Forgetting, An Ode
on my hands
the ashes of my anger
shall write your name
between the spaces
of our walls.
here the face of the
anguish
is painted
compromising
with the drought
even against my will
all these
shall be erased
by the rain
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Fact Of My Life
I am always rewinding things
To hear what was missed between
The spaces between the spaces...
Words that were not spoken
Wonderful things never said
But were going through my mind
Like a hard rubber ball
Bouncing between the walls
Of the spaces between the walls....
Echoes reverberate
With incessant sound
Of inarticulate voices...
Incomprehensible
Maddening hollow sounds
Crash against walls of hollow sounds...
Which drive me to madness
Trying to coexist
In a world outside me...
In which hollow sounds
Resound against crashed walls
Of rewinding empty spaces....
That is my life
What else can I say....
COPY WRITE©2009
poem by Romeo Della Valle
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Her Empty Spaces
She knew
the rain well.
It,
filled her
empty spaces.
So did I.
She had a
bland,
albeit,
deliciousness
about her
Her thickened
sweetness
was ladled
upon my
tongue,
time and time
again.
a beautiful
woman,
who,
painted
beautifully.
delicate
br ush
strokes,
caressed
her
coarse
canvas
fi ner details;
that of
love,
she ignored.
Yes,
she was
a beautiful
woman,
who,
painted
beautifully.
And the rain...,
It filled her
empty spaces.
So did I.
T. Labbe`
Anger and Anguish
You leave these memories you don't need,
To fade away.
Who wants to remember...
People so driven with their no hiding hate.
Who wants to remember...
When truth became for us outdated.
And deceit became the bait,
That was related and we ate it.
Who wants to remember...
This.
Who wants to remember...
Anger and anguish.
Who wants to remember...
This.
Who wants to remember...
Anger and anguish.
You leave these memories you don't need,
To fade away.
Who wants to remember...
People so driven with their no hiding hate.
Who wants to remember...
When truth became for us outdated.
And deceit became the bait,
That was related and we ate it.
Who wants to remember...
This.
Who wants to remember...
Anger and anguish.
Who wants to remember...
This.
Who wants to remember...
Anger and anguish.
Who wants to remember...
This.
Who wants to remember...
Anger and anguish.
Who wants to remember...
This.
Who wants to remember...
Anger and anguish.
Who wants to remember...
This.
Who wants to remember...
People in anguish and bitter.
Who wants to remember...
Anger and anguish.
Who wants to remember...
This.
Who wants to remember...
Anger and anguish.
Who wants to remember...
Anger and anguish.
Who wants to remember...
This.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Confined Spaces
I tend to write and I don’t know why
in confined spaces wherever I am.
My desk is filled with odds and sods
giving no more than
about six inches to write within.
Sometimes I write parked in my car
sitting behind the steering wheel.
Its not that I write better
sitting like a shrivelled up prune,
it is just that they are the only spaces
I can get my writing down.
In a confined space somewhere.
31 January 2008
poem by David Harris
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Anger fills my heart and soul
Anger fills my heart and soul
Anger takes a mighty toll
Anger lessens but can never leave
Anger you hope to never receive,
Anger stays forever within
Anger acts with the might of all sin
Anger is deadly to all around
Anger gets mad at the thought of sound
Anger is the thoughts in my head
Anger that’s mine all should dread
Anger for me is different from you
Anger you see tells me what to do
Anger will sit and whisper in my ear
Anger he sits and tells me all that you fear,
Anger…
He is here
He’s here to stay
Anger is the hole
In which we lay
Anger is
And Anger will
Always be with us
He is in me, and he is in you
He can make you do
What he wants you to
Anger will make you
Make you cry
Anger can make you
Want to die
Anger can make you
Go insane
Anger….. ... A blood filled rain
No more anger
No more…..
Walk to the bright light
Shinning through that door…
Not knowing what’s in store
But even then
Anger lives on
But you… nevermore
poem by Jacob Hill
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Empty Spaces
Once there were times love
When we could touch the air between
And out acroos this room
Wed just touch hands life would shine
With electric dreams.
No matter how many miles
Nothing hurt long-distance-hearts
And there was always something there
That space could never keep apart
But now I know inside that something is died
When were apart
All we have are
Empty spaces.
Its not like were building walls
Too hard to climb to make us blind
Its just so much numbing space
To hollow out the heart and mind
And I can hear echoes of ghosts of love
We left behind.
Ill always love april
We fell in love and we planted seeds
But now we walk through fallen trees
And leaves are crushed beneath
And I will always live in autumn
Now were agreed
All we have are
Empty spaces.
Ithought this was meant to be
Our love had an energy
But only as time evolved
And all of our strength dissolved
And well never feel the flame that burned so naked
Again.
I walk through kentish town
And all the rain rain pouring down
So many people here
But space like this Ive never found
And as I get back home and step inside
I realise all I have
All I have are
Empty spaces.
song performed by by Spandau Ballet
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Soul Dies
Sky overcast, moon was sad.
Ashes were sent to the lake.
Who killed the bird in morning rain?
Ashes were sent to the lake.
