Drool, Etcetera....
when you wake up this morning you rush yourself
on the usual
many things to do
but never completely done
but just the same
you keep on doing it
like opening windows, closing doors,
mopping floors, washing underwear,
brushing teeth,
etcetera
now you are working
the table offers you the menu for the stress of the day
you count them
and start at
the first file,
etcetera the clock even if you do not mind it
keeps on ticking,
nothing unusual really,
you keep on thinking and writing notes and then
making conclusions
affecting the life of other people
they become simply case numbers
and usual names,
nothing extraordinary really
etcetera
you stop, make some sighs, breathe,
stand, sit, lay your head on the sofa,
and think,
etcetera
this world is black and white,
there are no more rainbows, the rains are cats and dogs
the little shower is gone,
the slowness of beauty is murdered,
the strip teasing of something that your mind coddles
and fondles
takes time,
the unfolding of the flower is choked,
the buds are nipped,
births are scraped,
off,
and on,
push and pull,
that is the language i learn from you,
etcetera,
etcetera
i did not invent it,
we say it when we do not know
what follows next
etcetera
life.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Related quotes
Intergalactic Radio Station
Ive, seen things..
..so many things that you cant believe.
Past designs, future designs,
Cables in the bend.
Second-hand sounds,
Future sounds,
Synthesised dialogues.
Incomprehenseble software.
Hi jon, lets break some rules!
Here comes the sun.
Were doing some recordings later
Same ol factory you know
Heres some names for you,
polyester landscape,
Nylon oxygen,
Ashes to concrete.
Etcetera.....etcetera....
Etcetera.....
Oh, by the way,
Its been a beautiful morning,
What a morning,
Great morning,
Its a great moring man.
song performed by by Vangelis
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Ennui
when you want to
refuse to think
when you
want to stop
doing anything
yet you cannot
because
you are still
alive
and there
is no way
that you
can refrain
from living
this and that
etcetera
endless etcetera
keeping
yourself
busy for
nothing
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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… about Love
Everything about Love is fascinating;
Love at first sight; love that lasts forever;
Love that kills: winter, fall, summer and spring.
Everything about Love has an element of fever
In it: the anger, the rage, the jealousy,
The scorn, the disgust, the dishonesty,
The deception … etcetera, etcetera.
It is a timing bomb that can explode at the blink
An eye, or implode momentarily at the crank
Of a gun. Love can be unexpectedly deadly,
Beautiful, joyful, sweet … etcetera, etcetera.
Everything about Love is controversial:
The lazy days of summer on the boardwalk,
And the romantic promenade in the park.
Everything about Love is exceptional:
The beauty of the kissing and hugging swans,
And the tenderness of caressing hands.
Everything about Love is beyond words:
The lilies at springtime, the singing birds
During the summer, the ice-skating children
During the wintry season, and in autumn,
The dead leaves in the Garden of Eden.
Everything about Love is beyond words.
Everything about Love can be either sane
Or insane. Love can be fascinating,
Controversial, exceptional, and disgusting.
poem by Hebert Logerie
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Mr. Housman's Message
O woe, woe,
People are born and die,
We also shall be dead pretty soon
Therefore let us act as if we were
dead already.
The bird sits on the hawthorn tree
But he dies also, presently.
Some lads get hung, and some get shot.
Woeful is this human lot.
Woe! woe, etcetera. . . .
London is a woeful place,
Shropshire is much pleasanter.
Then let us smile a little space
Upon fond nature's morbid grace.
Oh, Woe, woe, woe, etcetera. . . .
poem by Ezra Pound
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Song in the Manner of Housman
O woe, woe,
People are born and die,
We also shall be dead pretty soon
Therefore let us act as if we were
dead already.
The bird sits on the hawthorn tree
But he dies also, presently.
Some lads get hung, and some get shot.
Woeful is this human lot.
Woe! woe, etcetera . . . .
London is a woeful place,
Shropshire is much pleasanter.
Then let us smile a little space
Upon fond nature's morbid grace.
Oh, Woe, woe, woe, etcetera . . .
poem by Ezra Pound
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The Tenth Poem
Thou shalt not covet
thy neighbor's poem;
neither shalt thou desire...
his metaphors,
nor his similes,
nor his oxymorons,
nor his ironies
his metalepsis
his paradoxes
his anthimeria
his litotes,
ellipses,
zeugma,
anapodoton,
epizeuxis,
anaphora,
pleonasm
nor anything
that is his.
etcetera etcetera
The tenth poem
forbids
coveting the poems
of another.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Written On A Friday
i must admire you for keeping traditions, each page of the religious book, each text down to the last letter, all obeyed, since it makes you feel guilty if you do not prostrate yourself, kneel, genuflect, do the usual incantations, as a form of communicating with our ancestors and our God, the Creator, Provider, Omniscient, All Powerful, Lord and King,
etcetera, etcetera....
