A Sketch Of What Familiarity And Routine Is All About
when she arrives in my house
that early morning
she was more silent than
the grass that is still jeweled
with dew
there is still that sense of
strangeness
like a bird from the forest
that is still feeling its new cage
she had three to five days
her feet studying the floors and stairs
her hands groping the blankets
and pillows in the bed and
room
the books in the library included
there are conversations going on
to the different parts of the house and garden
until she has become a part to all of them
and then
she sits on the grass and
lays her body in bed
ofter spending more time reading
the titles of the books
she has the best time dining
until she holds control
and laughs the hardest
disturbing the peace of the neighbors
it is the familiarity
and perhaps too much of it like an alcoholic drink
that makes her lose
what is important
she gets drunk and
unmanageable
on the fifth day and it was a Sunday
she left us without a word at around 3 a.m.
when all the members of the house were all tired and asleep
she left a note: she does not deserve to stay
in this ordered universe
she is a random incident of a dice,
she is a woman unnumbered
a bird not fit for a cage
a dog without a leash
a speck of dust owned by no wind
we do not mention her name during that lonely breakfast
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Related quotes
Bird can read our mind
I was sitting on a chair,
I saw a bird,
flying in the air...
I thought,
Why this bird don't come to my house,
And make a new house of its own here...
Soon that bird came to my house,
I tried to be motionless so that it don't fly again in the air.
then I thought to catch it and to keep it in a bird cage,
and soon it flied afraidly again in the air,
then I thought,
why I thought to keep it in a bird cage forever..
poem by Arpita Kothari
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Hoarder Or Collector (Fun Poem 101)
Some of us are hoarders
and we don’t know where to stop.
We say we are collectors,
of rubbish maybe.
For a long time I have loved books
and collected every waif and stray.
People gave them to me by the dozen
and I never turned them away.
My collecting went so mad
I have now ten thousand or more
within my library.
Enough is enough I would say,
but still more arrived.
Now I don’t live in a house anymore,
as it has become a library.
There are books in every room
and not just one or two,
but dozens and dozens of them.
Everywhere you go;
there are books here and there.
Now I must down size
and my problem is
which ones do I let go,
and then I think
I might want to read a couple of them.
I am confused at what to do.
I know if I don’t do it soon
we won’t be able to
even get into the loo!
19 April 2009
Author’s note:
Loo is a word we use instead of saying Toilet. And, yes, I have that many books and I do have to get rid of some.
DVH
poem by David Harris
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VI
The tame bird was in a cage, the free bird was in the forest.
They met when the time came, it was a decree of fate.
The free bird cries, "O my love, let us fly to wood."
The cage bird whispers, "Come hither, let us both live in the
cage."
Says the free bird, "Among bars, where is there room to spread
one's wings?"
"Alas," cries the cage bird, "I should not know where to sit
perched in the sky."
The free bird cries, "My darling, sing the songs of the
woodlands."
The cage bird says, "Sit by my side, I'll teach you the speech of
the learned."
The forest bird cries, "No, ah no! songs can never be taught."
The cage bird says, "Alas for me, I know not the songs of the
woodlands."
Their love is intense with longing, but they never can fly wing
to wing.
Through the bars of the cage they look, and vain is their wish to
know each other.
They flutter their wings in yearning, and sing, "Come closer, my
love!"
The free bird cries, "It cannot be, I fear the closed doors of
the cage."
The cage bird whispers, "Alas, my wings are powerless and dead."
poem by Rabindranath Tagore from The Gardener (1913)
Submitted by Silvia Velea
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The Tame Bird Was In A Cage
THE tame bird was in a cage, the free bird was in the forest.
They met when the time came, it was a decree of fate.
The free bird cries, 'O my love, let us fly to the wood.'
The cage bird whispers, 'Come hither, let us both live in the cage.'
Says the free bird, 'Among bars, where is there room to spread one's wings?'
'Alas,' cries the caged bird, 'I should not know where to sit perched in the sky.'
The free bird cries, 'My darling, sing the songs of the woodlands.'
The cage bird sings, 'Sit by my side, I'll teach you the speech of the learned.'
The forest bird cries, 'No, ah no! songs can never be taught.'
The cage bird says, 'Alas for me, I know not the songs of the woodlands.'
There love is intense with longing, but they never can fly wing to wing.
Through the bars of the cage they look, and vain is their wish to know each other.
