Always, After Something, Comes A Void
always, after something is done,
a word written
on paper, filling in the blank sheet
with something, there is always that
void, which comes next, asking
why? and telling you
there is still something left out there
and you must look for it
a pin? a button, or a lock of hair
things getting smaller
than your nail and you
try to voice it out
tonight? No. Tomorrow morning.
No. At dawn when everything is
silent and you have all the power
to think, and grope and
dig and crawl into the recesses
of your brain.
write me, write me, i am almost
dead. Says the letters scattered
on your bed.
you want to sleep. They fly like
fireflies above your face
and they dance in circles.
you are tired. Your eyes
close like the rock that
kept the dead body
of Christ.
yes. at 3 a.m. again.
leave me.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Blank Page Blues
I know we have all done it,
sat in front of a pristine white sheet of paper
and got ready to write something down,
and then we are confronted
with the blank page blues.
The words of inspiration
then scurry and hide away.
You are left with pen in hand,
scratching your head
wondering what to say.
There is no cure for this syndrome;
writers get it all the time.
Some call it a writer’s block,
when nothing comes into your head.
You sit in front of a blank page.
You know what you want to write,
then someone disturbs you
and the words disappear out of sight.
How many times have we had that?
We sit down to write our masterpiece
and the telephone rings,
or someone shouts your dinner is getting cold.
You feel like screaming,
but you take it on the chin.
You lay down your pen,
answer the phone or have your dinner,
and when you come back,
the blank page confronts you.
Still you cannot write anything on it.
You stare at it for hours,
until finally you get tired
and journey off to bed.
Hoping and hoping tomorrow
a little peace, it will bring
and your words on that blank page
will really begin to sing.
10 May 2008
poem by David Harris
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A sensual scribble
I was the scribe who woke up at dawn
Finding a clean sheet of paper
And this glossy sort of ballpoint pen
Having the urge to write
Something sensual
My fingers spread the paper
On this table
Where there is so much disorder
Some paper clips and
Floppy discs scattered
Scotch tapes and mail openers
And some still unopened mails
That I did not mind
Not my priority
I was into something sensual
On this clean sheet of paper
On an urge to write
Grabbed this glossy sort of ballpoint pen
And start scribbling
Some lovely head notes
“My dear darling”
Careful strokes in curves
Sliding on paper
My fingers are wildly
Caressing to the shapes of
Sensual letters and words
And breathtaking sentences
“You know that you make me
Hot and you make me wild
And I always remember you”
And I am at the middle
Of so much longing
Using such letters
U and I
And w and e
Lots of ohs and ahs
And s and e and x
L and o and v and e
To make sense
Without pretense
Some exclamations
And pauses of commas and
Semicolons spread on some
Corners of this paper
With so much
Unstoppable anticipation
Somewhere in the center
I pierced this paper
With this glossy ballpoint pen
Writing something
Emphatic
Clinching
And I was at the height
Of my desiring and
So much liking
Something ecstatic
And calming
At the end
It was a beautiful piece
Of a scribble
Written at dawn
And I wrote at the end part there
“With all my love I remain
Your faithful slave”
And a postscript at the tip
Of my tongue
Written with a nip
“When will I see you again? ”
The letter shall be mailed at once
She will understand that pierce
Somewhere at the center something
That was ecstatic and she will remember
Every letter every word was an ember embedded.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Paper And Pen
Paper and pen
Trying to write a song again
Paper and pen
Paper and pen
Paper and pen
Trying to write a song again
Paper and pen
Paper and pen
Can’t think of anything to say today
Can’t think of anything to do
Can’t think of anything to play today
Minds gone blank
Leaving me here, just sitting here
Listening to my hair grow
Paper and pen
Paper and pen
And I look towards you
For an inspiration or a word or two
I try but I find
Every road only leads me back to these lines
Paper and pen
Paper and pen
Paper and pen
Piano, guitar
I try but don't get very far
Paper and pen
Piano, guitar
Paper and pen
Trying to write a song again
Paper and pen
Paper and pen
Copyright Colin Coplin 1985 / 2010
poem by Colin Coplin
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A Poem Written By A Confessed Bipolar (her Name To Be Revealed Upon Her Permission)
I write because I can
I write because there are so many things to be written.
I write because I can make a painting without a brush and paints in my hand.
I write because I can capture the moment without having a camera.
I write because letters and words are the only recipe I know how to cook.
I write because I want to read what I’ve written.
I write because I’m used to speak in silence.
I write because I have a story to tell.
