For The Cruel Woman
WE SIMPLY have to be honest,
do we have any choice? what do you have there?
a thick section of your
humiliation,
she keeps on putting you down
and she laughs
openly like you were the performer
with all the rotten tomatoes
as her score
what do i have here inside my pocket?
i have my fingers that keep a record
of her wrongs
and i am still writing
she is sick and dying and we wear sad faces
we are dishonest
she is saying the last words
in slow motion
and stretching her breaths
like a staccato of a song
we are the silent background
the floor of her bed
the drapes of her window
the slippers of her stinking feet
and finally
she is dead and we cry and then we wail loud enough
to be heard by the neighbors
and the servants of the house are convinced
we go through the rites of her passage
we are her heirs and our names shall not be forgotten by her
in the other world
where she watches us from the skies
with all surprise and regret
we are dancing on the grass
we are feasting in our house.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A House Without Stairs
do not say
that without the stairs
the house is not a house anymore
without the ceiling
the more the house becomes to me
take the roof
if you want
or the beams
or even the floor and window frames
my house will still be a house
the sky its roof
the stretching grassy plain its floor
all the stars become
my magnificent ceiling
whatever is taken
we must imagine that all things are still there
lest we only have a house
that crashes on the floor
with all of us
dead
crushed to the death of
our imaginations
a door without an exit
because you have not seen hope coming
the lock and key
are all in the mind and heart
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Look Who's Dancing
Look who's dancing
Look who's dancing
Look who's dancing now
Look who's dancing
oh look who's dancing
Look who's dancing now
Well, first the dance floor
was like a forbidden land
where people would never dare to go
but now everyone's doing it
I said it's a dance galore
Look who's dancing
Look who's dancing
Look who's dancing now
Look who's dancing
oh look who's dancing
Look who's dancing now
And some are dancing on their feet
some are jumping off the floor
and look at old Granny "B"
she got the, she caught the, she knows the groove for sure
Look who's dancing
Look who's dancing
Look who's dancing now, right around
Look who's dancing
who is dancing
Look who's dancing now, get on the floor
(groove section)
Look who's dancing
Look who's dancing
Look who's dancing now, around the world
Look who's dancing
oh look who's dancing
Look who's dancing now
And some are dancing on their feet
some are jumping off the floor
and look at old Tauter him
he got the, he got the, he got the, he got the beat for sure
Look who's dancing
Look who's dancing
Look who's dancing now
Look who's dancing
check the dancing
Look who's dancing now, get on the floor
(groove section)
Do the ska, the rock steady, the ridim and blues
and if you catch them, then you do the della move
it nuh mek nuh sense to sit down, when you know you can goove
any type of danve you do, you neither win or lose
And if your choice is reggae, you don't need nuh dancing shoes
suh listen to the message, and you know you won't lose
look who come, come dancing pow we dancing floor again
some a dem a enemy, some a dem a friend
Some a dem a mother and father, some a dem a children
some a dem a loafer who a follow the trend
and some a dem a just dey ya as we good brethen
That's why we ruff, ruff, ruff, ruff and rugged
ruff, ruff, ruff, ruff and rugged
ra ra ra ragga muffin
ruff, ruff, ruff, ruff and rugged
That's why we ra ra ragga
that's why we ruff, ruff, ruff, ruff and rugged
ra ra ra ragga muffin
so we ruff, ruff, ruff, ruff and rugged
ra ra ra ragga muffin
that's why we flash certain dancing style, it sound well wicked
if a guy woulda really try, so you know him stupid
exorcism, devilism we nuh deal wid
our faith in jah jah man, it well, well, well solid
so pray every day and ask for strenght and knowledge
that's why we ruff, ruff, ruff, ruff and rugged
that's why we ra ra ra ragga muffin
That's why we ruff, ruff, ruff, ruff and rugged
song performed by by Ziggy Marley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Abandoned House And The Man Who Drags His Shoes To Make The Necessary Sound
when you arrive in the house
(the house that both of you built 17 years ago)
no one is there
not even the three white dogs
you have accepted this face of loneliness
without a mouth
it is its nature now
gentle in silence
there is nothing to talk about with someone else