They flutter their wings in yearning, and sing, 'Come closer, my love!'
The free bird cries, 'It cannot be, I fear the closed doors of the cage.'
The cage bird whispers, 'Alas, my wings are powerless and dead.'
poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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A House called Lonely (A Trilogy in three parts)
There is a street in every town that owns a house
called lonely. Then when your just passing by you might
just say, 'if only.
If only could mean a life time of thoughts but it does'nt cure
a lonely house and all its faults.
Boarded up windows and tiles gone from the roof, graffiti
painted by a rebelious youth.
Such a lonely house and an oh such a tired one,
one that has lost all it's fun.
Stairs and rafters all gone to pot all that is left
is wood worm and dry rot.
No children playing in the garden, it's just a house condemend
by the council without no pardon. Poor lonely house someones
forgotton dream, now describing lifes social scene.
This lonely house stands in the way because their building
a By Pass or a new motorway.
The house called lonely could be any where, in the town, the
country or city square.
Even in your street there's a house called lonely just waiting
for you to say 'if only'
poem by Sylvia Spencer
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A Need For A New House....Or Home...
early morning
when the doors are still closed and the windows still tipsy
like the whole house
you fly away
the sun comes out with the clouds
early morning you fly away
away from it all
the clouds are floors and grasses
and you are a lonely bird among a flock of chairs
early morning you fly away
thinking about nothing
you fly away and you feel like a leaf inside
that gentle beast
it is a ride-awA Need For A New House....Or Home...ay
among the paradoxes of life
and its ironies
early morning there is this flight that takes you to a stop-over
of your life
no one knows that you are grieving
over a search for what you feel
the one you had which you lost
intentionally
among the flock of chairs landing early morning
on unstable floors
early morning you take a cab
you choose still
which house
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Ellie's story
Day after day she stays in the house,
The television’s always switched on,
She seeks a way out,
Wants to scream and to shout,
To lose herself in a song.
A job would be handy,
Some money would too,
For oh if she had it,
The things she could do?
She would love to be married,
Have her own place,
Kids in the garden,
And plenty of space.
With a dog in a basket,
And a bird in a cage,
A fun loving husband,
And a regular wage.
Instead however, she just sits,
Endures her eczema, asthma, fits,
Her lover’s depression, her silent aggression,
And waits for her dreams to come true.
In spite of all these troubles,
She’s normally quite happy,
Sits in her house,
And waits for her chappy
And when he arrives,
They sometimes go out,
Life takes a lift,
Of that there’s no doubt!
With her great sense of humour,
She’s so lively and plucky,
Full of surprises,
Happy- go- lucky.
She looks to the future,
Awaits her fate,
Only wishing for happiness,
And the love of her mate.
poem by Mark Sellen
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Test Week
Here comes test week one
There is less time for fun.
Boys are studying hard all day
For them to top in some way.
Some have english first than chemistry
Then physics, maths and history.
They stay up late till twelve 'o' clock
The studying never seems to stop.
For maths, boys practice many sums
And do so well that 'hundred' comes.
Books in the morning, books at night
Books, books, books all the time.
Then comes the end of 'test week one'
Now its time for all the fun.
Nest week inter-house soccer begins
The competitions tough....
....Never know who's going to win!
poem by Varun Pais
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Our Bird In Your Cage
we have this bird
we both own it and love it and care for it
our bird
and you have this cage
that you only own
golden, new and strong and as you say it
so reliable
that when our bird is in that cage
it will be safe
and cannot escape
we feed this bird together
and give it water and birdseeds
and a place of twigs and swing
where the bird can play
and perch upon
like it is on a tree
days and years
we keep this bird in your cage
and we see it is dying
and wanting to be free
yet you say, this sickness is just temporary
time heals what has wounded it
and shall forget the power of its wings
days and more years
we keep this bird in your cage
and i have not listened at all
to the sad song of that bird
her waning chirps
her weakened wings
her way of losing hold to the dreams of its wings
today we see this bird is dead
but you have no sadness at all
you say, you will buy another bird
again to be kept in your cage
i could have told you
i am the bird in your cage and i too have forgotten the power of
my wings
i could have told you, i have long died
and have forgotten what freedom is, what love is, what i am
in the first place. How can i ever tell you?
you are my cage.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Beautiful Bird On A Cage
a beautiful bird
is trapped
a boy transports
it in a cage
in their house in the village
the bird is asking some questions:
what crime have i committed
to deserve this sentence? :
is flying a crime?
