All That I Need
all that i need robert
is a little nap
beside a kitten
unclad and then
i will continue
writing the poems
for all the cats and
dogs and for all those
who have forgotten
what sleep is,
all i need is a little
dark corner, a little light
from the candle and
an open window where
i can see the moon,
without a star
there are no stars, i so
think, in real poetry
it is more of like ants
building castles on their hills.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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It Is A Habit
writing poems
when you really write poems
everyday and every moment of your life
even when you're in the middle of your
bread and butter eating thing
or even when you are defecating
writing poems becomes a habit
even when you sleep even when you dream
writing poems becomes a part of your system
you eat poetry you vomit poetry
you digest poetry you poo poetry
you breathe poetry you sweat poetry
you love poetry and you live with your poetry
and at the end you die with poetry
and your epitaph says: here lies the poet,
choked with poetry.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Gratis Et Amore (2)
helen cannot sleep,
and she keeps on sneering at the moon
and writing it
with poems as though the moon is a man
and as though the poems are her
letters pleading
to be loved by its glimmer
and shimmer imagining
them to be the rough hands
of a lover and
throughout many nights
she had been waiting
to be loved
there were many things that she did
all for the moon not even for the stars
until one morning she was found
dead inside her room
her face towards the moon
her eyes closed
her window open
and the people who buried her
that same day
told about the shame
that she was naked
i know how it is to be like her
and it was all done in the name of love
gratis et amore.
and they said, all of them, after all the prayers were said
Amen.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Two commotions
the roots are hanging like shoots,
the sun sets, the light is dim I
arrange myself for writing, a
burst of commotion in the corner
of my mind threatening, I look in,
no dogs, but human beings grunting
like pigs the contention is the bone,
less or more calcium: the cut off money,
I cut my nose too as I poked among
them, but they are born on this earth to
cook the book of honesty, I am not fit
any where in the scheme, I faint when
I find them hand in hand in herd on
the red light street, I am alone in the dark
of the dingy room, on the table of poetry
there is another din, a lady jester writing
poetry on a rock star, a jackal from the hell
throwing his hands and legs with only
sound words to stab and create rumours,
megalomaniac fools of the paradise believe
some are scared: but finally truth is out,
this is not a dance but a real jerking of
the great nonsense.
Today I have two commotions in my mind …
poem by Abdul Wahab
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A Candle In The Window
Written by susan longacre, walt aldridge, and gary baker
Theres a road that I remember leading to a special place
Where the door was always open to a smiling face
Theres a picture on the mantle of a boy that looks like me
Its always the same, theres a stocking with my name
And a candle in the window, a flame against the night
Theres a candle in the window, its like gods perfect light
It dont take a lot of money to know what riches are
Just a candle in the window
Maybe its just wishful thiking I can hear the sleigh bells ring
Almost taste teh pie shes baking, its christmas eve
And theres a candle in the window, a flame against the night
The candle in the window, its like gods perfect light
It dont take a lot of money to know what riches are
Just a candle in the window and christmas in your heart
Wherever the years may take me no matter how far I go
Theres going to be a candle burning, its always nice to know
It dont take a lot of money to know what riches are
Just a candle in the window and christmas in your heart
song performed by by Alabama
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Private Poetry
Every poem, Every poetry,
Where are all the poets?
Hiding out, Hiding away.
In the beaches, forests,
In the caves and rooms,
In the islands and temples.
Make their private poetry,
Every now and then,
Here and there,
Over here, Over there.
Somewhere, somewhen,
Someone, somebody,
No one, No body,
Some here, some there.
Somehow, not matter how,
Everywhere, every when,
Every turn, every look,
Every search, every research,
There is a private poet.
Making a private poetry,
Writing private poems,
Writing lovely poems,
Writing profound poetries.
