Gifts Of Silences...
here we are again pinning needles
in our epidermal existences
trying to pierce every flesh
carefully noting every bursting of pus
and blood
mapping out the cartilages and bones
of our sorrows
two years more and perhaps another
twenty years of
existence
in order to understand the meaning of life
a life that lies there naked
so tempting and scented by the thousand jasmines
and saffrons
on spiced blankets
rosemary and lemon grass
and basil in every seams
of the pillows
the hands of time keep gripping
what ought to be mine (or even hours)
it does not know how to give
what we want to sip and savor
and caress
the eyes of the storms stare at us with
anger ready to strike us with its fits
and fists
this pilgrimage tiptoes on slow feet
because we are all tired figuring out what is real
oasis from the
mirage of the heat of the desert beyond us
we like to see the white seagulls feasting on a school
of fish
at the coastal collateral of our side trips
a little drink from the hands of the vestal virgins
some kisses from the dewy lips of dawn
a warm morning's hug, and nights non stop
fleshy circus
there are many things more to do
more events to attend too and many other letters
to compose
by then night has come with the gifts of silence
and then i say, ' i do, i will keep on doing what is there to make
the best of yet to come'
keep listening Beethoven, keep dancing Lady Dianne
we are here watching.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Related quotes
Your Shoe-Size
Your shoe-size fits me but,
I don't sleep with my legs wide open;
Your head cover fits me but,
I don't pray with my hands down;
I have been longing for many years to see you.
Let us pursue the things which are peaceful,
Like life in the land of monkeys;
Let us pursue the things which are joyful,
Like life in the land of donkeys;
But do cancel my records out of your mind if,
You don't want me.
Twenty-three thousand fell in one day,
But flesh and blood cannot inherit the Kindom of Yahweh;
Death is the string of sin so,
Do cancel my name out of your history book.
Men have one flesh,
Birds have another flesh,
Beasts have another flesh,
Fish have another flesh,
But all flesh is not the same!
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Bianca
Her cheeks are hot, her cheeks are white;
The white girl hardly breathes to-night,
So faint the pulses come and go,
That waken to a smouldering glow
The morbid faintness of her white.
What drowsing heats of sense, desire
Longing and languorous, the fire
Of what white ashes, subtly mesh
The fascination of her flesh
Into a breathing web of fire?
Only her eyes, only her mouth,
Live, in the agony of drouth,
Athirst for that which may not be:
The desert of virginity
Aches in the hotness of her mouth.
I take her hands into my hands,
Silently, and she understands;
I set my lips upon her lips;
Shuddering to her finger-tips
She strains my hands within her hands.
I set my lips on hers; they close
Into a false and phantom rose;
Upon her thirsting lips I rain
A flood of kisses, and in vain;
Her lips inexorably close.
Through her closed lips that cling to mine,
Her hands that hold me and entwine,
Her body that abondoned lies,
Rigid with sterile ecstasies,
A shiver knits her flesh to mine.
Life sucks into a mist remote
Her fainting lips, her throbbing throat;
Her lips that open to my lips,
And, hot against her finger-tips,
The pulses leaping in her throat.
poem by Arthur Symons
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En Tout Cas
WHEN I am glad I need your eyes
To be the stars of Paradise;
Your lips to be the seal of all
The joy life grants, and dreams recall;
Your hand, to lie my hands between
What time we walk the garden green.
But most in grief I need your face
To lean to mine in the desert place;
Your lips to mock the evil years,
To sweeten me my cup of tears,
Your eyes to shine, in cloud's despite,
Your hands to hold mine through the night.
poem by Edith Nesbit
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Twenty Years
I burned the bridge. There's no going back.
Would never be ten or fifteen again.
Opening my eyes to a blood red sky
Designed with black and all shades of darkness
Inscribed in it was 'Welcome To Life'
I cried and cried, everyone smiled and grinned
I really don't wanna be here but ssshh
You can't say that, life is for living
The dead hath no friendship with the living
Holding the back of hope's hand
On the other hand holding tightly
The photograph of the days of my life.
