Dropping By Your House This Morning
i dropped by your house this very early morning
the windows are closed
but the door is half-open
and i could have given in to this little curiosity
that cats keep on their paws
and soft feet
or hands if you may
but i didn't. there is something in the houe
that says
you had a bad day and that night you did not have
a sound sleep
the roses are wilting and a flower pot falls on the ground
broken
the soil splashed like spilled water on the grass
there is no sound of the wind
from the storm last night
i just dropped by. I respect you. The door of the house
finally closed
i did not see the hands that closed it.
it maybe yours
or someone else's
the rug has spoken. You want to be alone.
to keep the faint light left
in that little room. the curtains fall. the lights
went off on that very early morning.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Related quotes
Last Night I Was Talking To Myself
last night i was talking to myself
asking and making answers
like the way i make a knot and
then untie them from a cemented
post at the port
so that the wooden boat
may finally be let loose
and be free to sail
to its chosen destination
the sea was so wide
like all seas that you have seen
but the night was so dark
like no other
last night i was formulating solutions
to a very common problem
like how to cure a cold
with just a glass of water
like how to appease the coldness
of a room with nothing but
a piece of a woolen blanket
and curling feet and
hiding hands in my pocket
so i can have the exact warmth
so i may finally have my much
needed sleep and
dream about the peace
between the clouds
and the stars
last night i could not sleep
and you are beside me
last night i opened the window
of our room while you
were there snoring
last night i was silently
talking about the absence of
stars the loss of the moon
and then the rain fell
heavily on the roof of this house
and then i closed the windows
and then i listened to every sound
and then i noticed a faint light coming
from a leak of these walls
i know
another morning has finally
come
it is broken they say.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Early In The Morning
Early in the morning and I cant get right
Had a little date with my baby last night
Now its early in the morning (early in the morning)
Well its early in the morning (early in the morning)
Now its early in the morning
And I aint got nothing but the blues
Went to all the places where we used to go
Went to your house but you dont live there no more
Now its early in the morning (early in the morning)
Well its early in the morning (early in the morning)
Early in the morning
And I aint got nothing but the blues
Went to your friends house but she was out
Knock on your fathers door and he began to shout get out there boy
Early in the morning (early in the morning)
Early in the morning (early in the morning)
Early in the morning
And I aint got nothing but the blues
Went to doogie chain to get something to eat
Waiter looked at me and said you sure look beat
Now its early in the morning (early in the morning)
Early in the morning (early in the morning)
Well its early in the morning
And I aint got nothing but the blues
Well its early in the morning
And I aint got nothing but the blues
Well its early in the morning
And I aint got nothing but the blues
song performed by by Van Morrison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Too Tired To Notice The Storm Of The Earth...
i wake up early today
i open the windows and the door
the ground is flooded
the trees shed more leaves
the chickens' feathers are
thoroughly wet
some branches are cut-off
from those old tall trees
our dog is not wagging its tail
the lights at the kitchen are not turned off
by the looks of it
there was a big storm last night
i did not notice it
i was dead asleep
too tired of my own inner storms
my door is closed,
all my windows are shut.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Need For A New House....Or Home...
early morning
when the doors are still closed and the windows still tipsy
like the whole house
you fly away
the sun comes out with the clouds
early morning you fly away
away from it all
the clouds are floors and grasses
and you are a lonely bird among a flock of chairs
early morning you fly away
thinking about nothing
you fly away and you feel like a leaf inside
that gentle beast
it is a ride-awA Need For A New House....Or Home...ay
among the paradoxes of life
and its ironies
early morning there is this flight that takes you to a stop-over
of your life
no one knows that you are grieving
over a search for what you feel
the one you had which you lost
intentionally
among the flock of chairs landing early morning
on unstable floors
early morning you take a cab
you choose still
which house
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Morning Lights Outside The Kitchen Door...
must it be habit
that makes you turn off the light
outside the kitchen
at the break of day
when the birds start to
sing their songs
you save on electricity
in the same manner that you budget
your time and
money
i've tried it once
not putting off the lights from morning
till night
some early birds that pick the early worms
passing by the house
with closed doors and windows
with lights not switched off
think that i am
dead
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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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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Alone On A Stormy Night
flashes of lightning
roaring thunder
heavy rains and
flooded highways
the street lights are off.
there is total darkness
the strong straight light of the car
guides me towards home.
i park the car beside the
the house. I get out and
open the front door.
winds blowing stronger
the veranda is drenched
the gutter with leaves
overflows with water.
i open the door of my room.
undress myself and wipe my body.
i am dry. Silent. Uncomplaining.
i am finally alone.