It has been fifty-one years of my life, and i have traveled and tried to understand religion, and there are so many, ours have become just one of those thousand official beliefs sanctioned by those who lead and (milk) us....though it boils or amounts to only one thing, that we are inferiors, servants, (or even slaves at their caprice and mercy) , that we have no right to be arrogant, or selfish, that we are not private beings, but a part, always a part of this whole, this universe, this harmony that shall be achieved...this heaven and hell, this rottenness and wellness, Evil and Good,
I am given days, with names, such as Maundy Thursday, Black Friday, a Holy Saturday, and a Glorious Sunday, but with all honesty, these are all the same days to me, call me an idiot, faithless, infidel, nonpracticing roman catholic, but i am at peace with myself, and all these days, i romance myself with the silence and holiness of a searcher, the restless one, dissatisfied, outrageous, groping for words, paving new paths, cleaning roads, questioning rules, asking for more and more and more, etcetera etcetera...
to fill my thirst, and hunger, beyond the altars of candle filled lighted corners...
O, God, I just want to be myself, beside You, away from the crowd, who years ago, have crucified and cursed you to a
dishonorable death.
i do not claim complete understanding. I just want to be left alone.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Sad Story About A Plight Of A Woman On The Other Side Of The World
he is talking to
a woman on the other side of
the world
a world that he cannot
feel
because he never saw
it
neither is the woman
since
she is on the other side
of the world
he was never there
he knows a lot
about her
he was told by so many
who tell him
that she lives with them
for a while
he hears everything about
those foul things about her
but he never smells them
can foul be foul when he only
hears it?
can a sense of smell be simply
heard?
while they were talking on the phone
she hints about how her lover
rejected her
about how her father abused her
how her mother abandoned
all of them
for another man
how their house was foreclosed
and how they have to move
to another place
again and again
how she had to sleep with other men
to make a living
etcetera etcetera
it was a long conversation
and it was then that he felt her
a madness not of her own causing
but of society as a whole
when she was finished
he nodded, for now
he understood.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Absolute Zero
Can we begin at the end?
To Save Some time
Bags and our War Planes are Gathered
The Clock is ticking you have no authority
Float like a dead man down the river
And there are no streets in this air.....
Etcetera is my worst enemy
Its wrong and I know
And I will go
To the Big Hand of the God Damned
The Middle Ground is Absolute Zero
What Can be found at Absolute Zero?
Can We Begin at the end?
To Save some time
Etcetera is my worst enemy
Its wrong and I know
And I will go
To the big hand of the God Damned
The Big Hand of the Small Man
The Middle Gorund is Absolute Zero
What can be found at Absolute Zero?
A Happy End is Absolute Zero
Nobody Wins at absolute Zero......
What's That?
Nothing
What's That?
Nothing
Nothing
Nothing
song performed by by Faith No More
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Giving Up Giving Up
it is a surprising remark
at the end of what to give up
for instance
take the following 'Give up complaining——focus on gratitude.
Give up pessimism——become an optimist.
Give up harsh judgments——think kindly thoughts.
Give up worry——trust Divine Providence.
Give up discouragement——be full of hope.
Give up bitterness——turn to forgiveness.
Give up hatred——return good for evil.
Give up negativism——be positive.
Give up anger——be more patient.
Give up pettiness——become mature.
Give up gloom——enjoy the beauty that is all around you.
Give up jealousy——pray for trust.
Give up gossiping——control your tongue.
Give up sin——turn to virtue.'
etcetera,
etcetera,
the twist is the last: give up giving up!
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Impressions Of Francois-Marie Arouet (De Voltaire)
I
Phyllidula and the Spoils of Gouvernet
Where, Lady, are the days
When you could go out in a hired hansom
Without footmen and equipments?
And dine in a soggy, cheap restaurant?
Phyllidula now, with your powdered Swiss footman
Clanking the door shut,
and lying;
And carpets from Savonnier, and from Persia,
And your new service at dinner,
And plates from Germain,
And cabinets and chests from Martin (almost lacquer),
And your white vases from Japan,
And the lustre of diamonds,
Etcetera, etcetera, and etcetera?