I run for my dear...not so dear life
Here comes the seasons changing on me again
When it rains, it pours, I drown, and become rain
When it shines, it burns, I ignite, and become passion
There's been no rain, I prayed
Took an umbrella, with faith in my chest
I chilled under the sky for an answer
It didn't rain, so I went for a gin
Twenty years. Twenty failures. One cynic.
Pure Russian water wash through my bleeding soul.
Twenty years looking for something
Not sure what, the whole world is moving
I'm standing, chilling, and stilling
A confused fish, stuck in life, a tough shore
Death and nothingness, the peaceful ocean
How do you fill up an empty heart?
Twenty years with an empty side
The best way to give your life a meaning
Is to give someone's life a meaning
Twenty years, I've sounded an alarm
To the higher heavens, to the Only one
But how do you give what you don't have?
Twenty years. Twenty heartbreaks. Twenty failures. Twenty prayers.
Twenty kisses. Twenty goodbyes.
Twenty attempts. Still breathing.
Twenty caresses by Him who wooed me young
He who loves and chases me old
Yet His absence is chilling and silence, killing.
Twenty years. Of clueless motions.
And the crowds' mental insanity.
Twenty years. History has told her story.
Time is penning my story.
I repeat again; I wish I knew
At any point knew how life should be lived.
Twenty years. Prince Charming. Remained a frog, or perhaps had disdain for sleeping beauty.
Twenty years. The rain is pouring, my heart is needing
But the umbrella's missing.
Disney made me dream...weak...love
My prince charming in shining armour is...a...fairy...in a child's tale.
Gloom is norm. Loneliness is my bestie.
Twenty years. What do you want to be in Twenty years?
I wish you well.
Me? I'm just searching...for the sea.
poem by Jenim Dibie
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Watching Me Fall
I've been watching me fall for it seems like years
Watching me grow small, i watch me disappear
Slipping out my ordinary world, out my ordinary eyes
Yeah slipping out the ordinary me into someone else's life
Into someone else's life...
There's a thin white cold new moon and the snow is coming down
And the neon bright tokyo lights flicker through the crowd
I've been drifting around for hours and i'm lost and i'm tired
When a whisper in my ear insatiable breathes
"why don't you follow me inside?..."
Yeah the room is small, the room is bright
Her hair is black, the bed is white
And the night is always young
Is always young... always young
The night is always young...
Yeah i've been seeing them strip to the bone in the mirror on the wall
Seeing her swallow him whole like it's not me at all
She holds out her hands and i follow her down to my knees
And the sucking inside insatiable smiles
"you will forget yourself in me..."
Yeah the room is small, the room is bright
Her eyes are black, the bed is white
And the night is always young
And the night goes on and on
And the night is always young
And the night is never over and over and over and over and over...
And this it's gone
And this it's gone
Yeah then it's gone
Yeah it's a cruel mean cold new day and outside the snow is still coming down
And in the blood red tokyo bed i watch me coming round
She pulled him down for hours
Deeper than i've ever been
And as i fall in the mirror on the wall
I'm watching me scream
I'm watching me scream
I'm watching me scream
I'm watching me scream
Yeah i've been watching me go for it must be years
Watching me get slow, i watch me disappear
And one day, yeah i know, i won't come back at all...
And always over and over in his ordinary eyes
I'm watching me fall
I'm watching me fall
I'm watching me fall
I'm watching me fall
song performed by by Cure
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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We are after all, human skins...
