Disturbance
fruit blender
beside a clear
glass of
drinking water
open bulb
behind the kitchen
door
door bell rings
the child runs towards
the middle
of the road
mother is turning
on the stove
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Related quotes
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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Open The Door - IV
Mom! Open the door
I have been waiting on the door
It is chilly cold, havn't sufficient clothes
Mom! please open the door
the sun is on head
may i get stroke
Mom! please open the door
Mom! open the door
it is raining cats and dogs
my clothes are fully drenched
Mom! please open the door
Don't be so truculent
I shalt be thy obedient son
Please open the door
poem by Ramesh Rai
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Let em In
Someones knockin at the door
Somebodys ringin the bell
Someones knockin at the door
Somebodys ringin the bell
Do me a favor,
Open the door and let em in
Sister suzie, brother john,
Martin luther, phil and don,
Brother michael, auntie gin,
Open the door and let em in.
Someones knockin at the door
Somebodys ringin the bell
Someones knockin at the door
Somebodys ringin the bell
Do me a favor,
Open the door and let em in.
song performed by by Paul McCartney
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Omaha
Start tearing the old man down
Run past the heather and down to the old road
Start turning the grain into the ground
Roll a new leaf over
In the middle of the night there's an old man
Treading around in the gathered rain
Hey mister if you want to walk on water
Would you drop a line my way
Omaha
Somewhere in middle America
Get right to the heart of matters
It's the heart that matters more
I think you'd better turn your ticket in
And get your money right at the door
Start threading the needle
Brush past the shuttle that slides through the cold room
Start turning the wool across the wire
Roll the new life over
In the middle of the night there's an old man
Threading his toes through a bucket of rain
Hey mister if you want to walk on water
You're only going to walk all over me
Omaha
Somewhere in middle America
Get right to the heart of matters
It's the heart that matters more
I think you'd better turn your ticket in
And get your money right at the door
Start running the banner down
Drop past the color come up through the summer rain
Start turning the girl into the ground
Roll a new life over
In the middle of the day there's a young man
Rolling around in the earth and rain
Hey mister if you're going to walk on water
song performed by by Counting Crows from August And Everything After
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Small Elegy
My friends have left. Far away, my darling is asleep.
Outside, it's as dark as pitch.
I'm saying words to myself, words that are white
in the lamplight and when I'm half-asleep I begin
to think about my mother. Autumnal recollection.
Really, under the cover of winter, it's as if I know
everything---even what my mother is doing now.
She's at home in the kitchen. She has a small child's stove
toward which the wooden rocking horse can trot,
she has a small child's stove, the sort nobody uses today, but
she basks in its heat. Mother. My diminutive mom.
She sits quietly, hands folded, and thinks about
my father, who died years ago.
And then she is skinning fruit for me. I am
in the room. Sitting right next to her. You've got to see us,
God, you bully, who took so much. How
dark it is outside! What was I going to say?
Oh, yes, now I remember. Because
of all those hours I slept soundly, through calm
nights, because of all those loved ones who are deep
in dreams---Now, when everything's running short,
I can't stand being here by myself. The lamplight's too strong.
I am sowing grain on the headland.
I will not live long.
poem by Jirí Orten
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World Behind a Door
The door creeps open to expose
A world that is unknown to most.
Maybe a child's dream or an adult's
wish finally coming reality, Whatever
The reason for the door appearing
Still startly us all and the answer
Will always remain unknown.
Behind the door lies a world
That could never be imagined.
The sky is an outstanding blue.
This world has water that is clear
And the air is warm and comfortable.
The world behind the door brings
Peace when someone visits it.
Worries and fears slip away
when in the beautiful world.
It never storms and no one
Ever feels the pain that
our world can afflict on us.
It would be a dream to find
The world past the magical door.
To feel nothing but happiness
And to feel yourself smile again
Would make you feel free in
The beautiful world behind the door.
Find the world behind the door
And see for yourself.
poem by Tracey Wynn
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Let My Love Open The Door
Pete Townshend) (various dates)
The people keep repeatin'
The children follow along
Everybody keeps from changin'
And you could say you did enough...