For the world and all
To ponder,
To reflect,
To open our heart,
To hear and listen;
What poets have
To say and write,
In a private poetry,
For the world to read
And treasure.
poem by Lawrence Hiung
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The History Poems Have Not Been Written
The history poems have not been written
The poems after Milosz
The Wallace Stevens poems will never be written
I can’t come close
I have tried the Blake poems
But of course I am not near them either
I would like to the ironic intellectual poems
I might be able to do them
I could do a kind of surrealistic association mind poem a prose poem
But I don’t like that very much
The poems of Jerusalem have not been good enough
Poems of propaganda are awkward and unacceptable
The small poems that tell of my life
They are for me the chance at real poetry
And I will continue as best I can with them
The American poems I have not yet found the idiom for
I can be epigrammatic in Emerson Thoreau fashion
But not with the hard New England observing eye
Borges poems I love
And the stories of mind and literature
Making the drama of a life of a storyteller
Interest me
But I doubt I could truly do them well
Imitation can only take one so far
And through it one may lose one’s way entirely
I can really do only what I am
Not the Dickinson poems nor the Hopkins poems nor the Wordsworth poems nor the Keats poems nor the Amichai poems nor the poems of many others whose poetry I love
The Biblical poems have been tried
The poems of cosmic and scientific reflection
I could try to improve them
There are too many different kinds of poems to write
And I cannot write almost all of them
This is another poem about poems and poetry
I have written many for a long time now
Perhaps I need to go elsewhere and write in a new way
A way I have not dreamed or even remotely understood possible before.
The poems of the unknown poetry await me
I will go on but I am not sure now I know in which wa
poem by Shalom Freedman
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His Mode Of Earning His Living
beside writing poetry
he takes macro photographs
ants like camels
moths into dinosaurs
moles into hills
islands into continents
sorrows magnified
this is beauty to him
his poetry magnifies
what you have not seen
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I Can Write Poetry All Day Long
I CAN WRITE POETRY ALL DAY LONG
I can write Poetry all day long
But what will it give me?
There is just so much others will listen to
If anything?
And what is the value of writing words to myself for myself
Even if I love them
And believe they are real poetry,
And know in my soul
That their music is real?
I can write Poetry all day long
Or think I am writing poetry
When I am not-
Am I writing poetry now?
I feel I am-
Within me there is the song and the sound
There is the music of poetry
But is it real
Or only my self- deception?
Can I write poetry all day long?
Can I write poetry at all?
I am writing poetry now
Or so I tell myself-
But as I write this
The music within
Is already fading
And I hear in myself
The silence of my own lonely sound.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Sleeping With Cats, Or Trying To
From 'Dating at Fifty' a collection of poems about the quest for love in middle age
Trying to sleep with cats,
Cats not content to use their box discretely
But compelled by strange ambition
To dig to China after each smelly deposit.
Trying to sleep in blankets
Full of cat litter
Tracked in by the cats.
Trying to sleep with cats, not content
To sleep or read or wait quietly for the dawn
But driven to actively stalk
The largely fictitious wildlife
Of a two room apartments.
Trying to sleep with a new woman
In strange bed with cats….
Forget about it! ! !
poem by Allan Thorne
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Wishing You Were Here
I'm writing letters and your candle is burning
Things could be better, can't handle this yearning.
Can't stop my head from spinning,
wishing you were here.
Look at your photo but it still can't hold me,
I just recall the things you never ever told me
Like you're the one and I am
wishing you were here.
Wish you were here
to see the moon in the sky
Oh here, to see the light in your eyes
Looking at the stars and
Wishing you were here.
The clock is ticking but the time moves slowly
The weeks go quickly so you just won't know me
I'm writing love songs and I'm wishing
Wish you were here,
to see the moon in the skies
Oh here, to see the light in your eyes
Looking at the stars and
Wishing you were here
To put a smile on my face
Oh here, to get caught in my
warm embrace
Looking at the stars and
wishing you were here
Bridge:
To calm the restless nights
To kiss my fears away.
Here, to make this wrong seem right
To start our lives today.