fOR The meantime tHAT
tENderness has not arrived yet
the Truth is
we survive with what is present
and Available
The one not felt but well used
We claim the right still to enjoy
The temporary wrong ones
Until the upright comes
The ONe THAT liberates us from this
Madness
This ticking flesh, this mirage in the
middle of our deserts
Until we feel the
coolness of our Oasis
It is the aridity that is here
That makes us drunk with Air
NOw, when the promised truth comes
We too shall drink to that
They must understand what we are made of
We are not made of wood
or steel
We are all flesh and blood and bones
soft cartilages, elastic veins,
hairy skin, nails that do not feel
pain
a little of that,
but more of the vast skin that
feels the prick
of the bodkin.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Pie In The Sky
It takes photon power
And eight minutes of an hour
To make it to our sun
And I know it sounds weird
But itll take you four years
To make the next one
Expanding border
Thats the sauce
Of chaos
And thats an order
Thats an order
So stomp your feet
And clap your hands
Get out of your seat
And do a little dance
Lift up your voice
And sing with glee
Now listen carefully to me
Desert your quarters
Behold the pie in the sky
And thats an order
Thats an order
Thats an order [7x]
song performed by by Frank Black
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Pleasure (upon Request, I Am Posting This Back)
Pink nipples and
Cow’s milk on my table
On my bed
Your pink nakedness
Spread
Dipped
In the grassy coolness
Beneath a gray, open space
I touch your pubic softness
With my jitters
I breathe in the smell
Of your earth
I exhale caress
Like my tonque
Dripping words
In your ears
I lay back
My legs spread
Towards the moon
It is the night of my life
And I shall long for you always
I am burdened
But your weight
Shall smash me into
Meteors of my galaxy
And I shall be light
Piercing into your darkness
The darkness
That I now so loved
I am still
I can quiver
To this night of loving
And I must not stop
To this undying
It is this
When our bodies
When our two bodies fit
Into the hollowness
Of our solitude
I shall have a soul shaped
Into hands
Putting a red rose
Between your lips
And giving it longer life
I dampen it with
My truths
The fearful dryness
Shall be lost in the wells
And the rivers that won’t dry
My hands shall map
The secret paths of your body
Your lines shall melt me
Your touch
Shall cause the rapture
Of my stillness
To an endless space
Of our universe
I ask how
The cruelties of this earth
Shall conceal the sweet contours
Of this pleasure
A small world of the
Damp, wet, and gray,
Of the heat, the dripping and
The force and softness
Entwined in the oneness of
Irony and even disbelief
That I that I can make
This world
Through closed eyes
In such a closed space
Yet bursting into
An infinite openness
The silence of a thousand
Quivers
Savor, savor, savor, the pleasures
Of my small world
Unshared by the multitude
The crowd unthinking
As it is only you
I care
I worship
I kept inside
Unshared by all
My little pleasure
Yet encompassing my whole universe
Unfathomed, unscaled,
But now totally known
By me
By you alone
And words
Find no space
To justify their existence,
ahhhhhhhh, -
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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P L E A S U R E
Pink nipples and
Cow’s milk on my table
On my bed
Your pink nakedness
Spread
Dipped
In the grassy coolness
Beneath a gray, open space
I touch your pubic softness
With my jitters
I breathe in the smell
Of your earth
I exhale caress
Like my tonque
Dripping words
In your ears
I lay back
My legs spread
Towards the moon
It is the night of my life
And I shall long for you always
I am burdened
But your weight
Shall smash me into
Meteors of my galaxy
And I shall be light
Piercing into your darkness
The darkness
That I now so loved
I am still
I can quiver
To this night of loving
And I must not stop
To this undying
It is this
When our bodies
When our two bodies fit
Into the hollowness
Of our solitude
I shall have a soul shaped
Into hands
Putting a red rose
Between your lips
And giving it longer life
I dampen it with
My truths
The fearful dryness
Shall be lost in the wells
And the rivers that won’t dry
My hands shall map
The secret paths of your body
Your lines shall melt me
Your touch
Shall cause the rapture
Of my stillness
To an endless space
Of our universe
I ask how
The cruelties of this earth
Shall conceal the sweet contours
Of this pleasure
A small world of the
Damp, wet, and gray,
Of the heat, the dripping and
The force and softness
Entwined in the oneness of
Irony and even disbelief
That I that I can make
This world
Through closed eyes
In such a closed space
Yet bursting into
An infinite openness
The silence of a thousand
Quivers
Savor, savor, savor, the pleasures
Of my small world
Unshared by the multitude
The crowd unthinking
As it is only you
I care
I worship
I kept inside
Unshared by all
My little pleasure
Yet encompassing my whole universe
Unfathomed, unscaled,
But now totally known
By me
By you alone
And words
Find no space
To justify their existence,
Ahhhhhhhh, -