I write because I want to strip off my flesh and live as a pure being.
I write because I can record my “voice” without having a recorder.
I write because it’s like a cup of coffee, it keeps me awake
I write because I want to live even when I do not exist.
I write because this is my throwing stones when I’m frustrated.
6/11/09 at 4: 42 PM
I write because I can flaunt my being when I don’t have clothes to show off.
I write because this is like making an encyclopedia to a coloring book.
I write because it’s more effective than my lithium medication.
I write because I’m tired of carrying these baggages on the road.
I write because I’m tired of talking too much.
I write because it’s a healthier diversion than smoking.
I write because it’s more therapeutic than analyzing my problem.
I write because I want to paint a thousand pictures with words.
I write because I can put colors to the letters and make a rainbow of words.
I write because it’s the key combinations to my hidden vaults.
I write because my ball pen is my best friend in the darkest nights.
I write because it surprises me with what I am capable of thinking&doing. 6/11/09 at 4: 43 PM
I write because I like that ideas are popping like pop corns.
I write because I can wander in the adventures of my own world.
I write because I have to cleanse my collection of memories of an old home.
I write because like a mirror you need to do a lot of reflections.
I write because I want to fight the battle of life.
I write because I wanted my little voice to be heard.
I write because I want to run from the insanities of the world.
I write because pictures don’t talk.
I write because it helps me connect the dots when I look back in my life.
I write because it brings me back to my crib of silence.
I write because it makes a buzz to other bees in my beehive.
I write because unlike my bike my destination is limitless.
I write because I want to become an inspiration without extinction 6/11/09 at 4: 43 PM
I write because like strumming of the guitar, it vibrates in my soul.
I write because I love to write.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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To be a writer
They say, when you have nothing to say
Do not say anything
They say when you have nothing good to say
Do not say anything
He is not convinced
He wants to be a writer and to be one he must write
What is in his mind
To be a writer he must write and write and write
Even when there is nothing to write
Even when there is nothing to say even when nobody listens
Even when the word is dead even when there is no sense at all
Even when he gets blind and deaf and mute even when his fingers are cut even when his mind is blank even when his consciousness is lost
Even when you are angry even when you say what is written is nothing
But trash, dung, cadaver, corpse, poo, pee, even when there is nothing
Anymore,
He writes because he is a writer and no one can stop him now.
he is
he is writing
he is writing always
he is writing always whatever that needs to be written
and here you are foolishly reading. thanks to you, audience of one.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Blank Sheet Of Paper
I'm just a blank sheet of paper
This fool's about to write you a letter
To tell you that he's sorry
For the way he did you wrong
To ask for forgiveness
For leaving you alone
He's been looking down at me seems like forever
he takes the top on and off his pen
It's like he can't decide
Just what he wants to say
If he'd just tell the truth
I'd be on my way
Chorus
But he just stares at me
And i just stare at him
He don't know where to start
To say he doesn't want it to end
And now it's one hour later (four hours later)
I am still a blank sheet of paper
Sunlight is shining through the curtains
He's almost asleep pen in hand
There's a tear in his eye
That refuses to fall
If it would land on me
That would say it all
Repeat Chorus
And he just stares at me
And i just stare at him
He don't know where to start
To say he wants it back again
And now one broken heart later
I am still a Blank sheet of paper
song performed by by Tim McGraw
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Blank Mocking Paper
I stare at this paper so white
I just don't know what's so right
I want to write on it
I would love to write a sonnet
I just am alone with the green lines
The red now just starts to shine
Blank as my mind is this sheet
Please can my pen and it just meet
Instead of me sitting here dumbstruck
As if I almost got hit by a truck
Ink blue as the sky not writing
Instead on its end I keep biting
I don't want to right about a caper
So I’ll just stare at this Blank Mocking Paper
poem by Zachary Clark
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Dear wife
I work so hard
I have no time for supper, breakfast, and dinner
Got a cracker and a noodle
A little solid a little hot liquid Are enough since I need a lot of time
Before my computer And this is non-stop working for the whole day
My cell phone is on silent mode and I cannot open it
I work the whole day, concentrated and straight It is eleven o’clock in the evening I arrive in the house and you say a lot of things I do not care anymore as I drag my dead tired body Towards the room and eyes half-closed I almost stepped upon your expensive porcelain vase
I lay on bed my shoes and sock still on my feet I did know anything since then Dead tired I am dead asleep.