little boy, do you really need to
keep beauty
inside your cage?
but the boy of course
in his youthfulness
does not care
he does not understand
his parents have not given him the need
to understand all these
his parents too
do not understand what flight is
what rights are
what beauty is
what cages are
and so life goes on and on
with birds inside a cage
boys devising traps
house having cages by their windows
parents proud of their boys
and boys watching the sadness of birds
every morning
in the little village
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Dropping By Your House This Morning
i dropped by your house this very early morning
the windows are closed
but the door is half-open
and i could have given in to this little curiosity
that cats keep on their paws
and soft feet
or hands if you may
but i didn't. there is something in the houe
that says
you had a bad day and that night you did not have
a sound sleep
the roses are wilting and a flower pot falls on the ground
broken
the soil splashed like spilled water on the grass
there is no sound of the wind
from the storm last night
i just dropped by. I respect you. The door of the house
finally closed
i did not see the hands that closed it.
it maybe yours
or someone else's
the rug has spoken. You want to be alone.
to keep the faint light left
in that little room. the curtains fall. the lights
went off on that very early morning.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Beautiful Bird That Cannot Escape From The Cage
there is a beautiful bird caged in my house
its flumes are red
its beak of course is black
its claws neat and clean
and cannot scratch
its eyes blank
its feathers dull
(perhaps she is bored to death
but she is still that beautiful bird caged in the heart
of my house)
when she sings
usually in the night before everyone sleeps
everyone hears
what sadness lies in the heart of its
throat
i know that it wants to escape from the cage in the heart of the house
but someone more cruel
wants it caged
forever
there is a beautiful red bird caged in my heart
i want it set free
she understands it well
she wants to be free
i know it too well
but things will just be what it is
there is nothing we can do
she is the beautiful red feathered bird caged
and shall never be free
like the stairs, like the walls, like the beams like the stars
shall this red bird be.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Woman Is Fire
There was a time when Woman went out of house, house of wax was left by Woman, Woman with waxen complexion I was, I was fiery Woman, Woman's body was a wax, Woman's eyes a flammable paraffin, what Woman's mouth was: withered red apples when Woman was fired out of house. House was invisible when Woman took a fire lamp and went to cheer in the smell of fallen apples, scattered around house, our moldy house. In the cold night Woman molded her body in a candle mould to revive old fire and saw Man that gathered apple stalks from moldy apple trees. It was a lonely man, Man that made a fire with waxed paper and moldering apple stalks. Man that sat outdoors on a moldy wooden bench by that fire and drunk applejack.
Woman saw Man, Man that felt Woman's looks through apple shaped embers bursting out of fire when wet apple leaves dried. Fire was a necessity for Man, for Man made his living being a fire-eater. The fire-eater wanted fire that gives birth, of fireworks, exploding fire. Man moved a long green apple stalk through fire to burn fire more. Man took a dropp and swallowed it. Man took another dropp and spat it into the fire. Suddenly Man realized what he needed and waxed on a piece of paper: fire must drink applejack for fire is becoming moldy, and he spat what he drunk mingled with apple-tasting spit. House is moldy too, Woman remembered and woman's heart became a rotten apple.. Fire was quenching as Woman closed her eyelids, apple peels, longing for house. House may be moldy, but house is not empty. Woman molded house the like, house full of candle lights and fireflies. Woman left Man's fire quenched and remained an apple scented candle. House melts easily and hardens quickly, Woman too. Woman abandoned Man not to be melt. That is old fire in Woman, as she stalks on apple waxed earth toward house.
poem by Afrodita Nikolova
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A Cage in the Bird
he was out of the cage
as he was treated as a bird
and he sings
to the sky
but then he had loved the cage so well
and the hands of the master
that feed him
that every morning listens to his song
he had missed sorely so well
and so back into that cage
he flies in
for the master had left it all open
he sings again
concluding that the cage must also
be the home
for freedom
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Truly Great
My walls outside must have some flowers,
My walls within must have some books;
A house that's small; a garden large,
And in it leafy nooks.
A little gold that's sure each week;
That comes not from my living kind,
But from a dead man in his grave,
Who cannot change his mind.
A lovely wife, and gentle too;
Contented that no eyes but mine
Can see her many charms, nor voice
To call her beauty fine.