II
To Madame du Châtelet
If you'd have me go on loving you
Give me back the time of the thing.
Will you give me dawn light at evening?
Time has driven me out from the fine plaisaunces,
The parks with the swards all over dew,
And grass going glassy with the light on it,
The green stretches where love is and the grapes
Hang in yellow-white and dark clusters ready for pressing.
And if now we can't fit with our time of life
There is not much but its evil left us.
Life gives us two minutes, two seasons
One to be dull in;
Two deaths and to stop loving and being lovable,
That is the real death,
The other is little beside it.
Crying after the follies gone by me,
Quiet talking is all that is left us
Gentle talking, not like the first talking, less lively;
And to follow after friendship, as they call it,
Weeping that we can follow naught else.
III
To Madame Lullin
You'll wonder that an old man of eighty
Can go on writing you verses. . . .
Grass showing under the snow,
Birds singing late in the year!
And Tibullus could say of his death, in his Latin:
'Delia, I would look on you, dying.'
And Delia herself fading out,
Forgetting even her beauty.
poem by Ezra Pound
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About Us And About Them
we busy for some noble purpose
for instance, i teach and you travel visiting places
where you are needed, as i continue on
burning the fires
of students who want to learn more
as i guide them where legal wisdom lies
in between those wits
and slides of humor
where we finally meet on the serious challenges
of criticisms: what society ought to be? who the leaders must be?
where progress is? what trees can do for this aging earth?
etcetera etcetera
we are angry
for those who search personal pleasures on Sundays
the cock-fighters shouting at the cockpit
the picnickers drunk on the beach
the rumormongers enjoying the headlines of the town
who are pregnant without getting married
who are impoverished by their convictions
they are those that thrive
we are those endangered species
and we are meant to perish
we blame no one then
as we meet again and be so silent.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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New Guinea
I SAW them as they were born,
Erect and fearless and free,
Facing the sun and the wind
Of the hills and the sea.
I saw them naked, superb,
Like the Greeks long ago,
With shield and spear and arrow
Ready to strike and throw.
I saw them as they were made
By the Christianizing crows,
Blinking, stupid, clumsy,
In their greasy ill-cut clothes:
I heard their gibbering cant,
And they sung those hymns that smell
Of poor souls besotted, degraded
With the fear of 'God' and 'Hell.'
And I thought if Jesus could see them,
He who loved the freedom, the light,
And loathed those who compassed heaven
And earth for one proselyte,
To make him, etcetera, etcetera, —
Then this sight, as on me or you,
Would act on him like an emetic,
And he'd have to go off and spue.
O Jesus, O man of the People,
Who died to abolish all this —
The Pharisee rank and respectable,
The Scribe and the scabrous Priest —
O Jesus, O sacred Socialist,
You would die again of shame,
If you were alive and could see
What things are done in your Name.
poem by Francis William Lauderdale Adams
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The band projects just took natural priority. I didn't really have a solo career, just wanted to share the music in another way and to learn more about writing, recording, etcetera.
quote by Ken Hensley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Writing
first of all
these considerations
i do not really take writing seriously
i write when i feel like writing
whatever it is
essay, poetry, novel, or
plain comment and notes
on the margins of my
empty diary,
writing is not my bread and butter
i make money in my own
little way
having inherited property and business
from my affluent ancestry
my parents specially who left me a house
a farm, a beach, an investment house,
frankly speaking
i can live even if i do not have to work
because others work for me
accountants, real estate agents,
jewelers, bankers, butlers
professors, construction magnates,
etcetera etcetera
to cut the story short, without much
circuitous explanations not to waste
adjectives and expletives
i write because i have nothing much
important to do
and this is it
i am spoiled i do not edit
much less i do not read anything
after i have written it
i leave it as is
and i do not intend to hire editors
and publishers
for poetry is not a bankable business
poets are bankrupt and
beggars
they crave for a name, honor, and
fame
but that is far beyond my simple intentions
i write because i am bored
filthy rich that i am belonging to no one
genuine affection
poor man that is what i am
despite the money
and this very very lousy poetry.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Is In Heaven
Brother Martin was assassinated at a very young age.
Intelligent and determined; he was a wise sage.
I am convinced that he is definitely the only man
In Heaven.
Bro. Martin fought for everybody’s civil rights, regardless of race,
Color, gender, origin, etcetera, etcetera. He is in a better place
Right now, I feel that he is the only man
In Heaven.
