En.Citatepedia^®.ro

All About Us

a cup,
a shovel, a therapy,
a string
a lock of hair
air, packets of heaving sighs,
a dirty blanket
an open window,
the sea,
a scribble on yellow paper,
a brink,
of what? an edge of where?
pieces of junk
driftwood, an old river,
the usual fallen leaves,
some puzzles of you
not all of you
but parts, shattered glass,
catching you
holding your hand
and then
releasing your fingers
like drops of
water from my hands,
slipping sands
last breath
wordlessly

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A View

driftwood
with seven twigs
on the shore
as clear as glass
is the water
and all stones and pebbles
are visible

above
blue skies
so blue that the white cotton clouds
appear like sperm cells moving
impregnating
an earth-sky womb

and then
it rains
the water rises
the drift wood again taken
floating
gently to another shore
another island
of white sands

a coconut tree towers
to reach a waft of cloud
winds as cool as ice
sands slipping on the fingers
a leaf from a guyabano tree falls
on the mouth
of a sleeping woman
beside her
the man whose arms are enclosing
her throughout
the rainy night

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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His Lock Of Hair

I looked at him and thought to myself
I must keep a lock of his hair.
So I clipped it while he was asleep
for there would soon be none to spare.
I remember when I saw him first
his hair was what caught my sight,
so full and wavy catching the light
as dark as a moonless night.
I would run my fingers through it
and see a smile on his face.
I would watch and see him groom it.
Not a strand was out of place.

Little by little it was not as full
and the treasure I would see
was slowly leaving as days went by
and I knew eventually
that his beautiful crown of glory
would become a thing of the past.
And so the lock of hair I clipped
was saved so it would last.
For now that his hair has fallen away.
I show him the lock I did save.
He smiles again as he's done before
as he finishes his morning shave.

poem by Edwina Reizer
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I Dreamed.... (Hands)

i dreamed last night...
and all i could see were hands.
sometimes hard and calloused,
sometimes soft and feminine.
skilled hands, laborer's hands,
loving hands, nurturing hands....
fingers digging in the dirt,
fingers holding a pen.
fingers playing a piano,
fingers unbuttoning blouses.

hands extended, hands gripping the rope,
hands holding the shovel,
hands covered with resin.
hands folded in prayer,
hands balled into fists.
hands stuffed in empty pockets.
hands that define both history,
and destiny!

hands scarred and bruised,
hands covered with age spots.
hands that speak many languages.
hands that know mistakes, and failures.
hands that built fires,
hands that put fires out!
hands that wiped away tears,
that picked up trash,
and revealed souls....

whose hands?
my hands, your hands?
god's hands?
does it really matter?
hands engaged and involved,
in the very act of living!

poem by Eric Cockrell
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Rain [1]

Come like a blanket to cover me
in a soft sieving mist
and even if the sun
still shines,

come fall down
from the grey sky,
hang in sparkling drops,
on the leaves of every tree,

bath the drooping willow
in a shower of spray,
let your drops in water flow
and make the black road steam,

catch me in the open
and ruffle through my hair
and let your blessing
be everywhere.

poem by Gert Strydom
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Rain

Come like a blanket to cover me
in a soft sieving mist
and even if the sun
still shines,

come fall down
from the grey sky,
hang in sparkling drops,
on the leaves of every tree,

bath the drooping willow
in a shower of spray,
let your drops in water flow
and make the black road steam,

catch me in the open
and ruffle through my hair
and let your blessing
be everywhere.

poem by Gert Strydom
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Washing Windows

