Fragility
a petal door
Marooned
A tendril knob
For fear that i
May leave an imprint
Of unforgetable
Destruction
I decide not to touch
Any surface
Upon my departure
I have gloved hands and
My body is a closed
Luggage
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Reminder From A Son-in-law To His Mother-in-law
be kind to me
fake mama, do not say
words unkind
as i also leave words
sharp as mongol pencil
in my study table
to your harsh questions
i do not answer and to your answers
to my pleadings
i do not make any reply
this is the best arrangement of the furniture
behind it is the closed door and to that door knob
is the lost key.
there is the window glass
a little bit frosty
i see your face and body and in vagueness
you also see me
on those cold early mornings
when the leaves still own the dew
when the birds are still asleep
take note
we all become interesting.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Unforgetable She
Unforgetable she
Because she is my sister
That got divorce from her husband 2 weeks ago
Unforgetable she
She has trouble sleeping at night
Unforgetable she
She just gets sick every time she looks at that leather sofa that her ex Husband slept
Unforgetable she
That has to live alone again with her dog
But her dog keeps her company
And it becomes a friend to her also
If she can't have a good relationship with people
At least she can have a good one with her dog
poem by Aldo Kraas
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You See My Smile?
Your wishes are mine to fulfill?
And your happiness is based on my reactions?
And your dreams are in my eyes?
Well...
See that door?
With that knob?
Turn that knob on that door.
And believe you are on the other side of it!
I was prepared to have a nice date.
It has been awhile.
However...
You see my smile?
I am determined to keep it,
Right where it is.
You or anyone else will not take it away!
Not after it took some time to find my face!
And out of my place,
You can begin taking your pace!
Slow if you wish...
But do it!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Friends?
i am extending my hand
like a door knob of my door
you are here just in front of me
where i am seated
with a rose in my mouth
please open the door
and please take my red rose
with your lips
do not speak any word
let me feast upon your face
your body, your soul
it has been a long time
and my world stopped turning.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Suicide (Distance)
the long slow breath
of your indifferent stare...
miles away, across the room.
your words ring hollow,
and your face disappears
in the gloved hand
that dares not touch...
i planted flowers by your grave,
but i fear the birds
have eaten the last seeds...
i die on your cross
in a land you dare not go to...
behind a door
you choose not to open!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Petal Game
pick a flower
to play the petal game
pluck a petal
he loves me
pluck a petal
I don't love him
pluck a petal
he keeps getting closer
pluck a petal
I keep pushing him away
pluck a petal
he is always around me
pluck a petal
I hide away from him
pluck a petal
he is always protecting me
pluck a petal
I just punch him in the gut
pluck a petal
he never seems to get it
pluck a petal
I really hate his guts
pluck a petal
he just really bugs me
pluck a petal
I need a new flower now
pick a flower
to play the petal game
poem by Amber Lyn Charneski
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Dear Goodfew, Regarding the Poems I Sent
Don't worry about reading them.
If good enough they will keep.
If bad they will linger like old garbage
placed outside a neighbor's door
in the middle of the night only to
wrap tightly around when opening
a morning door to leave for work,
pushed back, turned off, sour,
5 flights of breathless descent
cursing the occupant in 5A.
The front door slams behind.
Stepping into sunlight and shadow
the day is won, has worn away the
mal-odors of morning. Burn now
instead to live, to leave a strong
rot when put out a lover's door
because of laziness,
a partial rejection hung upon a knob.
poem by Warren Falcon
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An Early Morning Departure...