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Twenty year old friendship
Twenty year old friendship
It was this month
Twenty years ago
I came across you
And took you with me
Since then
You are my conscious keeper
I looked at you
For anything and every thing
I look at you
As soon I wake up
I look at you
As I take my breakfast
I look at you
As I leave for office
Whenever there are challenges
I look at you
And you always give me a breather
And you used to say
There is time still
When I look at you in the event
Of an unfavourable situation
You smile with your hands spread
And say
You should have done something about this
Much earlier
Whenever I am in a rush
Whether it is to attend a meeting
Or to catch a flight, train or bus
I look at you
You will say either there is time still
Or you should have left earlier
It is difficult to say
As to when I have not consulted you
Every now and then
I look at you
And you never failed me
You were prompt although
To give me the help I need
I will not say you kept me on my toes
But, yes, you helped me keep my times
Any event, joyful or otherwise
As soon as it occurred
I would look at you
You kept me telling indirectly
That things keep pace with time
And change
Your message was always
That time is the best healer
And is the best in sorting issues
As you know time puts things
At their right place
For all these I have done nothing to you
But to feed you
With a small disc
This feed is good enough for you
To keep yourself performing
For months
You might have fallen sick
Thrice in these twenty years
Never once I spent
More than the consultation fee, which I pay
To my medical practitioner
I see of late
You are running slow
Because of this long twenty years’ running
May be, soon I will stop
Consulting you
And I am planning to put you to rest
My dear, twenty years old Titan watch
poem by Bashyam Narayanan
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The First Jasmines
Ah, these jasmines, these white jasmines!
I seem to remember the first day when I filled my hands with
these jasmines, these white jasmines.
I have loved the sunlight, the sky and the green earth;
I have heard the liquid murmur of the river thorough the
darkness of midnight;
Autumn sunsets have come to me at the bend of a road in the
lonely waste, like a bride raising her veil to accept her lover.
Yet my memory is still sweet with the first white jasmines
that I held in my hands when I was a child.
Many a glad day has come in my life, and I have laughed with
merrymakers on festival nights.
On grey mornings of rain I have crooned many an idle song.
I have worn round my neck the evening wreath of bakulas woven
by the hand of love.
Yet my heart is sweet with the memory of the first fresh
jasmines that filled my hands when I was a child.
poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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Dawn Is A Feeling
Dawn is a feeling,
A beautiful ceiling.
The smell of grass
Just makes you pass
Into a dream.
You're here today,
No future fears,
This day will last
A thousand years
If you want it to.
You look around you,
Things they astound you
So breathe in deep,
You're not asleep,
Open your mind.
You're here today,
No future fears,
This day will last
A thousand years
If you want it to.
Do you understand
That all over this land
There's a feeling?
In minds far and near
Things are becoming clear
With a meaning.
Now that you're knowing
Pleasure starts flowing.
It's true life flies
Faster than eyes
Could ever see.
You're here today.
No future fears.
This day will last
A thousand years
If you want it to.
song performed by by Moody Blues
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Dead To The Living
Work while it is day: the night cometh, when no man can work.
IN the childhood of April, while purple woods
With the young year's blood in them smiled,
I passed through the lanes and the wakened fields,
And stood by the grave of the child.
And the pain awoke that is never dead
Though it sometimes sleeps, and again
It set its teeth in this heart of mine,
And fastened its claws in my brain:
For it seemed so hard that the little hands
And the little well-loved head
Should be out of reach of my living lips,
And be side by side with the dead--
Not side by side with us who had loved,
But with these who had never seen
The grace of the smile, the gold of the hair,
And the eyes of my baby-queen.
Yet with trees about where the brown birds build,
And with long green grass above,
She lies in the cold sweet breast of earth
Beyond the reach of our love;
Whatever befalls in the coarse loud world,
We know she will never wake.
When I thought of the sorrow she might have known,
I was almost glad for her sake. . . .
Tears might have tired those kiss-closed eyes,
Grief hardened the mouth I kissed;
I was almost glad that my dear was dead
Because of the pain she had missed.
Oh, if I could but have died a child
With a white child-soul like hers,
As pure as the wind-flowers down in the copse,
Where the soul of the spring's self stirs;
Or if I had only done with it all,
And might lie by her side unmoved!
I envied the very clods of earth
Their place near the child I loved!