Let my love open your door... (3x)
To your heart...
Let my love open the door (2x)
When everything feels all over
Everybody seems unkind
I'll give you a four-leaf clover
Take all worries out of your mind
Let my love open your door... (3x)
To your heart...
Let my love open the door...
To your heart...
Let my love open the door...
Have the only key to your heart...
I can stop you from fallin' apart
Tried to say in my own way...
Somebody give me the chance to say...
Let my love open your door...
It's all I'm lookin' for
And erase yourself from misery
There's only one thing that's gonna set you free...
When trouble really falls you...
Don't let it tie you down
Love can cure your problems
You're so lucky I'm around
Let my love open your door... (3x)
To your heart...
Let my love open the door...
To your heart...
Let my love open the door... (5x)
Oh...to your heart...
Oh...baby, I know I said, I said, I said, I said, I said, I said...
...I said, I said, I said, I said, I said, I said...
Oh...na na na...let my love open the door...
Let my love... (2x
song performed by by Pearl Jam
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Song: XI
Mother, mother, do you not hear?
Mother, they come; there is news to tell!
– Give me your hands, my daughter dear:
'Tis but a ship that saileth well.
Mother dear, have a care, give heed!
–They go, my daughter, away they speed.
Mother, the danger is sore, alas!
– Child, my child, it will quickly pass.
Mother, mother, She draweth near!
– It is down in the harbour, daughter dear.
Mother, mother, She opens the door!
– Child, they go, to return no more.
Mother, She enters! I am afraid!
– Child, they now have the anchor weighed.
Mother, I hear Her speaking low.
– Child, my child, it is they that go.
Mother, She makes the stars go dark!
– Child, 'tis the sails of a shadowy bark.
Mother, She knocks at the casement still!
– Child, maybe it is fastened ill. . . .
Mother, mother, my sight grows dim. . . .
– Child, they sail for the open sea.
On every hand I can hear but Him. . . .
– O child, what is it, and who is He?
poem by Maurice Polydore-Marie-Bernard Maeterlinck
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The Secret Door
The Mystery
Nadia, gentle zephyr of remembrance, where are you now?
In my mother’s flat there were three doors, the first door,
with an old fashion copper handle, often slammed in anger.
The second door into mother’s bed room was never closed,
but covered with a dark curtain. A small flat I slept on a sofa
in the living room.
There was a third door, from her bedroom into the kitchen.
Sometimes when mother was out, I tried to open it but it was
always locked. There were nights when I wasn’t sure if awake
or not, the locked door opened as a sigh of ancient dreams.
Dawn, I heard the faint sound again, but I was too terrified to
know the truth of what I wasn’t sure of
Morning, mother got up boiled water poured it into a bowl so
I could wash my face. Breakfast, slices of yesterday’s loaf with
strawberry jam and milky coffee. I wanted to know of the sighs
in the night, but sensed it was forbidden to ask.
Time has many doors some will be forever locked, so I ask?
Nadia, gentle zephyr of remembrance, where are you now?