If you are unhappy and do not like me
Find the man who is not tired, just leave me I am dead asleep.
i am just your loving husband, tomorrow i will still be your loving husband, yes tomorrow, even if you decided to go away.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Blank Page
Blank Page
This new blank page, a word processor page, I cannot touch. I ought to leave it this
way, just look at it and dream of what I could have written on it. If I delet the words
I have written now, it will be blank again, no history, no crumbled up sheet of paper
in the wastebasket. For now it is too late but I might erase it when I come to an end.
My wife was in Johannesburg once for surgery, being born in Congo but light skinned
and travelling on a Portuguese passport, she boarded a bus for the blacks.
Great consternation, she was told by police to go on the white only bus since she
was Portuguese. Racism and anti Semitism are so stupid, it makes no sense, one race
thinks it is superior to others. Now it is the Moslems who are feeling the surge
of ignorance. We want them to be more like us and not Insist of doing their own things.
In Israel, for instance the European Jews feel vastly superior to Arab Jews, This in a state
that is an artificial construct. The culture of Europe in the Middle East. We know Israel,
as it exist today must come to an end. So there I said it, this white virtual sheet has been
befouled by an opinion no one wants to know about. So what do I do know? Erase this
page so it is blank again and I can write about the moon?
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Scribbler's Stymie
Pen and paper in sight
I've got no poem to write
Staying up all night
I've got no poem to write
Although my mind is bright
I've got no poem to write
It's windy out tonight, should I go fly a kite?
I've got no poem to write
My ceiling, it is white
I've got no poem to write
It's 4: 59! Five, but not quite
I've got no poem to write
In your arms I'd feel so light
I've got no poem to write
I've had no sleep tonight
I've got no poem to write
Will you just hold me tight?
I've got no poem to write
Outside it's almost light
I've got no poem to write
It's late, off goes my light
I've got no poem to write
poem by Julia Grace
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Ecstacy In An Orgasmic Poem
a poem too can be male and female
the way we want it
i write it upon your urging
you say you are lonely and you have no one
to trust or to speak or to sleep with
you are vacant and blank and empty
you are crying all alone and you wipe your tears
in the silence of the four corners of your room
you open up a need. and i am there to fill it up.
i am silent too. and i know when to stand and when to sit
upon your gentle command.
you ask for a poem about love. i write it.
you want something harder. you want me to dance the
dance of lust. i comply.
i write a poem about an orgasm of words.
an ecstasy buried on some free verses.
i bow down to your urges. you too bow down before me.
as i uncover what wraps me, what encloses me.
we open up like flowers shedding off leaves.
we face the reality that we are big enough to understand
the power of ejaculation and the receptacles of orgasm.
we look at each other eye to eye only to close our eyes again.
then our mouths fuse. everything fuse. Interlocking.
and then it rains. we take shelter in each other's arms.
we live again. we throw away all the sighs. we have become one.
the gods find us and they are filled with what they once felt too.
there are no words possible.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Dead Rock Star
(feat. The Stooges)
They think that I've got the bread
They want to read my head
The position show his cool
Like football star in school
Someone to sell me
Someone to tell me
I'm a dead rock star
in a dead rock car
I'm a dead rock star
I'm so afraid of failing
I hang onto the railing
This cold hard graduation
Kills all infatuation
I took the hazing
They said "amazing"
I'm a dead rock star
in a dead rock car
I'm a dead rock star
I gathered awful knowledge
You cannot get in college
Would you like Cain or Abel
I'll bring them to the table
They try to rope me
They try to grope me
I'm a dead rock star
in a dead rock car
I'm a dead rock star
What can I hope for ?
What can I hope for ?
Nothing to live for
Nothing to live for
I'm a dead rock star
in a dead rock car
I'm a dead rock star
song performed by by Iggy Pop
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Just A Blank Page In Front Of Me
I sit here at my desk
trying to figure out a line to write,
inspiration seems to have deserted me tonight.
I hear no strings of love;
feel no emotions deep,
just a blank paper in front of me.
Each word I write seems to stop there,
no further words follow.
I’m in despair.
What happed to the happy words I want to write,
the feelings I want to express?
Gone I’m afraid for tonight.