Brother Martin was a very dedicated disciple of Jesus Christ,
Who did not fight back, but he was stronger than ice;
He was a peaceful warrior. I know that he is the only man
In Heaven.
There is a lot that one can say and write about this legend.
He had many dreams and great visions, He knew how to blend
Fiction and reality. He was a man of ideas and actions.
Brother Martin is in Heaven working on different transactions.
I want to thank him and his associates for their sacrifices.
Brother Martin is still alive. His dreams are alive under the auspices
Of God’s blessings to fight racism, unfairness and all sorts of inequalities.
Brother Martin is not dead. We shall overcome despite our inabilities.
Jesus died for our sins, but Brother Martin died for things
That benefit all humanities. Let the angels sing, let freedom ring
In every corner of the earth. I am overjoyed to say that Brother Martin
Is in Heaven.
poem by Hebert Logerie (15 January 2012)
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Noise Pollution 1
The scientific efficacy is noisily murdering
Unlike enlivening
The olden household's hushy sibilance
The olden street children's play-scream
The olden vendors' musical sale-phonetics
The olden bullock-cart's running rhythm
The cart-man's 'hi hi
The jhatka's galloping trots
Of and on a cow's 'ammaaaah'
Dawn and dusk the cattle's dusty grazing treads
The rooster's cackle', the crow's' caw-caw'
Squeak, screech of chirping birds
Headed high by white collared eagles
The coherently, agreeably hissing breeze
Etcetera, etcetera all olden
All in melodious harmony neatly audible
With the evincing spherical silence
Today..
Everything deafening, deadening
Two, three, four and more wheeled wheeling
Small, big, bigger motoring
Up and down on earth thundering
Sounding smoky machinery nauseating
Multicoloured noisy stink
Murdering, murdering, murdering
poem by Indira Renganathan
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Yeheyy It Is A Holiday Today
Philippines,11: 13 a.m.
it is a holiday today, officially the President celebrates the
National Heroes' Day
with her soldiers offering flowers for Dr. Jose Rizal,
Apolinario Mabini, Juan Luna, etcetera, etcetera
(sounds of trumpets and gun salutes
release the doves that symbolize purity and freedom and peace
to the confused and polluted atmosphere)
i sit and write this poem and the other Bisayan poems for my
bisdak friends remembering the past and how we must be angry
about the present,
let us not talk about the future, we may become revolutionaries
again,
i stop. i stare at the wall. i open the window, Look at the dry fields of rice,
and some sparrows
yes, the sparrow unit, still killing some policemen and raiding
far municipalities and
i remember the moslems, their agongs, and malongs and clean rivers
and silent determinations to be free...
brothers killing brothers? oh too normal, too sane to kill another brother
in this country and the
government soldiers, yes, they too kill, as a matter of fact if you are too
candid,
like me, oh, they may not hesitate too, to kill all of us, but
do not take me by mistake, i belong to the government and i still support it,
even if is too hot yet to be hot
again.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Those Burdens...
sometimes inside the hotel when
you are with me and you open my bag
and check on my necessities
when i lay my body in bed and
stare at the ceiling when the noise
of little things can be heard as
chatter and when you do not stop
talking about us: our direction,
future, visions and destinations
etcetera....
i begin to think of regret having you
all the way here
sometimes, though i will not tell you,
i miss my being alone
with myself, without uttering any word
and yet feeling so complete and
relieved.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Nos Premiers Baisers
Toi et moi étions jeunes et forts,
C'était un joli après-midi après l'école;
Le ciel se dressait d'un bleu d'azur, rien n'était drôle,
Et les loriquets fredonnaient sans efforts.
Par hasard, nous nous sommes croisés au carrefour,
Quand les rayons de nos yeux s'attiraient.
Nous nous pressions pour dialoguer; sans avis,
Toi et moi échangions nos premiers mimis,
Les premiers baisers qui ont changé nos vies et notre paix.
Ton cœur était froid et mon corps brûlait dans un four.
Toi et moi étions touchés par les flèches de l'amour,
Qui ont changé nos sourires, nos rires et nos humours.
Nous parlions une langue que nous deux seuls comprenions.
Tout était beau, joli, ravissant, tendre, charmant, mignon,
Etcetera, etcetera. Nos premiers baisers venaient du ciel;
Ils étaient plus doux que les cerises trempées dans le miel.
poem by Hebert Logerie
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