Your mother used to sit on the window
Ledge of the tenement building and
Wash the windows of each of the rooms.
She’d push back the shutters and just
Sit there with a bucket of warm water
And a cloth and wash away. You were
Always afraid she’d lean too far back
And fall out and down to the ground
Several storeys below with a heavy crash
And break bones or neck or maybe die.
But she’d just sit there her legs holding
Onto the wall beneath her and push her
Right hand holding the damp cloth
Over the glass while her left hand held
The metal bucket tight swishing the warm
Water as she moved back and forth like
Some lone trapeze artist on the high wire
Without apparent fear or knowledge of
Was going on in the street below with the
Passing of the walking dead as Father used
To say and Mrs Febrile sitting on her window
Ledge with her daughter watching gossiping
And nosing about who did what to whom
While all the while you were frightened of
Your mother slipping out the window waving
Her hands and arms as she fell to her doom.

poem by Terry Collett
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Slippin' Through My Fingers

Schoolbag in hand, she leaves home in the early morning
Waving goodbye with an absent-minded smile
I watch her go with a surge of that well-known sadness
And I have to sit down for a while
The feeling that I'm losing her forever
And without really entering her world
I'm glad whenever I can share her laughter
That funny little girl
Slipping through my fingers all the time
I try to capture every minute
The feeling in it
Slipping through my fingers all the time
Do I really see what's in her mind
Each time I think I'm close to knowing
She keeps on growing
Slipping through my fingers all the time
Sleep in our eyes, her and me at the breakfast table
Barely awake, I let precious time go by
Then when she's gone there's that odd melancholy feeling
And a sense of guilt I can't deny
What happened to the wonderful adventures
The places I had planned for us to go
(Slipping through my fingers all the time)
Well, some of that we did but most we didn't
And why I just don't know
Slipping through my fingers all the time
I try to capture every minute
The feeling in it
Slipping through my fingers all the time
Do I really see what's in her mind
Each time I think I'm close to knowing
She keeps on growing
Slipping through my fingers all the time
Sometimes I wish that I could freeze the picture
And save it from the funny tricks of time
Slipping through my fingers...
Slipping through my fingers all the time
Schoolbag in hand she leaves home in the early morning
Waving goodbye with an absent-minded smile

song performed by by ABBA
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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You and Jackson Pollock.

How's the girl
with the red beret?

your sister asked
she'd seen you

and Janice
and her gran

on the way home
from school

she probably walking
with her friend

following behind
and Janice said

I made a picture today
out of cut up

pieces of paper
and the teacher said

it was the best
she'd seen

her gran said
Now now Janice

mustn't boast
I expect

there were other pictures
equally as good

But teacher said it
not me

Janice replied
Did you make a picture?

her gran asked you
her eyes falling on you

and taking in
your look

like a rabbit caught
in headlamps of a car

in the night
Yes

you said
I made a picture

of a morning sunset
out of red and yellow

and green for the grass
and blue for the sky

Janice smiled
and touched your hand

surreptitiously
her small hand

feeling along
your skin

Did you make it
out of cut up

pieces of paper too?
her gran asked

you sensed Janice's fingers
squeezing into your hand

No
you replied

I did it with water colour paints
and what did teacher say?

her gran asked
she said it reminded her

of a Jackson Pollock
whoever he is

you said
looking at Janice's red beret

and her hair
coming from beneath

so wonderfully
unlike your

short back and sides
and unlike her hair

with its red coloured
hair slides.

poem by Terry Collett
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Slipping Through My Fingers

Schoolbag in hand, she leaves home in the early morning
Waving goodbye with an absent-minded smile
I watch her go with a surge of that well-known sadness
And I have to sit down for a while
The feeling that Im losing her forever
And without really entering her world
Im glad whenever I can share her laughter
That funny little girl
Slipping through my fingers all the time
I try to capture every minute
The feeling in it
Slipping through my fingers all the time
Do I really see whats in her mind
Each time I think Im close to knowing
She keeps on growing
Slipping through my fingers all the time
Sleep in our eyes, her and me at the breakfast table
Barely awake, I let precious time go by
Then when shes gone theres that odd melancholy feeling
And a sense of guilt I cant deny
What happened to the wonderful adventures
The places I had planned for us to go
(slipping through my fingers all the time)
Well, some of that we did but most we didnt
And why I just dont know
Slipping through my fingers all the time
I try to capture every minute
The feeling in it
Slipping through my fingers all the time
Do I really see whats in her mind
Each time I think Im close to knowing
She keeps on growing
Slipping through my fingers all the time
Sometimes I wish that I could freeze the picture
And save it from the funny tricks of time
Slipping through my fingers...
Slipping through my fingers all the time
Schoolbag in hand she leaves home in the early morning
Waving goodbye with an absent-minded smile...

