Busy...
you body clock
does not tell time,
busy body, slimy fingers,
trembling hands,
wrecking nerves
fast tracking heart,
exploding ideas
killing boredom
it's been this way
since
nothing is written
the spirit is away
the body is left here
comatose
dreams like butterflies
hovering on some red flowers
heartless sounds of
discontent
fingers dissociated from hands
the eyes are closing
like closed computers
at 8 o'clock in the morning
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Limitations Of The Body...
sometimes i forget that i have a body
it is only when i eat that i remember i have one
but most of the times
i am full and so i almost forget all about this body
i am feeding it with wrong things
ideas, more ideas,
i am covering it with mysteries that it cannot relate because
a body is just a body
earthly, mundane
clay,
stick, creepy
skin, hair
sunken eyes,
trembling hands
it is flesh, bones, cartilages,
and
nerves, and when all these nerves take revenge on me
i shall finally lose this body
which i welcome somehow
because i have not experienced it yet
fully
i live in the mind,
my castle is in my imagination,
and i eat nothing for the day
but words
and i drink nothing for the day but ink
and i touch nothing for the day
but keys
the body is forgotten and so are my chains,
my prisons, my
dark rooms,
my body, this fetter,
this
ball and chain that hold me
in hunger and pain and
thirst and
constant urination,
disturbing
defecation
sometimes i like to become nothing but air
so you cannot see me anymore so i can go places and be lost forever
because i am not this body,
and i do not want to be caught in here
a little longer.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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When Time Clicks Upon A New Point Of View
if you think that poetry is free time,
that is, you only do it because you have nothing to do
you are wrong. It is at the top of the busy day
when pressure becomes too much
when you see the two hands of the clock
in a race
when not one hand knows how to stop
when it is about to have a broken knee
when the numbers become like
a gasoline meter
you stop a while
touch your neck
rub a little balm of balsam
or vick's vaporub
you massage what hurts
with the gentleness of your hands
you run your fingers
as though your vertebral column
is a piano
you make music now
so gently
you free your fingers from that tired body
face the monitor
free your mind
let loose the blue bird inside your mouth
and let it sing
now, you have it
it clicks
the words begin to come out
like hermit crabs from their borrowed houses
made of rugged shells
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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As They Dance
The heat rushed through her body
as she moved her body along side his
The movements were fast and breath taking
as they moved with the tempo of the music
His body bends back
as hers bends forward
His body bends forward
as hers bends back
Their bodies intertwined
as a vine on a wall
Their bodies move side to side
up and down
The music keeping the beat
as the danced
The stage lights dimmed to green
as they moved together
His hands run down her body
as she sways side to side
Her mouth open her eyes closed
his eyes on her body
He keeps his hands on her hips
as she ran her hands up his body to his face
Their lips met and their hearts raced
as the music stopped
poem by Bethany Maxwell
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Time To Change The Hands Again
I've turned my clock back once again.
My body says, 'What have you done? '
I was so peaceful yesterday.
I was in tune with the sun.
But the so-called time engineers must think
they've got it all figured out.
They will give you lots of reasons
of what it's all about.
Not one thing that they say to me
makes any sense at all.
People's and animal's biological clocks
are in synch with the rise and fall
of the sun, the moon and the stars at night,
not with the hands of a clock.
People who monkey around with time
have put my body in shock.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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A Dream Of The Flesh
we are in the river
naked
our bodies meet
like
one body
missing
another body
and the river
becomes
one warm
water
trickling down
our two bodies
body to body
flesh to flesh
hands
to hands and
arms entwine
like some
chains of
daisies
to our necks
this oneness
that we
finally make
eyes to eyes
closing
and lips to lips
searching
tongues
we dare
search
our souls
if they
are there
too
in this
fusion
for the
meantime
we have no time
to ask
the river
has no name
even
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Body To Body
Body, body, bo-bo-bo-body, body
Body to body
Body to body
Body to body
Nobody does it like you do
Body to body
I love the way you make me feel
When you do what youre doing to me, oh
Touching me the way you do, you know, know youve got to feel it too
When you bodys next to mine, youve got me hypnotized
Body to body
Body to body
You know I like the way you do what you do when you do it to me, oh
Body to body
Nobody does it like you do
Body to body
You know I like what you do when you do what you do to me, no
Oh, what you do
Flowing through this magic night
I love to feel you hold me tight
You are the one thats right for me
You got me feeling tingaly
Share the night with stars above
I think Ive found this thing called love
Fever running through your eyes
You are my heavenly device
Body to body
Body to body
Body to body nobody does it like you do
Body to body
You know I like what you do when you do what you do to me, no
Oh, what you do
You opened up the world to me
You changed my life so tenderly
I know you are the only one
Youre brighter than the burning sun
Dont know where youre going to
I dont care as long as Im with you
That certain sparkle in your eyes
Has got me feeling oh so high
Body to body
Body to body
Body to body
Body to body
I like what you do when you do all those things to me
Body to body....