A hidden slaughterman did not die.
Ashes were sent to the lake.
The good old name now spells the doom.
Ashes were sent to the lake.
I will call you in pitch-dark night.
Ashes were sent to the lake.
Ascending gods have ruined my life.
Ashes were sent to the lake.
A child was stolen from a mother’s bed.
Ashes were sent to the lake.
poem by Satish Verma
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Whiskey And Jesus
He said, it's whiskey and Jesus
it's grandkids at the door
it's the woman lying speechless
she cant take it anymore
it's the roar of desperation
that sickens and devours
it's the stillness of alone
that turns minutes into hours
it's whiskey and Jesus
He said, it's whiskey and Jesus
it's the hoe in the field
the hawk circling overhead
dust on the windowsill
it's empty shelves in the pantry
callouses on his hands
it's nowhere to turn
the pride of a man...
it's whiskey and Jesus
He said, it's whiskey and Jesus
it's the lines 'neath his eyes
it's the tight lipped anger
that never questions why
it's the memories and ashes
of a thousand highway miles
the hard face of dignity
painted by the trials...
it's whiskey and Jesus...
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Writer's Drought
You've heard of a thing called writer's block and you've heard of writer's drought
But writers are never short of things on which they can write about
It's just at times their inspiration well does seem to run dry
And they cannot seem to pen a line though hard enough they try.
The writers drought it causes writers moments of self doubt
Till the words that seem locked in them eventually flow out
Through their pens to their notebooks their dry spells do not last
And on time lost out on penning words they seem to catch up fast.
Some writers in their writing drought cannot seem to feel inspired
To write even a single line they feel mentally tired
But when fresh inspiration comes to them much better stuff they do write
And feeling re-invigorated they sit and pen all night.
Most writers you will talk to of writers drought can tell
When there is no inspiration in their inspiration well
But when inspiration returns to them and their creative juices flow
They become much better writers and in self confidence grow.
poem by Francis Duggan
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A writer
Out of what, does a writer write?
Out of hatred, out of denial,
Out of failure, out of perversion,
Out of insult or out of neglect.
Why does a writer write?
To vent his anger, anguish and agony.
To bend his feelings in catharsis.
From what does he write?
From borrowings, being inspired,
Or pouring old wine into a new bottle.
For what purpose does he write?
For an applause, to show his skills
And to earn a place and money.
Why at all must he write?
For an idler, what else can he do?
What lacks in one’s writing?
His concern for you lacks.
Your vow to pursue it lacks.
He writes and forgets
You read and forget.
When you are gone and when he is gone
The relevance to his writings is gone.
Bubbles are formed and burst.
12.04.2007
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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When We Grow
when we grow
we actually change
we are like the sprouts of
a bean slowly crawling
wanting to see and
touch the sun,
we pretend not
to notice because
time runs so slowly
like cells unseen by
us but keen and keep on
gaining length and
width like the way
we grow eyelids
and we extend our sights
and smells, we find
love and we embrace
lust and we mix them
like a kind of
a bloody Mary drink,
or scotch on the rocks
and we face walls and
we mumble as we begin
to meet loneliness,
the spaces that spread
like a disease; you and
i, in all these, after a
lovely night in a
tangle of hair and
intertwining of fingers
we face darkness
and walls and we
begin to ask: what for?
we let the rain fall
our roofs leak and our
windows begin to open
we find separate paths
and we argue and then
we decide to take what
we really want:
i long for this and you long
for that; we take separate
ways, and we say goodbye.
we write letters day to day
until such time when the
silence becomes like a boring hour
and the
letters are unread and
we throw them on the river
of time: floating, all the
letters dissolving in the
cold waters of forgetting.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Between Walls Between Walls
walls around us
always walls around us
morning till noon
till night walls always walls between
us i try to inser some words
of consolation between us
all walls rain walls between us
there is no word for us
for it
we, it, we, us, there is nothing
between us
air, between, us, air, air, air,
between us, still walls, walls,
speak, speak
why, why are these walls still walls
between us
i guess, you are dead, then
cogito, eureka,
will i be a happy man then?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Write Me
Aerosmith
Write Me
Well I've been away forever, suicide's crossin' my mind,
But I'll never never never never never get so far behind.
I said, the ways of the night are evil with eyes that love the day,
but I'll never never never never never get so far away.
I said write me, write me, write me.
I said write me, write me, write me.
Well there's nothin' I can see that'd ever make
me want to be without her she's good, she's good to me.
Said there's no way to explain the kind of feeling
that you get out in the rain she's good, she's good to me.
See this emptiness inside it makes me scream
it make me crawl out of my high, she's good, she's good to me.
I love her.
Write me a letter, write me a letter, write it today, I'm goin' away.
Well I've been away forever, suicide's crossin' my mind,
But I'll never never never never never get so far behind.
Well I've been so many places hidin' from the wind and the rain,
But you could write me a letter for to save me from a goin' insane.
I said write me, write, write, write me.
Write me, write, write, write me.
Write me, write, write, write.
I said write me, write, write, write me.
Write me, write, write, write me.