I decided not to argue. Not to think.
Relax. Sleep. Dream.
Too much reason, too many arguments
When what i need is only this pillow
This blanket,
A window closed. A safe house.
A glass of water perhaps. But later.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Another Bright Day
you start your life early, as usual, four in the morning
when the rest are still asleep
you start organizing your thoughts for the day
hopefully a brighter one
unlike yesterday's storm
when the house was closed
when there is nothing practical about
opening a window
you like this feeling of having written
another poem
a brighter one perfumed with delight
you write the last line
and put there the word
happiness
and then you put the graphics
of a daisy where a butterfly
flutters its proboscis
tickling the center of the
pistil of this flower
that you offer
for yourself
it is a bright day
you open the door remembering some dance steps
in the green grass of your father's yard
the roses that mother always love
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Secrets Of The Loving Person
the room where you sleep
does not take hold of you
your bed cannot be part of your skin
and your windows are nothing but
the ordinary closing and opening
of your day
you like a door that opens
to nowhere
you have diamonds in your hands
you spread them
in the garden and you see
how they all glitter for a while
darkness folds and
light of another day opens
you take a walk and whistle
you don't remember the color of the blanket
you forget what warmth was there on that bed
you do not care whether the windows are closed or open
you move to another house
and tell your stories all over again
there is no blink in your eyes
there is no stammering in your tongue
you do not tell them what you love
there are no hands too familiar to hold you back
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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No Attachments
the room where you sleep
does not take hold of you
your bed cannot be part of your skin
and your windows are nothing but
the ordinary closing and opening
of your day
you like a door that opens
to nowhere
you have diamonds in your hands
you spread them
in the garden and you see
how they all glitter for a while
darkness folds and
light of another day opens
you take a walk and whistle
you don't remember the color of the blanket
you forget what warmth was there on that bed
you do not care whether the windows are closed or open
you move to another house
and tell your stories all over again
there is no blink in your eyes
there is no stammering in your tongue
you do not tell them what you love
there are no hands too familiar to hold you back
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I Step Out Of The Door
i step out of the door
from my dark room the windows are not opened
it is humid
it is cold
and i step out of the door the windows still closed
i lock the door and step upon a patch of green grass
the dews are hanging on the blades
and shaken
i look upon a sky
and there is this star still shining despite the opening of the
mouth of the morning
after a deep sleep
i see your face but i promise there shall be no tears.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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False Lights, Termites, Stones
we are
to them
always
the image
of departure
and so it
seems to
be, as
always,
sadness that
they smell
on our skin
our hair
they imagine
bags and all
the stuff that
must be
there
they hear
the sound of
buses honking
and waiting
they like to
close the
doors of the
house
and see to
it that all
windows
are closed
what they always
see in us
is the look of
misery
of time wasted
of
dripping water
that
dries the moment
it meets
an arid
soil
i sigh to all
these
wrong notions
but i only
have silence
to offer
before their
altars
they are not gods
and i guess
tomorrow
early morning
i simply
have to destroy
them
these plasters of
Paris
these cranky
obsolete
stones
these false lights
termites and
pests of
my wooden world
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Sounds
i heard the sound of the clock ticking
some things come
i am remembering these some things
burnt, and melting in my forehead,
i like the sound of the ticking of grandfather's
clock at night, i hear footsteps
and drippings of water
from the gutter to the floor
the window is closed and the wind makes
the sound of someone caught between
door jambs, creaking sounds creeping
on the wall, something is terrible, really terrible
and i turn my body to the left side,
there is this storm, and the strong rain comes
with the grunting wind, and trees are falling
unto each other, i hear leaves and twigs,
and the roof wanting to leave the house,
something is terribly happening on this night
of the suicidal darkness, the shimmer of the river
looks like a stainless knife
who's there? i ask the door. The mirror on the other
side answers, how dare you?