song performed by by Gloria Estefan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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This is my body
This is my body that you see
It is beautiful carved by God’s hands
Smoothened by His breaths
You will love it and want to have it
To touch and caress
To be feasted upon by the hunger
Of your eyes and thirst of your lips
To be rubbed by the coldness of your body
Seeking the warmth of my flesh
This is my body that you will first see
But there is more in me than my body
This soul that seeks your soul
This beautiful soul that seeks the beauty of your soul
The hands of my spirit reaching out to your invisible hands
They have all for years been longing to clasp
My soul longing to be with your soul
So they can be together
To be fused with each other as one
To be happy and calm and perfect
To that final place where this body
Shies away because something more beautiful
Inside it shines and glows and becomes
So beautiful in all eternity
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Living
Slow bleak awakening from the morning dream
Brings me in contact with the sudden day.
I am alive – this I.
I let my fingers move along my body.
Realization warns them, and my nerves
Prepare their rapid messages and signals.
While Memory begins recording, coding,
Repeating; all the time Imagination
Mutters: You'll only die.
Here's a new day. O Pendulum move slowly!
My usual clothes are waiting on their peg.
I am alive – this I.
And in a moment Habit, like a crane,
Will bow its neck and dip its pulleyed cable,
Gathering me, my body, and our garment,
And swing me forth, oblivious of my question,
Into the daylight – why?
I think of all the others who awaken,
And wonder if they go to meet the morning
More valiantly than I;
Nor asking of this Day they will be living:
What have I done that I should be alive?
O, can I not forget that I am living?
How shall I reconcile the two conditions:
Living, and yet – to die?
Between the curtains the autumnal sunlight
With lean and yellow finger points me out;
The clock moans: Why? Why? Why?
But suddenly, as if without a reason,
Heart, Brain, and Body, and Imagination
All gather in tumultuous joy together,
Running like children down the path of morning
To fields where they can play without a quarrel:
A country I'd forgotten, but remember,
And welcome with a cry.
O cool glad pasture; living tree, tall corn,
Great cliff, or languid sloping sand, cold sea,
Waves; rivers curving; you, eternal flowers,
Give me content, while I can think of you:
Give me your living breath!
Back to your rampart, Death.
poem by Harold Monro
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The Urge The Longing For Satisfaction
to scratch an itch
to caress that which gives us pain
the fingers play a song
on the body on the hair
deep within
the lost purity of my soul
there is always the satisfaction
after the scratching of an itch
there is a smile on closed eyes
lips wet and body sweat
there is a dream
a fantasy somewhere
without you
my thoughts of you
my longing about what you are to me
there is in my body a black bird wanting to fly away
without you
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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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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How I Live...
there is another world
where my eyes sojourn like
a white yacht
anchoring for a while
while the storm to my
destination rages
this is the place of temporary
hiding
there is another world where my
hands permanently reside
it is a world of ropes and chains
where my fingers
are hindered from moving
from pointing
except to feel what my heart
desires
my eyes are too honest
they do what they want
they feast when they are hungry
my fingers are like nuns
in the monastery
my hands are the nunneries
on two worlds my body lives
balancing
the rope, the chains and the
pulpit
meanwhile, the confessional is
occupied
the sins revealed
to God in metaphors...
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Sunshine And Flowers And Your Way Of Loving
susnhine, spreading sunshine, warming my face
spreading this warm caress to my body, my shoulders,
bathe
take the basins of sunshine in the cups of your hands
feel
close your eyes and feel the sunshine falling in your hair
running to your ears
then open your eyes
to the blooms of flowers, the roses and daffodils in the garden
where a chair is there
where you sit
looking at me, beside you, bathing to sunshine, closing my eyes
feeling the warmth of the gazes of your eyes, the pulse of your wrist
the palm
your hands running
slowly all over me,
sunshine and hands and eyes closing
opening to dazzling color and closing again
to the thoughts of love
of you always loving me
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Moment After, a poem of Hiroshima
It’s strange, there was no pain.
The atom moves too fast for that.
It left my shadow on that wall,
There’s nothing else intact.
It’s strange to die so quickly
I had no time for fear.
Swept up, as in a rapture
Less than a leaf, more than a tear.
My conscious self dissolving
Like a sugar dropped in tea.
No body left to bury
You incinerated me.
Elsewhere in the city
They’ll unearth a murdered clock-
It’s hands forever frozen
on the moment I was not.
poem by John F. McCullagh
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Your Body Is A Wonderland
We got the afternoon
You got this room for two
One thing I've left to do
Discover me
Discovering you
One mile to every inch of
Your skin like porcelain
One pair of candy lips and
Your bubblegum tongue
And if you want love
We'll make it
Swim in a deep sea of blankets
Take all your big plans
And break 'em
This is bound to be a while
Your body Is a wonderland
Your body is a wonder (I'll use my hands)
Your body Is a wonderland
Something 'bout the way your hair falls in your face
I love the shape you take when crawling towards the pillowcase
You tell me where to go and
Though I might leave to find it
I'll never let your head hit the bed
Without my hand behind it
you want love?
