Emily Dickinson
hands so frail
dusts do not crumple in her palm
eccentric mind as sharp
as Gillette
rumored
a blood hemorrhage
on suppressed
Freudian lustful desires
life and death
she knew them all too well
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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It Was Nothing....
orally fixated said he
to the two handsome men aboard that boat
going to an island
where paradise is rumored
on the other side
is a young man and a young woman
too in love
they were holding hands
throughout the trip
her head resting on his
chest
the sound of the boat is insistent
slashing the sea
into a slit of foam and bubble
i was alone, spying on every human aspect
of the trip
to that rumored paradise
they all look at me
thinking that i must be weird or cruel
not having with me anyone
i do not mind
i am on this curious trip to that rumored paradise
spying on every one who is on that boat
i am the spectator
taking notes inside my mind
humanity is mixed nuts
and i am enjoying it
now orally fixated on every one
aboard that boat that shall take us to that rumored paradise
when we arrive there
it was nothing.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Mother Sparrow Grieves Upon The Untimely Death Of Her Beloved Fledgling
today, there is no grand funeral
like that of the death of
a statesman
or that simple funeral fit for
a laborer in the world of
mankind,
the mother sparrow grieves over
the death of her fledgling
there is no burial
they do not know what are white flowers
their meaning
the torn wings are carried by the worker-ants
some useless feathers are left above a sand mound
soon there are skeletons of frail bones
baked throughout the year by the sun
soon only dusts
the mother sparrow as we knew it from science
does not keep a memory
they keep on their far journey
nest from nest to nest on those seasons
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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When The Body Is Bound
when the body is bound by an
invisible rope of morality and decorum
how can the arms and hands scheme
and make the discreet meeting
with the lustful desires of the feet?
the heart is full. the mind empties itself.
the tongue wants to talk, but the mouth
does not open.
the pen writes, and keeps on writing
what is never spoken.
that is what happens when age comes
when the spirit is willing but the body complains.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Colour Of Death
Death is an art, more colourfull than the blue sky
No painters and composer can frame it
Death is much softer than the flying feather
It has a sweet soft music
Only the death traveller can listen it.
Death is more natural than the life
Life makes living cry weep and scream
But death is full of peace
No fury no anger, its just sleepy
Death is not greedy and demanding like life.
Life is a basket of greeds and desires
It desires to hold everything till the last breath
.
I
poem by Devil Poet
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Colour Of Death
Death is an art, more colourfull than the blue sky
No painters and composer can frame it
Death is much softer than the flying feather
It has a sweet soft music
Only the death traveller can listen it.
Death is more natural than the life
Life makes living cry weep and scream
But death is full of peace
No fury no anger, its just sleepy
Death is not greedy and demanding like life.
Life is a basket of greeds and desires
It desires to hold everything till the last breath.
poem by Devil Poet
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Eccentric Or Pathetic
Eccentric or pathetic,
it is hard to distinguish them at times.
I once knew a woman, who every morning
when she went to work,
would get down on her hands and knees
and sniff the carpet for any offending smells.
Recently I have heard of a man
who goes around the toilets with a magnifying glass
lifting up the toilets seats to see underneath
if he could find a minute spec of dust.
He then gets out is disinfectant wet wipes
and rubs ferociously until the offending minute spec of dust is gone. Are these people eccentric or pathetic,
it is hard to distinguish them.
So all I can ask of you
is to make up your own mind.
29 January 2009
poem by David Harris
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There's no reason for Gillette to be world class on the web, but there's every reason for Gillette to be world class in producing billions of high powered razor blades at low cost.
quote by James Collins
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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What happens is that the system builds many inferior blood vessels in the eye to take the place of the vessels that are dying. And those blood vessels are not up to the task. And they bleed. They hemorrhage and they cover the eye inside with blood.
quote by Mary Tyler Moore
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Holy Virgin
The Holy Virgin
The time has…has come the time of death,
The death of my life, death of my breath,
Death of all but one…death of one but all,
Yet into the void for death I shall call.
It is near but death itself is nearer,
For all those who shall not be cheerer,
Death was the love I called upon into the world,
It was love that trembled as my death built a new world.
A new world with one less,
A new world with a greater mess,
For death of one is death of all,
Still into the void, My love for death I shall call.
‘Cause there is none like death
And none like death can take my breath.
For I was me and me alone,
And I was mine and mine own.
‘Cause there is none like me-
None as different…and not one so free.
Death was all I had ever known,
From when I as a seed into the earth was sown,
To the skies I reached out yet grew not,
Higher than all I was yet was so merely short.
I knew not what I wanted,
But I knew that what I was gifted,
But I knew not what I had to do,
But I knew very well what to do.
Behind bars I had threw mine soul and heart,
But not my mind which was my delicate art,
‘Cause that was all I had,
It was merry yet sad,
‘Cause I was far from all, I severed myself,
Yet my love was not for myself,
Unfathomable was my love for love,
Yet I hid it all up in a cove.
But I did what I did,
For I was me and not some other silly did.
I told them not when they told I was wrong;
When they told I was bad I told I was wrong,
For I knew my action,
Yet lost was the proper reaction.
Sins were mine, sins to all,
Sins were mine but mine sins not all.
Robbed by death I was of all but one,
One was my mind- the special one.
For my mind was mine and mine alone,
Amidst all it sparkled and shone,
For death touched it not as what it was it knew not,
Yet of that it never forgot,
For it was the only that was beleft,
When death made love to earth and none was left,
Because when all was gone,
Left was the different one,
When gone was the origin,
Left behind was my mind – The Holy Virgin.