when someone else is far away and seemingly taking all the hearts out
the door and the hinges have to keep things for themselves
for in truth, those who left the stairs
they still love
you have the key to the door of the kitchen
and that is where you start the journey towards the living room
you scurry on some little memories
it is like putting some words in your notes
in here and there beyond the margins
but it is not that endless really
for whatever it be
joy or death there's got to be an end
that is the truth of the meaning of
this word
it could be a dead-end
a street of walls
& then actually you are caught
in flagrante
where your only choice
is to go back,
retrace,
remember,
refresh
refrains, refrains
of a
love song
you go back to the room look longingly at the bed
the blankets are dusty and the pillows are stained with so much emptiness
or guilt
scruples
Freudian analysis
Carl Jung's other possibilities
of reconciliation
this is a very soundless world and
every part here is keeping its mouth shut
their layers of concealment are thick
and their canopies of
self-defenses are hard
you feel like this is one kind of a giant shell
and you are inside it
its flesh
all blistering
flesh
you decide to wear your shoes all throughout this scrutiny
this journey into marriage
into childlessness
into what if's
you drag your feet with your shoes on
as though someone is suffering and wanting to die
and you hold the collar
and you hurt the backbone
and in that open window
you imagine that someone may finally
jump like a scared cat
nine lives
thirty-six softest feet
you purposely make a sound with your shoes
tapping and tapping
and tapping
to create those sounds
of the past dances
just to fill an empty room
some thoughts jump out of the window
dressed in euphemisms
as the ceiling creates its own crankiness
its cloudiness
nine cats in you jump out that window
falling softly on the grass below
all thirty-six
dreams
it is nice to see of course
nine unharmed cats like fluffy cotton blown by the wind and gently
softly land on the grass
it is no wonder
why men sometimes invoke the sound of their whistling
indeed it is by this time
very relaxing
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Monument Of All Our Wrongs
i build a house
no one likes it.
the house is empty
i put some chairs.
someone comes and
says, this house is
lonely, it needs
a sound
it is boring and needs
a paint
i put a tree beside
its stairs
i grow another
fence
i put a lone bulb
on a post
and leave the house
for good
that is what the
house is made
there is always
missing
something is
always wrong
this is the house
of regret
it is the monument
of all our wrongs.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Harlot's House
We caught the tread of dancing feet,
We loitered down the moonlit street,
And stopped beneath the harlot's house.
Inside, above the din and fray,
We heard the loud musicians play
The "Treues Liebes Herz" of Strauss.
Like strange mechanical grotesques,
Making fantastic arabesques,
The shadows raced across the blind.
We watched the ghostly dancers spin
To sound of horn and violin,
Like black leaves wheeling in the wind.
Like wire-pulled automatons,
Slim silhouetted skeletons
Went sidling through the slow quadrille.
They took each other by the hand,
And danced a stately saraband;
Their laughter echoed thin and shrill.
Sometimes a clockwork puppet pressed
A phantom lover to her breast,
Sometimes they seemed to try to sing.
Sometimes a horrible marionette
Came out, and smaoked its cigarette
Upon the steps like a live thing.
Then, turning to my love, I said,
"The dead are dancing with the dead,
The dust is whirling with the dust."
But she--she heard the violin,
And left my side, and entered in:
Love passed into the house of lust.
Then suddenly the tune went false,
The shadows wearied of the waltz,
The shadows ceased to wheel and whirl.
And down the long and silent street,
The dawn, with silver-sandalled feet,
Crept like a frightened girl.
poem by Oscar Wilde
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The Carpenter's Song
My lot grew lighter day by day;
The children grew apace;
I built a little house last May--
No palace like that place.
And--"Father," said she, "sure you know
That once we ate dry bread?
Into our own house now we go!"--
The mother, she is dead!
Her house the undertaker made,
And not the carpenter;
My grace unsaid, the pastor prayed
In loud tones over her.
The day that's spent with merriment,
'Mid blossoms blue and red,
No music lent--my heart was rent!--
The mother, she is dead.
We pulled together many a year;
Like old bird-mates were we;
But who e'er thinks of dying here
While both together be?