when i wake up
this morning
the door is half-open
i did not touch
it
something in its
rough feel
still hurts my
fingers
someone i love
so well
left me before
i could see her
face again
it was her
who touched that door
very early
that morning
it is departure
that i felt and that
which i cannot
touch again
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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It would be me
It would be me
Not anybody else
Dear my family, dear my friend
It would be me to live my life
Not anybody else
Though someone I adore
Though someone I really want to be
It would be me who decide my path
Not anybody else
Through my dream, through my hatred
Through my power, through my shame
If I say ‘yes’ some door will be opened, some closed
It would be me which way I choose
If I say ‘no’ some door will be opened anyway, some closed
Not anybody else who face my test
If I ‘m confused some will hurt or gone, some will take a time
Though someone replaces me, though someone is better
It would be me
Not anybody else
Who live now, who breathe this time
In this body, in this mind, with this soul
It would be me
Not anybody else
Though I go hiding somewhere, don’t know what to do anyway
I should live, I would continue my life as long as I still breathe
It would be me
Not anybody else
Who live my life
poem by Maria Sudibyo
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Automatic Door
No mantra to utter
No knob to turn
No button to touch
Mere presence
In the vicinity
Opens to eternity
Automatic door.
Sensor for each sense
Motor for the move
Timer for the delay
Logic and software
Embedded in the hardware
Hidden from the view
Automation at service
Comfort and convenience
Man's many inventions
Holding their ground
Life's little pleasures
Spring out and abound.
End of my shopping
Both hands full
I walk to the door
It slides open
A great wonder
Of modern world.
poem by Tirupathi Chandrupatla
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Fire Dream
A dazzling fire white flash
Illumines deep into my night sky.
I stare in amazed awe...
As timidly I wonder,
Am I - is anyone - ever ready to die?
A question without answer,
Perhaps the answer is without reason
And therefore cannot find expression.
Death - like this blinding light - stands before me, blazing.
Neither can be denied;
By way of such pondering
I find closer to the light I am drawn,
Or it to me -
At the lights center now I see
A spot fading just low enough for recognition,
It is the size and shape of an ordinary door.
Curiosity driven by desire to understand
Holds at bay my fear of daunting death,
So I move further into the great light,
Toward the doorway -
This closed door seems to beg me to open
- open it or myself I am uncertain -
Three feet from it's threshold I see
It is a door of burning cold-fire,
The knob solid gold...
Without lock.
From beyond the door I now hear music
- very good music -
My desire intensifies!
As does the rhythm of my heart beats,
Slowly I reach, and then grasp
The golden knob...
I awake!
Lying in bed, in the darkness of night,
Shaking, my mind roils,
Vexing, what had it all meant?
And where, and why, had it went?
A felicitous vagary; an arduous vision;
I do not know for certain.
Only this from my enigmatic dream
Do I comprehend:
Death does truly await me,
Perhaps though it is not to be quite so feared
As I once believed.
There may even be great joy and surprise
On the other side of that effulgent doorway.
I can only but trust God
To, someday, open it for me,
It is not mine to do. And
For that,
I am exceedingly grateful.
poem by Smoky Hoss
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Transcendental Incremental 14,15,16 beats
The wherewithal within us all, remains a quest too far
If time should cease in times like these, but leave the door ajar
The door which guards us from ourselves, both keeping out and in
The doorway to the land of Elves, of pleasure and of sin
For therein lies the course, of course. The path to see the self
To poke, provoke and twist the joke we should leave on the shelf
As not all that derives from us, will surface as it should
Some sources lead to bitter seeds, not every core is good.
Lifetime's filter, out of kilter, clouding how and what we see
Let the door swing to and fro, revealing things I may yet be.
Contradictive contraband, once stowed away for fear of capture
Gilded over with the gloss of our internal self-made rapture.
poem by Hola Mentirosa
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The Hands.... (That Dared To Speak!)
the hands....
that cleaned the old man
lying on urine stained sheets,
that planted the bulbs
in the old woman's flower bed.
that washed the dishes
for forty years....
the hands...
that built the old barn,
that plowed the fields,
that harvested the crops....
the hands...
that stroked desire's body,
that found each secret treasure,
that closed the window.
that held the baby,
that taught the child to write,
that buttoned his suit
on the day he was married.
the hands....
that buried the body,
that brushed leaves from the grave,
that packed away pictures.
the hands....
that picked up the pen,
that turned bloodstained pages,
that dared to speak!
the hands...
now old and withered,
painfully bruised,
often clasped in prayer,
that open to take the small child's hand;
that unlock the door,
and beckon to those in need...
the hands...
poem by Eric Cockrell
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We Are Converging
Wanting to be heard.