it is nobody. it is just myself, my mouth answers.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Repost Of The Past Poem
i step out of the door
from my dark room the windows are not open
it is humid and cold
i step out of the door the windows are still closed
i lock the door and step upon a patch of green grass
the dews are hanging on the blades and shaken
i look upon the sky
and there is this star still shining
despite the opening of the mouth of the morning
i was in deep slumber
i close my eyes
i see your face but i promise there shall be no tears.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Outside And Inside
this early morning
the rains are raging
outside is a rampage of
blown leaves and trees
you are afraid may
finally be uprooted
in the room
the brown dog sleeps
beside a wooden wall
on the floor
the glass doors
& windows are closed
the silence reigns
inside you begin
on another journey
you began last night
on some short breaths
until you think
you had a nice sleep
inside there is something
that rages
it is not the wind or the rain
it is something else
that you want to know
more & more
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Early morning rain
Early morning rain
~
Rain taps upon the window
while the faint light of morning
lines the gap between curtains
a halo of pale blue illuminates
the darkness of the room
a cold beyond the duvet
invites a reason not to move
while tired eyes open and close
motionless I lay here listening
to the sound of the rain
like restless fingers drumming
upon the windowpane
in the early hours of morning
I lay awake
poem by Matthew Holloway
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Dry Leaves Beside My Door
a door half-closed
the wind comes with some dry leaves
coming in
through it
and then
spread on the floor
under my bed
i watch it
feeling that i am junked
even the wind
has mistaken me as
another
garbage
and so i finally closed my
door
tight
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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God and goodness and Hope.....
I have always wanted to be
what you are,
oh, how i like it to be
where you are now,
and so i follow you,
every step
that you have taken
is a map
of my destination
you are inside that room and
i want to be in there too
but the door is locked, i knock and
no one hears it,
you are deaf and blind
no one opens the door for me
and i begin to
look at the window
they are closed too and i go behind the house
to find the kitchen door
it too, is closed
and i stand there alone
outside, and it rains and there is that sound of
thunder and
lightning is the only one that
gives me the flashes of light
to light my path
i am scared, of course, i am normally scared
by what is happening
and you are there showing your back at me
dining with the rest of your
guests
these successful people
who hold in their hands
fame and fortune
and who can withhold or grant other
people's opportunities
i am abandoned, and you are there inside that room
with all these societal gems
i give up,
i shall find another world of my own,
where opportunities are given for free
no dirty tricks, no influences, plain merit and
fitness, and
skill and competence,
i will work it out
from within, and i challenge myself with these words:
'soon, soon! '
i will be there,
because i am good and God will hand it to me.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Ennui (whatever)
there are four corners of this room
(as usual, us usual,
we are here again, both
on a togetherness
since the early days of our
union)
i want to go away, remember the flight
of the little bird, away from its mother's nest?
but i can't, your tears are holding me
like a mother,
and so how can a son get away?
how can a lover go away and be stripped
from its beloved?
the vinyl floors are dusty
the curtains unwashed for weeks
the door creaks like a man complaining
for its usual work
to close and open
to open and close
the door has always been closed in here
there is no exit
but i shall not scream, that is too much for this
harrowing experience
there is no tv, no ref, just the sound of an AM/FM radio
that i bought from a cheap department store
i hold your hands
that is enough for me now.
i stare at the ceiling, and then i get so weary and i close my eyes
asking shelter
in the colored world of dreams.
are you happy now?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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L8,2212
There is a door which you open
you enter, and then it closes you
behind you
forever,
there is no force here,
but only volition,
you enter it
with all the warnings,
that the
possibility that it will close forever
has been told to you
over and over
again,
somehow, you do not make it a problem
you like a closed door, and you hate it
when it opens,
you love it when it is closed forever,
the room is nice
there is a certain loveliness
in there,
it has shiny floors,
it has a bright ceiling,
the lights are lovely,
like stars
in an open dark sky
the air is fresh,
the walls are comfortable
who wants to take an exit?
no one.not you.
when the door knows this, it will open
forever,
it decides to open for you
and it will tell you to go out and be
an outsider again and
be gone
for good,
you insist that you own this room now,
that a closed door is not a serious matter
and there is no way that you have to
go out
or be ousted,
the door has a stair with strong hands
and it will drag you out
it will pull your hair and drag your body
like hell
the door has learned its lesson
when the room is not a prison to someone else
there is no use keeping him there forever
for in truth the reason of the door's
existence
is to make you feel the prison and to suffer
and you know your lesson too well
there is no prison to a mind that is an open window
there is no suffering
to a lover of suffering
you see, it takes a little reverse psychology
for closed doors to open
for men to know that suffering is not suffering
at all
when one loves is tripping
when one thinks
otherwise
when one loves whatever happens
when one accepts
the one that is there and not look for something
that is always missing
why go for the unreachable?
why suffer for long?
life is life, and death is death
you are here, grab this here.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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