Wish you were here,
to see the moon in the skies
Oh here, to see the light in your eyes
Looking at the stars and
Wishing you were here
To put a smile on my face
Oh here, to get caught in my
warm embrace
Looking at the stars and
wishing you were here
song performed by by Debbie Gibson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Saxophone Song
Youll find me in a berlin bar,
In a corner brooding.
You know that I go very quiet
When Im listening to you.
Theres something very special indeed,
In all the places where Ive seen you shine, boy.
Theres something very real in how I feel, honey.
Its in me.
Its in me,
And you know its for real.
Tuning in on your saxophone.
Doo-bee-doo-bee-doo...
The candle burning over your shoulder is throwing
Shadows on your saxophone, a surly lady in tremor.
The stars that climb from her bowels,
Those stars make towers on vowels.
Youll never know that you had all of me.
Youll never know the poetry youve stirred in me.
Of all the stars Ive seen that shine so brightly,
Ive never known or felt in myself so rightly,
Its in me.
Its in me,
And you know its for real.
Tuning in on your saxophone.
Doo-bee-doo-bee-doo...
song performed by by Kate Bush
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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What lies on the other side of a dark moon
My darling says
look how bright is the moon
and the gold
appears on the other side,
of the window pane
where it hangs in a round ball
in the dark night.
It’s as if the stars
tonight are fading away
and every thing in the heaven,
disappears before the bright moon.
We lie on a three quarters bed
and I wonder how many kisses
are still destined for me
and her soft body,
are touching mine
while my hand
glide over her soft round curves.
Her breath tickles my neck
while the night folds around us
and when she disappears into sleep
I am still busy
watching the magical moon
and I wonder what lies on the other side
of a dark moon
and if the sky,
will then have more stars in it,
but the star
that shines the brightest to me
is still in my arms
when the moon disappears
in the early morning.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Add me to pair.
There are you, only you,
who for I long. Tell me,
what is with me wrong?
I love you, only you,
which is not a crush.
Nor a truce, but real.
Can’t you grant my wish?
Maybe one,
someone, is in your way.
In a better way I can sway.
Heed can you pay?
Sweet and sour, one likes.
Moon and stars, one likes.
Kids and kitten, one likes.
If not sweet, be I a soar;
If not a moon, be I a star,
If not a kid, be I a kitten,
To you, dear.
Take me too, with you,
along with them.
Then I am not wrecked.
A pair of eyes,
A pair of limbs
And a pair of breasts,
all in pair you have.
Take me, to pair with the other.
I can’t retreat. Upbeat is
my heart, that will repeat,
will not subside, or recede.
Don’t put me aside.
There are you.
Only you who for I live.
Show me, please,
show me that
you lull me to trance.
17.12.2000, Pmdi
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Palace in the Sky
Forever lost inside my own world-never to come out of hiding
I am building palaces in the sky though I can only see the stars.
I can only see the stars, and
The quarter moon's light shining dimly upon the horizon
Casting its shadows upon the places of my dreams-
How I wish to escape the misfortunes of life upon this planet and
Make my home inside a palace somewhere in the sky.
I had built a million palaces, so it seems-
Every day and every night, I find myself rapidly losing my grasp upon
What is real and what is not- I am running a marathon toward someplace
Between the land where grasses and flowers grow and the
Trees, from the ground reaching upward to touch the clouds,
I can feel the gentleness of the late spring's breeze
Blowing against my cheeks, damp from tears that have I have cried, as
This world has not been kind to me.
People are heartless, and only laugh when I am weeping,
Looking into my eyes reading my thoughts, and
Ridiculing me as I converse with the voices inside of my mind,
Which have become my only consoling realities while inside this world of my fantasies,
I have become a dove with broken wings-which with deep gratefulness can still fly.
Lost inside some sort of trance, I am building palaces in the sky.
Placid breezes rustle the leaves upon the trees, almost making music-
Creating tunes about nature, peace of mind and are never threatening-
However, I know that one day these trees will all be cut down to fabricate homes
For thousands of people- people who have no heart or no spirit of patience or kindness
So I know that I must continue building my palaces in the sky.