Wanting to be valued.
Wanting to be acknowledged.
Wanting to sustain a way of life...
Fading.
To emerge once again and surge.
Wanting to be admired.
Wanting most to be thought as best!
Wanting to imprint an impression...
That conflicts and unrest,
Did not from them initiate...
The perpetuating of protests.
Nor did the rise of destruction, fear and insecurities...
Leave this world in a chaotic mess.
We are converging!
And peace...
Will be the final test.
Many want.
Many wish.
Many hope to fill all hearts with love.
Instead of a digressive emptiness.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Giving Love Its Due Freedom
seeing both of you
gives me that feeling
that i am not alone
that i have cut off
possibilities in me
and then i leave you both
in your sweetest moment together
as you close the door
against me
i go back to the place where
i belong
where i have grown trimmed
like a bonsai
i bow down to earth
humbly
acknowledging gratitude
i have nothing to curse
it is simply my own arms embracing my own body
my hands clasped as one
eyes closed in happy acceptance
i do not envy love
i always give it freedom.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Lets Stay Engaged
It might be late
but it won't be early
you got me to the gate
with time for a coffee
it's getting late
sounds like a departure
it's getting close
sounds to me like a departure
Until we meet again
lets stay engaged
until then
lets stay engaged
Lies over time
float to the surface
lies over time
they equal surface
lies over time
though the reasons desert us
lies over time
with no apparent purpose
Until we meet again
lets stay engaged
until then
lets stay engaged
See the dead art
and you see your reflection
fear no art
and you fear no reflection
but don't look at me
I'm not the artist in question
sounds good to me
but I'm not the artist in question
Until we meet again
lets stay engaged
until then
lets stay engaged
song performed by by The Tragically Hip from Trouble At The Henhouse
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Passing Of A Heart
O touch me with your hands--
For pity's sake!
My brow throbs ever on with such an ache
As only your cool touch may take away;
And so, I pray
You, touch me with your hands!
Touch--touch me with your hands.--
Smooth back the hair
You once caressed, and kissed, and called so fair
That I did dream its gold would wear alway,
And lo, to-day--
O touch me with your hands!
Just touch me with your hands,
And let them press
My weary eyelids with the old caress,
And lull me till I sleep. Then go your way,
That Death may say:
He touched her with his hands.
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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Supply And Demand..
mothers of our nations produce babies,
to send them as immigrant workers:
work at the plantation to yield,
toil at the construction field,
sweat at the rig with oily hands,
sweep the roads with gloved hands,
hit the key board to program,
touch the patients to diagnose,
build the machines to fly and float,
and a few be the customers,
to the whores for comfort and to rot.
poem by Veeraiyah Subbulakshmi
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Fear Within Me
The fear has rushed back into me.
The door has closed
and sealed my bravery.
What was once strong
Is now weak from fear.
Fear is stronger
Then thought possible.
A war is inside me,
Fighting to balance
The fear I feel.
My fear will try
And have a victory,
But I won't let it win.
I will overcome my fear
And my reward will be victory.
poem by Tracey Wynn
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What Shall You Do Then?
three fingers shall
touch a wooden box
for a time
this box is closed
but you are told
of a surprise that
this box shall
give you
the moment you give
in to the temptation
to just touch it
try it and be amazed
with what it will give you
there is no name
that i shall give to that which
gives you pleasure
when you agree
to touch it
it is pleasurable
i have seen it
but i will not tell you
until you touch it
first
with your three
fingers
i will give you another hint
be responsible
for what you decide
specifically for what you
touch
for in pleasure there is
always that accompanying pain
like the two faces of the woman
that you once loved
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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