Fast barred is every window-blind--
I care not what is said;
Yes, sell the house! I do not mind--
The mother, she is dead!
poem by Carmen Sylva
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Houses
1898 -- A Song of the Dominions
'Twixt my house and thy house the pathway is broad,
In thy house or my house is half the world's hoard;
By my house and thy house hangs all the world's fate,
On thy house and my house lies half the world's hate.
For my house and thy house no help shall we find
Save thy house and my house -- kin cleaving to kind;
If my house be taken, thine tumbleth anon.
If thy house be forfeit, mine followeth soon.
'Twixt my house and thy house what talk can there be
Of headship or lordship, or service or fee?
Since my house to thy house no greater can send
Than thy house to my house -- friend comforting friend;
And thy house to my house no meaner can bring
Than my house to thy house -- King counselling King.
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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Another Reason Why I Don't Keep A Gun In The House
The neighbors' dog will not stop barking.
He is barking the same high, rhythmic bark
that he barks every time they leave the house.
They must switch him on on their way out.
The neighbors' dog will not stop barking.
I close all the windows in the house
and put on a Beethoven symphony full blast
but I can still hear him muffled under the music,
barking, barking, barking,
and now I can see him sitting in the orchestra,
his head raised confidently as if Beethoven
had included a part for barking dog.
When the record finally ends he is still barking,
sitting there in the oboe section barking,
his eyes fixed on the conductor who is
entreating him with his baton
while the other musicians listen in respectful
silence to the famous barking dog solo,
that endless coda that first established
Beethoven as an innovative genius.
poem by Billy Collins
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Writing At That Time When You Were Sick...or Dying
when you write
when you are sick and having fever throughout the night
there is no one beside you
there is no electricity, and there is a storm raging on your roof
the house is shaking
you feel that in a short while this house will be blown away
and you just do not know what happens in mid-air
when you write these lines
you hear voices asking for help as though they are buried by the waves
twirled and taken to the bottom of that deep and dark ocean
some bodies
of children and women
some still holding each others' hands
lay dead beside the black corrals and the sea porcupines and urchins
finally, you are carried by this horror
your body shakes in terror like the house shaking its beams and walls in mid-air
you give up the pen
let go off the paper
you give up that consciousness
what you have and what you are now
is air,
strangled like a throat
all breaths finally
sucked
in a vacuum
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Great Man's House
It was written in marble in golden letters:
here a great man lived and worked and died.
He laid the gravel for these paths personally.
This bench — do not touch — he chiseled by himself
out of stone.
And — careful, three steps — we're going inside.
He made it into the world at just the right time.
Everything that had to pass, passed in this house.
Not in a high rise,
not in square feet, furnished yet empty,
amidst unknown neighbors,
on some fifteenth floor,
where it's hard to drag school field trips.
In this room he pondered,
in this chamber he slept,
and over here he entertained guests.
Portraits, an armchair, a desk, a pipe, a globe, a flute,
a worn-out rug, a sun room.
From here he exchanged nods with his tailor and
shoemaker
who custom made for him.
This is not the same as photographs in boxes,
dried out pens in a plastic cup,
a store-bought wardrobe in a store-bought closet,
a window, from which you can see clouds better
than people.
Happy? Unhappy?
That's not relevant here.
He still confided in his letters,
without thinking they would be opened on their
way.
He still kept a detailed and honest diary,
without the fear that he would lose it during a
search.
The passing of a comet worried him most.
The destruction of the world was only in the hands
of God.
He still managed not to die in the hospital,
behind a white screen, who knows which one.
There was still someone with him who remembered
his muttered words.
He partook of life
as if it were reusable:
he sent his books to be bound;
he wouldn't cross out the last names of the dead from
his address book.