song performed by by ABBA
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Crossroads

The second half of my life will be black
to the white rind of the old and fading moon.
The second half of my life will be water
over the cracked floor of these desert years.
I will land on my feet this time,
knowing at least two languages and who
my friends are. I will dress for the
occasion, and my hair shall be
whatever color I please.
Everyone will go on celebrating the old
birthday, counting the years as usual,
but I will count myself new from this
inception, this imprint of my own desire.

The second half of my life will be swift,
past leaning fenceposts, a gravel shoulder,
asphalt tickets, the beckon of open road.
The second half of my life will be wide-eyed,
fingers shifting through fine sands,
arms loose at my sides, wandering feet.
There will be new dreams every night,
and the drapes will never be closed.
I will toss my string of keys into a deep
well and old letters into the grate.

The second half of my life will be ice
breaking up on the river, rain
soaking the fields, a hand
held out, a fire,
and smoke going
upward, always up.

poem by Joyce Sutphen
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For Three Whose Reflex was Yes

Nobody I know is a god. A mother and son
fall into the river's million hands, the river's
smash and grab. They go under, climb the ropeless
water up, wave, open their mouths and scream
wet silences as they slide back under.
A man jumps in to save them, leaves the edge
as a needle into the river's muddy sinews, a woman
jumps in to save his vanishing and the mother
and son and is stripped by the flood, her pants
drowning right beside her, another man jumps in
to save them all and a woman jumps in after him
to save them all plus one, cars arrive and people
get out and leap into the river, the river's being filled
with whatever's in their pockets and their hands
and their eyes, with nickels and dollar bills
and bibles and sunsets, the beautiful brush strokes
of this beautifully dying day, people pile
like a river inside the river, they keep coming
and diving in, they keep feeding their breath
to the water, which is less, which is thinned,
until the mother and son rise on a mound
of strangers and dead, the sun warming them, blessing
their faces slowly dry.

poem by Bob Hicok
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Hazel On the Edge

Dunne watches as Hazel unpins her hair.
She can see her facial expression in the
Dressing table mirror. I usually do that,
Dunne says. I thought you’d like a break
From being my maid, Hazel replies, catching
Dunne’s eyes. Dunne fiddles with her fingers,
Stares back at her mistress’s reflection. She
Notices Hazel’s smile. I feel useless if I don’t
Do anything, Dunne says. Hazel turns around
And says, you are never useless to me. They
Look at each other as if time had stopped.
Hazel seems on the edge of a chasm. She
Wants to put her arms around Dunne and
Draw her close to her. She just stands feeling
A falling sensation. Dunne looks away and says,
Did you want me to prepare a bath for you?
Hazel breathes in slowly. Calm, she tells herself.
Dunne goes to the window to peer out onto
The Parisian street below. Hazel moves up
Behind Dunne. She looks at Dunne’s hair,
The slope of shoulders, the smell of scent
She’d given her. Yes, Hazel says, a bath would
Be welcome after such a busy day sightseeing.
Dunne turns and smiles. Hazel is on the brink
Of putting out a hand to touch Dunne’s cheek.
She holds her hands by her side. Dunne moves
Off and out of the room to prepare a bath in
The bathroom next door. Hazel sighs. So close.
So near. She holds onto the scent of Dunne.
She senses things fall away: prejudices, class,
Manners, mores; feels her emotions flood her
Mind. Love, all love, Father used to say, is blind.