And my soul rose up in revolt at life,
As I stood dry-eyed by her grave,
When sudden the grass of the churchyard sod
Rolled back like a green smooth wave;
The brown earth looked like the brown sea rocks,
The tombstones were white like spray,
And white like surf were the curling folds
Of the shrouds where the dead men lay;
For each in his place with his quiet face
I saw the dead lie low,
Who had worked and suffered and found life sad,
So many sad years ago.
Unchanged by time I saw them lie
As when first they were laid to rest,
The tired eyes closed, the sad lips still,
And the work-worn hands on the breast.
There were some who had found the green world so grey,
They had left it before their time,
And some were little ones like my dear,
And some had died in their prime;
And some were old, they had had their fill
Of bitter unfruitful hours,
And knew that none of them, none, had known
A flower of a hope like ours!
Through their shut eyelids the dead looked up,
And without a voice they said:
'We lived without hope, without hope we died,
And hopeless we lie here dead;
And death is better than life that draws
Pain in, as it draws in breath,
If life never dreams of a coming day
When life shall not envy death.
Through the dark of our hours and our times we lived,
Uncheered by a single ray
Of such hope as lightens the lives of you
Who are finding life hard to-day;
With our little lanterns of human love
We lighted our dark warm night--
But you in the chill of the dawn are set
With your face to the eastern light.
Freedom is waiting with hands held out
Till you tear the veil from her face--
And when once men have seen the light of her eyes,
And felt her divine embrace,
The light of the world will be risen indeed,
And will shine in the eyes of men,
And those who come after will find life fair,
And their lives worth living then!
Will you strive to the light in your loud rough world,
That these things may come to pass,
Or lie in the shadow beside the child,
And strive to the sun through the grass?'
'My world while I may,' I cried; 'but you
Whose lives were as dark as your grave?'
'We too are a part of the coming light,'
They called through the smooth green wave.
Their white shrouds gleamed as the flood of green
Rolled over and hid them from me--
Hid all but the little hands and the hair,
And the face that I always see.
poem by Edith Nesbit
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The Mother
Here I lean over you, small son, sleeping
Warm in my arms,
And I con to my heart all your dew-fresh charms,
As you lie close, close in my hungry hold . . .
Your hair like a miser's dream of gold,
And the white rose of your face far fairer,
Finer, and rarer
Than all the flowers in the young year's keeping;
Over lips half parted your low breath creeping
Is sweeter than violets in April grasses;
Though your eyes are fast shut I can see their blue,
Splendid and soft as starshine in heaven,
With all the joyance and wisdom given
From the many souls who have stanchly striven
Through the dead years to be strong and true.
Those fine little feet in my worn hands holden . . .
Where will they tread ?
Valleys of shadow or heights dawn-red?
And those silken fingers, O, wee, white son,
What valorous deeds shall by them be done
In the future that yet so distant is seeming
To my fond dreaming?
What words all so musical and golden
With starry truth and poesy olden
Shall those lips speak in the years on-coming?
O, child of mine, with waxen brow,
Surely your words of that dim to-morrow
Rapture and power and grace must borrow
From the poignant love and holy sorrow
Of the heart that shrines and cradles you now!
Some bitter day you will love another,
To her will bear
Love-gifts and woo her . . . then must I share
You and your tenderness! Now you are mine
From your feet to your hair so golden and fine,
And your crumpled finger-tips . . . mine completely,
Wholly and sweetly;
Mine with kisses deep to smother,
No one so near to you now as your mother!
Others may hear your words of beauty,
But your precious silence is mine alone;
Here in my arms I have enrolled you,
Away from the grasping world I fold you,
Flesh of my flesh and bone of my bone!
poem by Lucy Maud Montgomery
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The Suicide
For fifty years,
Cruel, insatiable Old World.
You have punched me over the heart
Till you made me cough blood.
The few paltry things I gathered
You snatched out of my hands.
You have knocked the cup from my thirsty lips.
You have laughed at my hunger of body and soul.
You look at me now and think,
'He is still strong,
There ought to be twenty more years of good punching there.
At the end of that time he will be old and broken,
Not able to strike back,
But cringing and crying for leave
To live a little longer.'
Those twenty, pitiful, extra years
Would please you more than the fifty past,
Would they not, Old World?