poem by Oskar Hansen
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An event to recall on Mother's Day - That mother is no one other than me
Summer evening
Sun still harsh
Me, then fourteen
My mother's younger sister
Came forward to tell
A story about a mother
Mumbai, then Bombay
Highrise residential quarters
Fourth floor
Big Hall
Two big bed rooms
Two baths
Big kitchen
Grill-less windows
Free flow of air
Lot natural light
A mother in the kitchen
Preparing food
For her husband
And their three sons
The youngest about two years old
Left on the kitchen table
Mother being busy around
The child not seen now
Mother realised just then
Would have slipped
Across the open window
She was right
The child has fallen
But on the sun shade
About four feet below
Her two year old son
On an open sun shade
Not less than forty feet
Above the ground level
No time to lose
No time waiting for help
From outside
Mother too slowly
Slipped about four feet onto the
Just two feet wide sun shade
Picked up the child
Put him onto the kitchen work table
Managed to climb back to her kitchen
I was thrilled
I was to ask a number of questions
One important being
Is the mother is so courageous
My aunt finished telling
That mother is no one other than me
And that son is no one other than
My third son
Both that mother and son
Are safe, living and active
poem by Bashyam Narayanan
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A glimpse
a glimpse
the half opened door
some would say
a half closed door
it all depends on the
state of mind you are in
well half closed for pessismist
and half opened for optimist
half opened or half closed door
so long as it is open
and not close
a good exercise for the mind
of a story teller, novelist, a film maker
a glimpse at the half closed door
the mind is thrown open
like the kick you would give
a half opened door
so that you and pet cat could
glide through easily
the stories that start coming out
from a glimpse at the half opened door
agatha's murdered corpse lying behind
a stalker, a ghost in the corridor of the mind
from the glimpse of the half closed door
a million possibilities, ideas pouring forth
half closed door, half opened door
whichever way you may say
it is an opened door
a million stories, ideas, possibilities
knock at the door of my mind
a glimpse of the half closed, half opened door
my half closed half opened eyes
open themselves to my ever curious mind
boundless as the universe
inspired by
A Glimpse
A GLIMPSE, through an interstice caught,
Of a crowd of workmen and drivers in a bar-room, around the stove,
late of a winter night-And I unremark'd seated in a corner;
Of a youth who loves me, and whom I love, silently approaching, and
seating himself near, that he may hold me by the hand;
A long while, amid the noises of coming and going-of drinking and
oath and smutty jest,
There we two, content, happy in being together, speaking little,
perhaps not a word.
Walt Whitman
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Mother Of A Miners Child
She is my flower
And she blooms for the one who loves her best
The miners stop to watch as she walks
They know her love is not for sale
She will never fail me cause I know
I watch her grow
And the mother of a miners child
Waits for me beside the kitchen door
She is my light
In this place where the darkness never ends
Shell guide me where the tunnels twist and bend
Shes the only one who listens when I tell her
I got less than I can spend
She knows the pace
Oh mother of a miners child
Was away the coal dust from my face
When the night shifts done
Shell be waiting by the table when I come
Searchin for another dream to chase
Oh mother of a miners child
I know that you still think about the day
When well be movin on
Remember dear old daddy and
The promise that I made to carry on
Sometimes I smile
In the cage where the cables softly hum
Id curse that old straw boss to the bone
But the mother of a miners child
Is waiting for her paycheck to come home
Come saturday
And he is just a miners boy
I hope that he will find a better way
She is my flower
And she blooms for the one who loves her best
The miners stop to watch as she walks
They know her love is not for sale
She will never fail me cause I know
I watch her grow
And the mother of a miners child
Waits for me beside the kitchen door
song performed by by Gordon Lightfoot
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Walking Bell
A CHILD refused to go betimes
To church like other people;
He roam'd abroad, when rang the chimes
On Sundays from the steeple.
His mother said: "Loud rings the bell,
Its voice ne'er think of scorning;
Unless thou wilt behave thee well,
'Twill fetch thee without warning."
The child then thought: "High over head
The bell is safe suspended--"
So to the fields he straightway sped
As if 'twas school-time ended.
The bell now ceas'd as bell to ring,
Roused by the mother's twaddle;
But soon ensued a dreadful thing!--
The bell begins to waddle.
It waddles fast, though strange it seem;
The child, with trembling wonder,
Runs off, and flies, as in a dream;
The bell would draw him under.
He finds the proper time at last,
And straightway nimbly rushes
To church, to chapel, hastening fast
Through pastures, plains, and bushes.
Each Sunday and each feast as well,
His late disaster heeds he;
The moment that he bears the bell,
No other summons needs he.
poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
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Doors
A door may open
Or it may close
It may be wooden
Or steel, I suppose.
A door keeps us in
Or may lock us out,
A door may be silent
Or with noise, may shout.
Doors are for safety,
Our protection -
May rot in antiquity
Lose purpose and mission.
A door like chance,
Can open a dream.
A door like romance,
Can cause some steam.
But there is one door
With its key - never part,
Freely open, evermore -
The door of your heart!