Where she would in that stone cage live,
A self-made prisoner, with me;
While many a wild bird sang around,
On gate, on bush, on tree.
And she sometimes to answer them,
In her far sweeter voice than all;
Till birds, that loved to look on leaves,
Will doat on a stone wall.
With this small house, this garden large,
This little gold, this lovely mate,
With health in body, peace in heart--
Show me a man more great.
poem by William Henry Davies
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to Have A rED bIRD
THINGS that i own
are not bound, even books
they have pages
open, dog-eared
some even torn
i own these stained
margins
i put my signatures in
them
i own a red bird
because i planted a tree
beside the house
a branch has become
intimated to my window
and the red bird
sings there
i own the morning song now
but for me to learn
to fly
and own the sky too
i must
let the song go
i do not make my hands
as the house
of wings
neither my heart
the the treetops for
drifters
for in truth to own red birds
is always premised
on the respect for their
own freedoms....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Sonnet: All Things on Earth Have a Natural Place
Each thing on earth must be, where it should be;
Ectopic makes it weird and dangerous;
A lion ought to be in forest free!
It cannot do whatev’r a house-cat does!
A cage is not the place for bird or beast;
A cell is not the home for any man;
One’s freedom should not be curbed in the least;
An animal that’s caged has less life-span!
A garden-rose must grow in gardens good;
It should not stand amidst the grasses wild;
The forest is the place for cedar-wood;
A garbage-dump is cruel for a child!
The place aright for family is house;
The place ideal is home for any spouse!
poem by John Celes
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The Child, The Man And The Old Man....
i look at the child
at the farther nook of a old house.
there is no chair and beside the door
is a box, it is empty
and the child in fear
took its hiding there
a favorite place
safety box, safe house,
the four corners are
so silent
and the child is happy
asleep in a moment.....
time travels like horses with wings.
there is a man
with a long bird his toenails
are long, no time to cut them
it throat is swollen
bacterial infection again
or the weather changes
cold this time then hot in
a moment
dusts all over the place
and white painted houses
it is lonely, child and man
at the same time
and not one of him speaks
they become one box
and one flap opens to
a sky
always there are
no extra hands. it is reality.
there is an old man
with words of thread
sewing upon its lips.
there is a very dark night.
the child, the man and the old man
are asleep
inside a box, safe and
silent.
there is no morning.
it is final.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Get Drunk
Always be drunk.
That's it!
The great imperative!
In order not to feel
Time's horrid fardel
bruise your shoulders,
grinding you into the earth,
Get drunk and stay that way.
On what?
On wine, poetry, virtue, whatever.
But get drunk.
And if you sometimes happen to wake up
on the porches of a palace,
in the green grass of a ditch,
in the dismal loneliness of your own room,
your drunkenness gone or disappearing,
ask the wind,
the wave,
the star,
the bird,
the clock,
ask everything that flees,
everything that groans
or rolls
or sings,
everything that speaks,
ask what time it is;
and the wind,
the wave,
the star,
the bird,
the clock
will answer you:
"Time to get drunk!
Don't be martyred slaves of Time,
Get drunk!
Stay drunk!
On wine, virtue, poetry, whatever!"
poem by Charles Baudelaire
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Open Book's Monologue Part 5: Welcome To The Library!
Welcome to the library! come one come all
Welcome to the library! come with your brethren on this wall
Welcome to the library! come all you books tattered or new
Welcome to the library! come tired and overdue
Yes welcome to the library the place where you're most mundane
Yes welcome to the library the place where you're to endure most pain
Yes welcome to the library where you'll sit unwanted
Yes welcome to the library where you'll sit haunted
Yes welcome to the library where everyone's just like you
Yes welcome to the library where we're all books too!
Yes welcome to the library where you can take comfort
Yes welcome to the library where In the fact you're no longer unique
Yes welcome to the library You're just pen marks ink
Departing the library? I think not, even if you get out we'll bring you back
Departing the library? Here you rot, but we'll dust you to ease your passing
Departing the library? Don't make me laugh, here you're black and white
Departing the library? Nobody argues on your behalf, look more amassing
Welcome to the library! A place of keeping and safety
Welcome to the library! Take your place you'll like it, just wait and see
Welcome to the library! New books don't mind the old they're disillusioned
Welcome to the library! You've sold your soul... but it's too late for you
so WELCOME
poem by David Knox
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