And the trees he had planted in the garden behind
the house
grew for him as Juglans regia
and Quercus rubra and Ulmus and Larix
and Fraxinus excelsior.
poem by Wislawa Szymborska
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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1: 38 Dawn...
inside the room
divided by the light brown drapes
between me and the window
beyond the steel gates
is the world... it is cold and dark
and there is no one
walking on the road...i peep
and let the cold wind
enter the orifice of
my nostrils...it is cold and dark
and there is no one in this house...
everyone is either asleep
or gone away for good,
their names are listed and
there are some
short biographies...this must
be a little scary
says the listening wall...
it is. Sickness confronts
the eyes of those who want to
write some short notes
of their brief stay
or visit as you want to call it...
Eye to eye, in the most silent
silence, the man in his usual
black robe,
through his hands
speak.
and the world trembles
we want to kneel and ask for more
but nothing
shall be given.... that is a
fact.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Blue
yo listen up here's a story
about a little guy that lives in a blue world
and all day and all night and everything he sees
is just blue like him inside and outside
blue his house with a blue little window
and a blue corvette
and everything is blue for him and hisself
and everybody around
cos he ain't got nobody to listen to
i'm blue da ba dee da ba die...
i have a blue house with a blue window.
blue is the colour of all that i wear.
blue are the streets and all the trees are too.
i have a girlfriend and she is so blue.
blue are the people here that walk around,
blue like my corvette, it's standing outside.
blue are the words i say and what i think.
blue are the feelings that live inside me.
i'm blue da ba dee da ba die...
song performed by by Eiffel 65
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Through The Veil for Dave Walker
there's a light
in the window
of the house
forgotten by time;
a book on the table,
unopened.
footprints on the floor
covered with dust.
a cup in the sink
half-empty.
the wind blows
curtains grey with time....
whispering, whispering....
names that cannot
be heard.
voices, echoes,
creaking the floor.
a book of photographs
on the closet floor.
walking through the mist,
the fog and the shadows,
touching small particles
of being left like gifts....
lives unwrapped into mine!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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It Aint Like That
There I was, laid out on a table
Screamin sweat and bare feet to the floor
In my life, Id not soften
Things that cut, and burn so often
But I sit, think of somethin
Scared to face, the dyin nothin
See the cycle Ive waited for
It aint like that anymore
Where I go is when I feel Im able
How I fight is why Im feelin sore
In my sight, not forgotten
Feel as though, a tooth were rotten
Behind the smile, a tongue thats slippin
Buzzards cry, when flesh is rippin
See the cycle Ive waited for
It aint like that anymore
Here I sit writing on the paper
Trying to think of words you cant ignore
In my eyes, what Im lacking
Score at face, a ten for slacking
Sign the deal, set in motion
Smaller fish, so huge the ocean
See the cycle Ive waited for
It aint like that anymore
song performed by by Alice In Chains
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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On The Same Journey, Discover My Good Humanity...
i have not used words
to conceal my thoughts,
outside this little world
of mine,
i wear those thick clothes
cover my face, wear the
dark sunglasses,
my actions hide me
to protect me from harm
but in this secret hideout
i am using words to
slowly reveal to you
who i am, and where i am
going
what my aspirations are
many have not understood me
their inability to go deeper
beyond appearances, clothes, ties,
underwear, nameplates,
pins, buttons, shoes,
shirts, balls,
and
expressions, gestures &
endearments
these hands and
fingers that sometimes
send the wrong signals,
a body that you can detest
as something that possesses
cruel feet
and crazy nails,
thick skins, and freckled
faces
this i must tell you,
i am not a bad person
i am as good as the other
that you know
my words will speak for me
on this
whiter portion of my
existence
with you, my reader
my listener
i regret all your conclusions
you have settled for the surface
shallow, irrelevant, cowardly.
i wish we can be in the same boat
to this journey,
spend time together, lots of time,
lots of interchanges of words,
perhaps you will begin
to see the good in me,
inside my heart i am as human as
you, one that after all,
needs too to be confirmed
about his goodness,
his inability to do evil
because of the sameness of
our journey
same pains, bearable sufferings,
occasional disappointments,
patent patience
we both do not wish to go
to hell
you say it well.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Porch
Because it was what we thought was meant by family:
Laughter.
A new house.
A party in the garden where the tables were filled with young faces. Who did not want this true and tender accomplishment?
This just reward handed over to the world’s honest men,
its citizens.
Every house rested on its joys.