Cynthia BuhainBaello
February 19,2012
poem by Cynthia Buhain-Baello
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This House Is Not A Home
Policemen kindly stay away
Unless of course you wish to pay.
Hey ho mother runs a knocking shop.
The girls are bravely standing to
But not long for the likes of you.
Hey ho mother runs a house.
Horizontal is the game
But the cost may cause you strain
Hey ho mother makes the rules.
Politician lawyer priest
True the nature of the beast.
Hey ho mother runs them through.
They scorn your hide but not your money
And still you come like flies to honey.
Hey ho mother knows the score.
The house tom cat is not entire
The only male who sleeps around this open fire.
Hey ho mother cures all pain.
Management types prefer the lash
The ladies take their lumps in cash.
Hey ho mother’s watching you.
Customers needn’t watch the door
Only the girls bother the law.
Hey ho mother knows the score.
Hang your clothes up in the closet
But don’t forget to bring your wallet.
Hey ho mother drinks her tea.
Love them now or love them never
Cash or credit card gets it together.
Hey ho mother washes the cups.
Lighter by far now your hoard
Ladies try not to show you’re bored.
Hey ho mother feeds the cat.
Leave to call another day
If you’re lucky you won’t hear what they say.
Hey ho mother shuts the door.
poem by Thomas Golding
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A Little Disturbed
at 2: 01 in the morning
you switch on the light
a little bit dim
not to hurt your eyes
and you get out of bed
naked
you open the door
towards the kitchen
and get a glass of water
you drink
you want to satisfy thirst
wetting your tongue
and gargling the coldness
swallowing it gently
feeling this creeping
coldness to your
throat down
to your abdomen
something is burning
inside
and the water is
not killing it
you sit and think
a while and stare
at the light
there is nothing there
except the glare
now you wonder
sleep is still nowhere
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Sestina
September rain falls on the house.
In the failing light, the old grandmother
sits in the kitchen with the child
beside the Little Marvel Stove,
reading the jokes from the almanac,
laughing and talking to hide her tears.
She thinks that her equinoctial tears
and the rain that beats on the roof of the house
were both foretold by the almanac,
but only known to a grandmother.
The iron kettle sings on the stove.
She cuts some bread and says to the child,
It's time for tea now; but the child
is watching the teakettle's small hard tears
dance like mad on the hot black stove,
the way the rain must dance on the house.
Tidying up, the old grandmother
hangs up the clever almanac
on its string. Birdlike, the almanac
hovers half open above the child,
hovers above the old grandmother
and her teacup full of dark brown tears.
She shivers and says she thinks the house
feels chilly, and puts more wood in the stove.
It was to be, says the Marvel Stove.
I know what I know, says the almanac.
With crayons the child draws a rigid house
and a winding pathway. Then the child
puts in a man with buttons like tears
and shows it proudly to the grandmother.
But secretly, while the grandmother
busies herself about the stove,
the little moons fall down like tears
from between the pages of the almanac
into the flower bed the child
has carefully placed in the front of the house.
Time to plant tears, says the almanac.
The grandmother sings to the marvelous stove
and the child draws another inscrutable house.
poem by Elizabeth Bishop
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Life Will Still Taste Sweet
We all dance slower
In the evening’s soft twilight.
We are required as human beings
To gracefully transition ourselves
Into ever-changing realities.
In moments of meditation,
One can see and communicate
With all the people he’s been
Or yet will be:
As I wade in the water
Of my middle years,
I must still reassure my inner child
That his beautiful innocence is protected,
And my inner child reassures
The future old man
That when the days come
When his hands will shake
Drinking a glass of water,
That life will somehow still taste sweet.
poem by Uriah Hamilton
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Ring My Bell! !
Open and close,
Ring my bell! !
Open my door and,
Close the door;
Outside,
Inside,
Muse,
Fuse!
But, ring my bell always for me to attend to you.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Modern Day Agnostic
he hears the church bell
ring
early this morning
he hears the footsteps
passing
by his door
going
on a worship
towards
the holy door
he keeps himself
mum
unmoved by any
invitation
he is thinking
will the door still open for him?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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