JamesGreen…
poem by James Green
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Death is.....
Death is peaceful
Death is sharp pain in my heart
Death is feeling sadness
Death is deppresion
death is when my loved ones have gone away
Death is when i give up the fight
Death is when i cant think about whats right
Death is a good thing on my behalf
Death started when i gained life
Death is where ill go
Death is near
Death is what i see
Death lives inside of me
DEATH WILL STOP MY MISERY
poem by Angelique Paniagua
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Disingenuousness
Here lies another box for nature,
Carbon ready;
Black to eyes down here,
Where death is at its job.
Up there you’ll hear a rhythmic sob
Or two from living yet-to-dies –
A humming lacrimoso –
It all but cleans the eyes:
Forget it –
The dismal show of grief –
Life is only chemistry –
Our stay is only brief.
It’s we who hype it up!
Diaphragms jerk again;
The jet monotone of hearses
Feeds the disingenuousness
Of undertakers –
They seem to stare at something up ahead –
For them, it’s in the blood,
To taxi off the dead.
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2011
The March of Death
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poem by Mark R Slaughter
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My Heart
as my heart is not made of wood
please do not hammer it with your nails
not of iron
please do not test it with the hottest fire
not of sand
please do not take it carelessly with your open fingers
not of paper
please do not cut it with your scissors or crumple it with your hands
because my heart like yours
is made of flesh and blood
handle it with care, do not stab it because it will bleed,
caress it with your hands and place it near your heart
it becomes a bird and it will beat and fly and sing
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Truth About Jesus
what made Jesus
the force that changed
history forever?
was it His death on
the cross? or was it
His life, the way He lived?
He dared to live compassion
with human hands... knowing
the risk, He took it....
He knew that all lives
are connected... and lived
what He knew to be true....
'the kingdom of heaven
within you...'
His death merely an extension
of His life... the final step
of a long journey....
'the way, the truth, and the life...'
compassion, compassion, compassion...
God's hands are human!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Death is when....
Death is when my loved ones must depart
Death is a sharp pain in my heart
Death is this feeling of permanent sadness and pain
Death is when my loved ones have gone away
Death is the call to heaven or hell
Death is an eternal mansion or cell
Death is the lesson i need to learn about
Death is a loss, without a doubt
Death is this unhappy feeling i have
Death is pleasant on my behalf
Death is the day i end my life
Death is when i give up the fight
Death is happiness to the world around me
Death started when i gained my life
Death can be helped along with this knife
Death is where i shall go
Death is close, i kno
Death willl come fast
Death is vast
Death is what i see
Death lives inside of me
Death is joy to me
Death has come for me
Death is gonna take me
Death will stop my misery
Death loves my company
Death ends the pain
Death takes me on that train
Death is near
Death is finally here
Tom is the most eccentric person I have ever worked with. We get on very well and I am most impressed with how he can hold an audience in the palm of his hand.
quote by Louise Jameson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My last bone
I have welcomed death, his gaze
his thoughts, his valentines day kiss
his black tulips pressed against
my blood filled lustful lips
Death is not my foe, we are bed fellows
toe to toe, I am the prairie
he is a prairie dog, loyal and honest
when I am lost; he leads me home
But with wagging tail I'll savour
and unearth my last bone!
poem by Mark Heathcote
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Ms Eccentric
Ms Eccentric,
With your bowls of placed mints.
May I sit to inquire about your sentiments?
Why do you dine in powdered wig and gloves?
And feed bread crumbs to caged doves...
Announcing this to be an activity,
You have come to love!
Ms Eccentric,
As you sit and think of it...
Have you ever wished to be less obvious,
Doing those things intentionally meant?
Or does it make you feel better,
To get the attention you attract?
Knowing without that attention...
You would not be mentioned.
And making you bored to know that!
But you have seen to it,
No one can ignore you not one bit!
And without it to motivate...
You believe you could not exist,
Being less eccentric.
Or have someone like me,
Stop being curious enough to pay you a visit.
And I am glad you invite my curiosity with delight!
Ms Eccentric?
You know it's hard for me to show a dislike.
You know my presence feeds your appetite.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Rose Scent Danger Perfumes The Air
behold bloom of blood red roses sing
bud was tight intensity feeling growing
bloom was red petals wonder spreading
roses sweet full bloom entice mystic heaven scent smelling
fresh youthful complexion jasmine tears silk sheen waxing
sharp thorns do pierce blood prick conscience world relaxing
snow dusts rose bushes stripped bare in judgements pending
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Raffy
Raffy in Las Vegas always knew what to do with his life.
Nothing submerged, suppressed, everything waiving like hands
Welcome, welcome,
Happiness, there is no tint of sadness on his face
Lovers abound, There is no shame,
There is always that touch
That tickles his legs
Of hair and
Tongue,
He forgets home where his face is stuffed
Like a bear.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Fresh Endeavour
So now I've taken leave of life,
I thought you'd like to know, I still
Possess a mind in love, oh wife;
A soulful eye to catch a show of
Silent beauty – ever yours;
An ear to pick the metaphors
Of tonal dance in words you say,
Grasp a thought in verse you pray
Inside your head, bemused of mind,
Softly mournful, intertwined with
Understanding tears.
I'll drift a whisper o'er to you
To tell that I am quietly calm;
Keeping time till your adieu
To flesh, upon the carol of a
Psalm of consummation. Now!
A fresh endeavour – we're forever
One together, resting yonder,
Cross our open plane of blue.
Copyright Mark R Slaughter 2009
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poem by Mark R Slaughter
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