So when one of the guests nudged a glass when she was telling a joke which fell on the floor and broke,
we laughed.
We were accountable merely for our own mistakes and committed solely.
And everything was part of the good story,
really.
How could we not love what it cost?
Crack on the marble floor just set,
dent on a polished kitchen door.
A small window overlooks the children,
one nimble,
one frail,
balancing
on the far edge of the porch.
*by L.L.Ypil
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Cottage With Annalese
Dancing at The Cottage with Annalese
she is my big Sis with dark hair like my niece.
Annalese and me dance to the music
-around the time of eight-
nobody is on the floor except Mouse which is great!
It brings back memories past when I danced to
"Don't Stop ‘til You Get Enough"
which was a blast!
Mouse is dancing on the floor to the beat
I go up to Louis the D.J. very discreet
and ask him to play my favorite dance song
Lois nods and before long
I am with Mouse on the floor
all eyes are on us which no one can ignore.
Annalese hangs out with Ginger her good friend-
Annalese gives Ginger an original birthday gift.
Then Annalese and Ginger get on the floor
and we all dance like never before.
Jimmy the owner is there
grooving cool music fills the air.
Then special performer takes the stage
she sings her song while dancing away.
Singing performer has a little guy on her lap—
Performer asks him questions-
which makes us all laugh.
Then the night comes to a close
I walk to my bike with Annalese
say goodbye and ride safely home.
Written by Suzae Chevalier on March 10,2012
poem by Christina Sunrise
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The Cottage With Annalese
Dancing at The Cottage with Annalese
she is my big Sis with dark hair like my niece.
Annalese and me dance to the music
-around the time of eight-
nobody is on the floor except Mouse which is great!
It brings back memories past when I danced to
"Don't Stop ‘til You Get Enough"
which was a blast!
Mouse is dancing on the floor to the beat
I go up to Louis the D.J. very discreet
and ask him to play my favorite dance song
Lois nods and before long
I am with Mouse on the floor
all eyes are on us which no one can ignore.
Annalese hangs out with Ginger her good friend-
Annalese gives Ginger an original birthday gift.
Then Annalese and Ginger get on the floor
and we all dance like never before.
Jimmy the owner is there
grooving cool music fills the air.
Then special performer takes the stage
she sings her song while dancing away.
Singing performer has a little guy on her lap—
Performer asks him questions-
which makes us all laugh.
Then the night comes to a close
I walk to my bike with Annalese
say goodbye and ride safely home.
Written by Suzae Chevalier on March 10,2012
poem by Suzae Chevalier
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A Sketch Of What Familiarity And Routine Is All About
when she arrives in my house
that early morning
she was more silent than
the grass that is still jeweled
with dew
there is still that sense of
strangeness
like a bird from the forest
that is still feeling its new cage
she had three to five days
her feet studying the floors and stairs
her hands groping the blankets
and pillows in the bed and
room
the books in the library included
there are conversations going on
to the different parts of the house and garden
until she has become a part to all of them
and then
she sits on the grass and
lays her body in bed
ofter spending more time reading
the titles of the books
she has the best time dining
until she holds control
and laughs the hardest
disturbing the peace of the neighbors
it is the familiarity
and perhaps too much of it like an alcoholic drink
that makes her lose
what is important
she gets drunk and
unmanageable
on the fifth day and it was a Sunday
she left us without a word at around 3 a.m.
when all the members of the house were all tired and asleep
she left a note: she does not deserve to stay
in this ordered universe
she is a random incident of a dice,
she is a woman unnumbered
a bird not fit for a cage
a dog without a leash
a speck of dust owned by no wind
we do not mention her name during that lonely breakfast
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Every House
Every house has a sun and moon,
And a little porcelain cup,
And a little silver spoon;
Every house has laughter and pain,
And feels the kiss of a needed rain.
Every house has a pet or two,
A cat in the tree,
A dove that coo;
Every house has a little mouse,
Lives in a hole he never comes out.
Every house has a window or two,
And some grass and trees,
And a sky that's blue;
Every house has a child that dreams,
As he plucks at raw reality's seams.
poem by Patti Masterman
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