Beneath the strain of humanity's dying voice
No hope, no fear, no choice
Lost hope, one fear, last chance
Welcome to zero hour
The gods look on, desperate to comprehend
The moment it all failed
Their tears fall to the earth
Polluted with humanity's sins
And they close their eyes
Their children have lost their way.
No hope, no fear, no choice
Lost hope, one fear, last chance
Welcome to zero hour
Time begins anew, the gods awaken
>From their sleep
And with it a new dream
Like the Phoenix we are reborn from the
Ashes of the past
The choice is ours, a new dawn, a new hope,
A new age
As we begin at zero hour.
song performed by by Quo Vadis
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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