Well, I hold them up before your greedy eyes,
And snatch them away as I laugh in your face,
Ha! Ha!
Bang —!
poem by James Weldon Johnson
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Old Hands And Old Eyes....
old hands unbutton
the blouse of the day.
old hands make coffee,
open the dusty blinds.
old hands wash a few dishes,
make breakfast for the dogs...
old hands feed the stray cat,
make toast and wait.
old eyes caress the sunlight
as if an old friend.
old eyes see the work,
yet stop, to touch the morning.
old eyes kiss the trees,
the squirrels, and distant mountains.
old eyes ache with longing,
and amazement.
old hands and old eyes
begin the journey anew.
listening intently for the footfall,
for another candle, a hoe.
for the scent of nearness,
perhaps only remembered.
old hands and old eyes,
take the plow, the hammer,
and the nails....
old hands and old eyes,
waiting for love!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Impentitent Ultima
Before my light goes out for ever if God should give me a choice of
graces,
I would not reck of length of days, nor crave for things to be;
But cry: 'One day of the great lost days, one face of all the faces,
Grant me to see and touch once more and nothing more to see.
'For, Lord, I was free of all Thy flowers, but I chose the world's
sad roses,
And that is why my feet are torn and mine eyes are blind with sweat,
But at Thy terrible judgment-seat, when this my tired life closes,
I am ready to reap whereof I sowed, and pay my righteous debt.
'But once before the sand is run and the silver thread is broken,
Give me a grace and cast aside the veil of dolorous years,
Grant me one hour of all mine hours, and let me see for a token
Her pure and pitiful eyes shine out, and bathe her feet with tears.'
Her pitiful hands should calm, and her hair stream down and blind me,
Out of the sight of night, and out of the reach of fear,
And her eyes should be my light whilst the sun went out behind me,
And the viols in her voice be the last sound in mine ear.
Before the ruining waters fall and my life be carried under,
And Thine anger cleave me through as a child cuts down a flower,
I will praise Thee, Lord in Hell, while my limbs are racked asunder,
For the last sad sight of her face and the little grace of an hour.
poem by Ernest Christopher Dowson
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The POET from the POEM
That lady -
whose eyes can see no ordinary eyes can see,
and desolate winds crying for her name
till truth and lies are all the same;
who knows how she ate the stars at night,
yet left the old moon sleeping in the sky?
Certainly she married that awful death
only not to die.
Out of her hands there came blood,
till blood covered her flesh.
And the blood had life...had sweeter life
till blood became her flesh.
How can you know the poet from the poem,
or sift the melody from its song?
Judge me, for I'll say
that lady -
is the poet and he being the blood, her poem.
poem by Jessel Jane Tevar
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The Tragedy Of The Man
for years he followed the fool
idolized that foolishness even
he lost himself and could not recover
back his real identity
was he able to drink that
witch's potion?
one day his eyes open
to the other possibilities
realized that the witch is eating him piece by piece
until only his bones were left
it was too late
he is only a set of bones
without any cartilages
to link one
to the other
that i think was his tragedy
and so we pray
may the witch die
may our potions expire
may we know how to graft
flesh
may we know how to
wrap with skin
our bones
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Did I Not Say To You
Did I not say to you, “Go not there, for I am your friend; in this
mirage of annihilation I am the fountain of life?”
Even though in anger you depart a hundred thousand years
from me, in the end you will come to me, for I am your goal.
Did I not say to you, “Be not content with worldly forms, for I
am the fashioner of the tabernacle of your contentment?”
Did I not say to you, “I am the sea and you are a single fish;
go not to dry land, for I am your crystal sea?”
Did I not say to you, “ Go not like birds to the snare; come, for
I am the power of flight and your wings and feet?”
Did I not say to you, “ They will waylay you and make you
cold, for I am the fire and warmth and heat of your desire?”
Did I not say to you, “ They will implant in you ugly qualities
so that you will forget that I am the source of purity to you?”
Did I not say to you, “Do not say from what direction the ser-
vant’s affairs come into order?” I am the Creator without
directions.
If you are the lamp of the heart, know where the road is to the
house; and if you are godlike of attribute, know that I am your
Maser.