Summer storms shall rip across the sky and I know I must use all my strength
To stay alive so I may lift my broken wings to find a palace which I have built-
The quarter moon is casting its light upon the world and about the sky-
I am glancing repeatedly towards the sky searching for my palace, my home-
Flying bravely about to the best of my ability, on
My endless search for freedom and safety, praying to a God I am not certain that exists-
My hope is to see my golden palace glistening beneath the light of the quarter moon,
All I can see are the stars- what lurks behind those stars I may never know,
But I shall continue to fight the clouds and build my palaces, my castles.
May the stars illuminate the darkness and guide me towards some redeeming veracity,
Even if I never find my palace- in the meantime I shall keep on
Looking upward and forward and even if my dreams never do come true-
I know I can always continue to travel about the sky and I know that
I shall forever behold the splendor of the moon and always count upon the stars
To elucidate the direction upon which I travel and for always be my guiding lights…
poem by Claudia Krizay
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Peace And Propriety
in the name of propriety
to cats we must be cats too
you know what happens when
we show to the cats that we
are really dogs in feelings and
actions,
there will be a chase of course,
and chaos, and there will be war
and there will be losers and
winners,
and in this matter
and manner of speaking we choose
to be dogs to assure that we win
but that is not always the case
the cats have advanced in their feline
technology and breeding
so my dear, let us just be proper
to cats we shall be cats
and make this world a happy place
for all.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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When In Pain
when in pain
i prefer silence.
but i keep on writing.
and writing.
and writing.
and writing.
when in pain
i prefer always the silence
of the stars.
makes me feel like i am a star.
this silence, this pain.
when in silence, like the stars,
the pain gets too peaceful
like the stars
and then the pain subsides like
an ebbing tide
like an anger subsiding into
a still undisturbed mind
when i shine like a star
i remember the pain and it does not pain anymore.
silence kills the pain
like a distant star on a dark night like this one.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Poems About Poems About Poems
Poems about poems about poems-
More poems and more poems and more poems-
Poems poems poems poems poems-
How many poems?
How much poetry
Until there is no poetry at all?
But only 'words' and 'words' and 'words'
Until one goes far away
Where there was never a poem before-
And suddenly hears
“Let there be Light”.
And Poetry perhaps
Is born again.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Can A Person Ever Have Enough Of Poetry?
CAN A PERSON EVER HAVE ENOUGH OF POETRY?
Can a person ever have enough of Poetry?
Is there any end of making of Poems
For the true poet?
Can life really continue to the end
In true meaning through writing
Will I be given this great blessing by G-d
And all through my latter days
Feel in me a poetry
I need to say?
poem by Shalom Freedman
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The aged poet. For Kealan if
When he was young
and life was poetry
and poetry was life
and girls made poetry
in his heart
he’d showed his poems to
an aged poet who
was quiet a while then
nodded his head and
smiled and
said ‘keep writing’
and he swore that day
as long as he could hold a pen
he’d write some sort of poetry
and so he did and so he did
and when he was
too old to hold a pen
he spoke his poetry
some say in an Irish pub
and people came from miles around
and said sure it was a t’ousand times
better than to read his poems on the page
which was itself worth –
and that last phrase was poetry
for who is not Irish and a poet
and when he was too old
to walk down to the pub
they came and listened
at his door and at his window
and when he was too old to speak
they came to see his silence
and left as poets
for their head
had joined their heart
poem by Michael Shepherd
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The Third Xanor
coffee cannot help
it keeps me awake
but that is not enough
to conquer this
lousy feeling
tonight the ants
are busy carrying
the gifts
the lizards stare
at me
upside down
the window is open
i let the wind come in
to join me
in this loneliness
i sit staring the darkness
i turn off the light
there is no moon there
are no stars
the second pill of xanor
shall take me
to another true encounter
with you
you that i cannot defeat
nothing conquers you
this love, this surrender
this stupidity!
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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