Let us hope they return
at tomorrows dawning light.
poem by David Harris
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I Write Happiness Too, Once
happy lines
they come dancing
and singing
inside my paper
but soon
happiness
gets boring too
like
a bubble gum
in my tongue
then i write
about despair
tears
wetting my paper
and
blank stares
drying them
and i pretend
i am lost
to make things
more melodramatic
but soon
despair gets boring
too and
we get tired of each
other
we decided to split
despair and i
i and happiness
well, i learned
about feelings
now i decided
to write the truth
about existence
beyond feelings
i become
one observation tower
and you become planes
and passengers
and fields and clouds
and empty skies
just to see and write
without me
having any involvement
yes, the phenomenon
unfolding and here i am
plainly seeing all of them
and you and them and everything
and it will keep on going
till the end when my eyes close and cannot
therefore see.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Half Full
I'll write these words.
I'll write more tomorrow.
Will they be read by anyone,
does it matter either way?
I am reading them,
and that goes to prove that they've been written,
that my mind is not blank.
I have sympathy for the blank-minded people.
Although I'm sure,
they would sympathize with me...
if only their minds were not blank,
And they weren't just content to be.
poem by Edward Veilleux
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I Write And Write And Cannot Write
I write and write and cannot write
Tiredness overwhelms me
To begin the day at three in the morning is not always wise
Nonetheless I write and write
But I cannot really write
I am just barely typing on-
Perhaps the morning will come soon
And I will wake
But for now I am tired too tired to write.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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The ugly human face
Wailing with tears and
Helplessly in commotion,
All of you’re telling to write
The history of hatred, enmity, killings,
The history of human ugly face.
My pen is dried up,
Tell me in which medium,
And language should I write.
Where to begin and
Where to end
Such history of human ugly face.
Oh! Betrayer
You’re telling me to wipe out from the history
Of such human ugly face,
That shattered and shook human conscience,
That haunts the face of those innocent people,
Killed and hurt; widows and orphans.
That hums: that reminds.
Telling me just to close my eyes.
But I’m not blind.
Telling me not to speak,
But I’m not dumb.
Telling me not to write the truth,
But I cannot write anything but the truth.
How can I deceive the history where I belong?
Human memory is short,
Tears would dry up,
The blood would be washed away with time
But the silent words, written in the heart of each human ugly face
Imbedded forever and immortal.
Let me dip the pen in the smeared blood,
The blood of all religions, caste, creed and colour, poor and rich,
The thick blood of those innocent persons.
poem by Dr.bhagya Chandra Rajkumar
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The time I discovered myself a Poet
I wouldnt say I was patient
but I have an interest in poetry
Is it the dawning of a new error
or will the sky be grey
I write how I see life and it is not always pleasant
I like to write abou experiences that I have been through
my poetry has changed as I ave changed
I see it as a hobby as I write in my grange
My poetry is mainly fiction but I also write about things that are true
I am not a person that would share alot of enthusiasim
poetry is a work of art
on each sheet of blank paper
I put my mark
Poetry is simple in this world of sin
I am not into shakesphere
what I write is authentic
the imagination on paper creates magic
a poem can change an atmosphere
I would like to say my poems mean something
my poems are meant to sting a mind
I want my poems to create pictures for people who are blind
poem by Natasha Browne
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Do not read my poems…. [for YOU ]
Do not read my poems…
After I am dead
As a lament, a wail
An elegy, a requiem
Do not read my poems…
After I am gone
When no more I can
Hear your velvet voice.
Do not read my poems…
Alone without me
To comment along
And read with you
But, do read my poems
When I beside you lie
With my head resting
On your supporting arm
Listening to you read
In whisper, in kisses
In silence, in love
In sleep, in dream
Watching you feel
Every word I wrote
I’ll close my eyes - Love
Brush aside my hair
With your breathe
Which half veils my face
Sleepless fevered I wrote
Read me my poems
Now sing me a lullaby
Rock me to sleep
On your broad chest
Diving into your eyes
A thousand times
I am refreshed
By your smile
I’ll write on you a poem
Traced by my fingertips
To be etched in your heart
And burnt into your soul!
So, do not read my poems…
poem by Angelina Pandian
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I Wish Life Were Like It
when i was a child
mama would give me a blank sheet
of paper where i can draw lines and circles
where my imagination runs
unstopped like it were the wind
blowing anywhere
all colors swirl and figures of angels
and fairies and castles and horses are drawn &
after a while all these become too
crowded inside the four corners
of the large white sheet
and then tired of such figures and lines and
circles and colors crowding on that large white sheet
i decided to take it away and
crumple it and throw it on the waste basket
and i would tell mama that i am taking
another blank sheet for my use
and she says 'It's alright'
I wish my life were like it. Something that i can
change the moment i do not like it.
Something to crumple and throw when
necessity dictates it.
And then i take another for good start.
I wish it were like that. But simply said,
it isn't.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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