We'll make it
Swim in a deep sea of blankets
Take all your big plans
And break 'em
This is bound to be a while
Your body Is a wonderland
Your body is a wonder (I'll use my hands)
Your body Is a wonderland
Damn baby
You frustrate me
I know you're mine all mine all mine
But you look so good it hurts sometimes
Your body Is a wonderland
Your body is a wonder (I'll use my hands)
Your body Is a wonderland
Your body is a wonderland
song performed by by John Mayer from Room For Squares
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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No Donovan.
Miss O’Toole moves in her
Broad bed. She scratches
Her behind to relieve an itch.
Tries to harness her dreams
But they run off like hound
Dogs into the fields of sleep.
She feels for Donovan. Her
Fingers move along the sheet.
Sunlight eases itself beneath
The lowered blind. She screws
Up her nose. Scratches the bridge.
Mouths words. Dreams scatter.
The alarm clock rings. Dances
Along the bedside top. She opens
Her eyes and captures the leaking
Inward light. Her fingers find no
Donovan. He has fled with dawn’s
Bright touch. She knows she loves
Him more than he loves her. He loves
Her body and that alone as such.
poem by Terry Collett
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A Complication
it is your eyes, the problem points
to the sensitivity of your eyes to
beauty, what is seen is always beautiful
and touch seems to be
not just the craving of the fingers
those hands keep on groping and
holding on to someone else's body
perfumed neck and soft white skin
poems that run all over a woman's body
and feeling what it takes to reach
the apex of the skies, revolting and
exploding, and bursting forth in the
so many hues, love oh love, love
on top of love, and love searching
for the perfect orgasmic affection,
what a night! ~`~ ~ ~
corrugated moans like an art of
wrought iron on the rails of the
upper floor, there the stars are kissing
the full moon and the sky is so silent
filled with understanding about love
and its erogenous doings, unbreaking...
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Read My Lips
verbal silence. read my lips.
if you see them.
read the words. read it here.
these words. read them like
flowers in the garden.
these words speak a little.
tips of the iceberg. They are less
compared to the color of my eyes
the warmth of my fingers
the suppressed beatings of my heart.
these words that you read.
if only you can see my lips.
if only you can see my face.
and body, naked on the flowing sheet of
pure paper. IF only you know
what silence means, how emptiness
eats it, if only you know how inferior
verbs and adjectives are
compared to the caresses of the hands
and the tenderness of the fingers,
touch.
read the lines silently.
these words do not shape my lips.
they come to your eyes.
in the silence of your understanding.
never shall they speak
about me. they only talk about
the hands that write sometimes
without any meaning at all.
infinitives are not infinite.
neither do verbs know what is it to be still.
and adjectives talk only about the surface.
deep under, the noise begins.
and silence of the verbs move to another side.
now, the mountains of ideas collapse
and bury the casualties of silence.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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That Sense of Going...
There is pain in the soul
it is invincible
the whole body feels it
and it is
undeniable
You know it when
you start to cease
you cannot tell it to anyone
what you tell them is the joy
of the smile
the stories of
the nice days to come
For you are afraid of the sound of the wailing of the clock
the sobbing of the bedsheets
the cries of the walls
the darkness of the heavens
the pouring of the heavy rain
You are their love
and they have become all your fears
but the hands of the clock
signal the green light of going
and so you must go
silently
you tiptoe like air beyond the threshold of the door
The next morning the pain in your soul is gone
it is taken from the strings of your body
you can see people crying but you cannot hear them
what is the use of this movie you ask yourself
there is no sound and it is boring
like an old Chaplin
and so you finally go
To a place where it is as tranquil as a bay without boats and birds
airy, and as they have promised you
perfect
beyond the arms of the words
beyond the lips of the mouth....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Face To Face
Run your fingers through my hair and softly kiss my lips
Hold me close in your embrace and love me face to face
Face to face heart to heart body to body
Tingling tangle feelings lovers face to face
Ill caress your body and hold you close to me
Ill slide my hands around your waist and love you face to face
Face to face heart to heart body to body
Lips on lips arm and arm body to body
Tingling tangle feelings lovers face to face
Softly say you love me as you make love to me
No one else can take your place we happen face to face
song performed by by Alabama
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Say Hallelujah
Say Hallelujah
Throw up your hands
The bucket is kicked
The body is gone
Close your eyes
And bow your head
To rest your soul
And to praise the dead
Say Hallelujah
Throw up your hands
The bucket is kicked
The body is gone
Dry your eyes
And stand upright
Put a smile on your face
He wouldnt want us to cry
The sun will rise
The stars will shine
Turning day to dusk
And night to dawn
Well pass on
But until that time
Say Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Say Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Say Hallelujah
Throw up your hands
The bucket is kicked
The body is gone
Have mercy
Its a wonderful life
Eternal rest for the weary
Mourners party tonight
Say Hallelujah
Throw up your hands
The bucket is kicked
The body is gone
Wave your hands
But dont say goodbye
Were all gonna meet you
On the other side
song performed by by Tracy Chapman
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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