poem by Terry Collett
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Rain (That Never Comes)

revolution,
sexual desire,
holy anger,
the sparrow carved
from a dead tree.
tongue burnt,
the fist and the open hand...
touching the sky
with fingers in the dirt.
kissing, brown leaves,
smoke, an open window.
death, and hunger,
the glass broken,
trembling hands....
raw need, lips bleeding,
hearts wrapped in wheels.
thunder, the taste of lightning,
and rain that never comes!

poem by Eric Cockrell
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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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Two Distant Worlds

who does not like to put some
yellow daisies on your black glossy hair?

you become so beautiful with a chain of yellow
daisies in your hair

where i can possibly touch them and caress them
and how would you know that this is more than just putting a chain of
daisies in your black hair?

you shall never know and that is good enough for me
for i am the simplest man that puts those chain of yellow daisies in your hair

no prince charming for you, nothing special
just another common friend putting those usual yellow daisies in your hair

when our hands touch by accident
how would you know that i have become a forest burning?

this burning fire that is softly killing me
how would you know? your world is open and mine is closed.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Glass Rose (Moan Of The Night)

a glass rose
shattered on the bare floor...
tiny pieces glinting

in the late evening light.
an old photograph,
half burned in the ashtray...

hand on fire,
slips down, fingers enter
where faces disappear.

a small crucifix,
the breeze slips through the window,
picking up the scent,

staggers as if drunk.
the cruelty of the door,
the latch, and the shadow...

that laughs as it closes
the book and turns away...
a glass rose,

and the moan of the night!

poem by Eric Cockrell
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Sinking..

Down in the water
By the edge of the river
where I ponder my life
just how did I get to this

Down in the water
By the edge of the river
where the waterfall of dreams
sweeps away what’s left to the abyss

Down in the water
by the edge of the river
where time stands still
Just only forever.

Down in the water
by the edge of the river
where I buried all
that was ever childhood

Where I let it go,
where it bends and meanders,
twisting along as the years went past.
Seemingly calm, but screaming beneath the surface
were its hidden whirlpools, a sweeping current

Down in the water,
I left the edge of the river,
as I looked down
for my soul at the bottom.

Deep in the water
Swept away by the river

I drowned in life,

......sinking forever.

poem by Deep Dark Soul Poet
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Get Used To All These Somehow

get used to all these somehow
these that i cannot understand
always the questions in my mind
like open mouths
longing for a kiss
empty and cold,
there are answers to choose
got nothing
i move in an open field
gasping for air
like a fish on the floor
shattered glasses and water
seeping on the
wooden floor

too dry for me but I'll get used to
all these
tomorrow the usual sun shines
if you ask me
i have no answers i will pretend
that this is the usual day
nothing extraordinary

like the passing of the wind
i shall not be carried away
but i have to rearrange my hair
gets crumpled
and i do not really like it

being seen by you and you ask
if it's me

i am. it was me.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Those Witches....

he puts his fate
again in the hands
of dishonest
authorities

masochism again

when the paper is
sent it will
be blackening
his vision

he will be shaken again

vain hope,
lessons learned
numb

and he steps again into the open
fields of
new opportunities

flying kites,
releasing pigeons from their imaginary cages
running away

the sea, yes the sea, the wide horizon
the moon at night
the singing leaves of the trees
silent sands

fool!
you have subject to the dictates of
dishonest
concocting witches....

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Near Yet So Far Away

you are just a breath
away from my
face. My fingers want
to jump off
my hands to
run over you

and indulge
in the lust of touch
and caress

my tongue wants
to run away
with your lips

my thigh
trembles beside
your hands

you are so near
yet

something holds
me away from you

(how can i
ever explain it?)

as i take
a glance, for the last
time at you
beside the glass window
of the car

i finally look down
and wish that
i kiss your feet

(i am in a
quandary between
shame and
satiation)

so near and
yet so far, i close
my eyes

and travel
inside my veins

my blood pumps
up and says

be good
take care as i leave

you are so
far now,
at the end,

at a certain edge
even the hands of my dreams
shy away

to hold and kiss
your shadow

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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