Don't write me baby.
song performed by by Aerosmith
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Good to write poems
I want everyone in theworld
To write poems
Poems is the best to happy writing
Anger sad and pain
Which you write it in poems
Heal faster and better
Than any medicine in theworld
Because I know I write
In anger sad pain and much joy
Romance exotic and love
Society reality and life
Religion GOD and fantasia
I write what I feel and heard
Peaceful within, no more hurt or sad
Anger all to happiness and
Forgiveness you find
Solution you get
The joy the fulfillment
The happy feeling and heal
I can’t felt it until each poem I write
poem by See Fee Lee
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Rain O Rain
RAIN O RAIN COME AGAIN
RAIN O RAIN COME AGAIN
AND SHOWER YOUR DROPS,
TO SEE THOSE PAPER BOATS AGAIN,
RAIN O RAIN COMEAGAIN.
SEE THE LAND IS DRYING,
THE SMALL CHILDREN ARE CRYING,
THE FEETS BECOME BOILED,
AND THE WHOLE DAY GETS SPOILED,
RAIN O RAIN COME AGAIN.
IF YOU COME THERE WILL BE NO DROUGHT,
AND NO AC, COOLERS WILL BE BROUGHT,
SPRINKLE Y0UR DROPS AND SHOW
THAT TO YOU WHOLE WORLD BOWS,
RAIN O RAIN COME AGAIN
-VYOM SUTARIYA
Without You
Where were you?
When I sat down in deep silence
Looking at the rain through my window,
While tears were rolling down on my face:
Surrounded by empty spaces
Which madly echoed my grief…
I asked the rain about you,
But it was all in vain,
For my question turned into water
Gone with the wind…
I was then a lonely soul
Looking for your company,
Within a world of nothingness…
Outside, the sky kept crying,
While inside, embraced by walls,
My heart was falling apart
In great desperation…
The night arrived quietly
To share my torments,
But still, you were not by my side
When I needed so much…
Suddenly, I fell asleep,
When I woke up in the morning;
For my surprise,
The rain, the wind and the night
Were all gone…
Except the memory of you
Which turned into a dream,
That never came true…
©All Rights Reserved-2009
poem by Romeo Della Valle
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Lost In The Music
the music you write
makes my mind soar
the music you write
makes me want to dance
the music you write
is like a lullaby
the music you write
makes my heart jump
the music you write
makes me want to hear it again
the music you write
is like a shooting star
the music you write
makes me fall in love with you
the music you write
is like a shower in a drought
the music you write
is like a dream that i don't want to wake up from
i get lost in the music you write
poem by Brittney Crozier
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For Liberation
(into) the birth of carnage will you
but watch when innocent life is born
and destined to an unjustified wretched existence?
i refuse to deny their path or ignore their suffering
i fight for liberation.
ashes on ashes we build their fate with bloodshed upon our hands.
cries - oh we whisper of their death in blood,
of their misery to flesh a vicious price
driven to nightmare while we could sleep
i refuse to deny their pain or ignore their suffering
i fight for liberation
ashes on ashes we build their fate with bloodshed upon our hands.
ashes on ashes tread our path to degradation
their blood upon your hands prized with gifts of dominaton.
their blood upon your hands our fall towards defilement
song performed by by Undying
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Paint It
I see a red door and I want it painted black
No colors anymore, I want them to turn black
I see the girls walk by dressed in their summer clothes
I have to turn my head until my darkness goes
I see a line of cars and they are painted black
With flowers and my love both never to come back
I see people turn their heads and quickly look away
Like a new born baby it just happens every day
I look inside myself and see my heart is black
I see my red door and its heading into black
Maybe then Ill fade away and not have to face the facts
Its not easy facing up when your whole world is black
I wanna see it painted painted, painted black, oh baby
I wanna see it painted painted, painted black, oh baby
No more will my green sea go turn a deeper blue
I could not foresee this thing happening to you
If I look hard enough into the setting sun
My love will laugh with me before the morning comes
I wanna see it painted, painted black, oh
Black as night, black as coal
I wanna see the sun blotted from the sky
Painted, painted, painted black oh baby
Painted painted, painted black
song performed by by Vanessa Carlton
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I Shall Have These Hands That Shall Write About Hands....
must have i forgotten
from where all these come?
ah, i have read about your hands
and now i shall have to mind about mine
once i had these hands
whose name is
work and struggle and
sacrifice
they lifted rocks
outlined by Sisyphus
and roll them from
atop the hill
and put them again there
in senseless
labor
when i got reason
my hands began to think
as though they have brains
under their nails
these hands begin the
questions
grapple for answers
and got
no satisfaction
they dabble in poetry
trembling and tense and
looking for
a compromise for some
fetish
must have i forgotten from where
these hands come?
someone says these hands are from
the hands of God
whose hands hand what we do not have
in hand yet
these hands did what was wrong then
and covered the face of the
penitent and the remorseful
these hands that slap a face that
triggered a gunfire
that lay upon the hardened breasts
and held breaths
these hands that write now for you
face upside down not asking for anything in return
these hands that speak for you
as you turn your head for someone else.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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