Gotnothintodo2day
got nothing to do 2day
just scribbling and chatting to a friend
who is also pretending to be someone else
feigning happiness and embracing all the sadness
like, well, i have to admit,
like us.
i don't even know if i have to stop scribbling
whatshamakalit, a poem? gee,
i don't know
i am simply unstoppable,
bad, and too
earthly.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Art For Art's Sake
it is art for art's sake
nothing more nothing less
shy away from popularity
delve on the magnanimity of
your day to day task
this art for art's sake
like scribbling for nothing
just scribbling and scribbling
like hearing and then writing
brown leaves fall upon
brown leaves on the ground
over the roots of trees
decay comes like everything
destined to be rotten
and then you sleep on some
cool shade
smelling the flavor of your
silent labor
art for art's sake
who needs your rating?
art for art's sake is like breathing
getting in your lungs
what is invisible to the eye
and yet so essential
the inevitable and the inextricable
the ineluctable the inexorable
it is like taking all the entrances
and then accepting
that there are no exits
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Another Plan
Editor Owen, of San Jose,
Commonly known as 'our friend J.J.'
Weary of scribbling for daily bread,
Weary of writing what nobody read,
Slept one day at his desk and dreamed
That an angel before him stood and beamed
With compassionate eyes upon him there.
Editor Owen is not so fair
In feature, expression, form or limb
But glances like that are familiar to him;
And so, to arrive by the shortest route
At his visitor's will he said, simply: 'Toot.'
'Editor Owen,' the angel said,
'Scribble no more for your daily bread.
Your intellect staggers and falls and bleeds,
Weary of writing what nobody reads.
Eschew now the quill-in the coming years
Homilize man through his idle ears.
Go lecture!' 'Just what I intended to do,'
Said Owen. The angel looked pained and flew.
Editor Owen, of San Jose,
Commonly known as 'our friend J.J.'
Scribbling no more to supply his needs,
Weary of writing what nobody reads,
Passes of life each golden year
Speaking what nobody comes to hear.
poem by Ambrose Bierce
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The Rest Of My Life
Dont look now but theres another rocky road
Another heavy why? of the much 2 heavy, heavy load
But 2day Im gonna face it, yeah, cuz Im sick of dealin any other way
Nobody said the race was fair but Im gonna keep runnin just the same
2day, 2day is the first day of the rest of my life
Dont look now but here comes another heartbreak
Benefit of the doubt Ill give it, control of my life Ive gotta take
Cuz Im alive and thats reason enough 4 me 2 bust a smile
Ive arrived and now I wanna stay 4 a little while
Cuz 2day, 2day is the first day of the rest of my life
Lets go
2day, 2day is the first day of the rest of my life
2day, 2day is the first day of the rest of my life
song performed by by Prince
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Addiction for M lady Kim
Addiction
I’ll exercise self discipline.
Today I will not write a word.
I have decided it’s no sin.
This constant scribbling’s absurd.
I choose a book and start to read
but then some phrase enraptures me.
Quite suddenly I feel the need
I have to write and urgently,
Before my train of thought is lost
I find my pad take up my pen
and writing in the style of Frost.
I find I’m scribbling again.
My muse cannot contain her glee.
She knows that she’s in charge not me.
20-Aug-08
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Tailor's daughter and the orphan boy
He writes to her; My dear sweetheart,
I want you to expose nothing but the truth.
There is no way to go outdoors
until my friend comes back.
Because he borrowed my one and only pant for an interview.
I heard that your kind father's looking for an apprentice
And I am the most eligible candidate for the position
As I darn my life everyday.
It's a great help if you could put this scribbling on top of your father's resume file.
And I hope to see you soon on my friend's arrival.
* I dedicate this poem to Irene Ryder for her 'Nobody's child_1971
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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In Examination
Lo! from quiet skies
In through the window my Lord the Sun!
And my eyes
Were dazzled and drunk with the misty gold,
The golden glory that drowned and crowned me
Eddied and swayed through the room . . .
Around me,
To left and to right,
Hunched figures and old,
Dull blear-eyed scribbling fools, grew fair,
Ringed round and haloed with holy light.
Flame lit on their hair,
And their burning eyes grew young and wise,
Each as a God, or King of kings,
White-robed and bright
(Still scribbling all);
And a full tumultuous murmur of wings
Grew through the hall;
And I knew the white undying Fire,
And, through open portals,
Gyre on gyre,
Archangels and angels, adoring, bowing,
And a Face unshaded . . .
Till the light faded;
And they were but fools again, fools unknowing,
Still scribbling, blear-eyed and stolid immortals.
poem by Rupert Brooke (1908)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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I have a notebook with me all the time, and I begin scribbling a few words. When things are going well, the walk does not get anywhere; I finally just stop and write.
quote by Mary Oliver
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My dark palace illuminate by street lamps
The stone pillow by the roadside shares my burden
And I have nothing to lose as I do not have any personal belongings,
So, I am not worried about thieves.
Though I sleep under the starry night stars belong to the sky
And I have only one friend an old rat who comes for a turnip.
He's so grateful as he only eats half and the rest keeps for me.
We used to sing together in lonely nights
Moon listens but very quiet.
* I dedicate this scribbling to the poet Charles Bukowski for his great poem 'A Man'.
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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My Parrot sings in the middle of the night
Boss! Why did you open the cage door?
I never betray you and I promise to stay further
Until you get your wings.
I dedicate this scribbling to my poet friend Jerry.Hughes
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Tapeworm
I feel a bowel disorder
And the doctor advised;
'Take some worm treatments.'
How could I withdraw my lifelong parasitic friend
We suffered together in my hard times?
* I dedicate this scribbling to my friend Nick Percowycz of Anchorville,
Michigan who's long lull worries me.
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Junk Yard
I searched everywhere;
Peace
Happiness
Justice
Good
Bad
Worst
Friends
Enimies
Toys
Pain
Beauty & Ugly
Truth, false..............everything
A lot there
And I do not have a paper to write down
But worthless take them back home
As all were rusty?
And on the way
When Helen of Troy called me Ureka;
'Hey! Archimedes where were you? '
Then only I found that I was nude?
* A friend of mine requested a script for a modern melodrama and this is not yet a completed scribbling?
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Do not expect too much
This is it, this is poetry
Written by this man
He is looking by his window
To the world like a little boy
Still wondering, scribbling
Some figures of man and
Superman, putting them wings
Imagining that soon they will fly,
Do not expect too much
I myself do not have wings
I do not promise you any
I am simply writing the view
The green ricefields I do not
Have rice for you to cook I do
Not have water for you to drink
I have these words, only you
Can convert them to steamed
Rice to cakes to bacons to ham
To fish to sea to clouds to sun
Or simply coffee for you to sip
When you still hunger for breakfast.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I’m Pretending
I’m pretending nothing happened,
that we are still together.
I’m pretending you never
went away with someone new.
I’m pretending we are still a couple,
that you are still nearby.
I’m pretending,
pretending
I am still with you.
I’m pretending that our love
still shines brightly.
I’m pretending that you still care
and lying to myself each day.
I’m pretending that you just stepped out
and that you are not far away.
I’m pretending,
pretending
I am still with you.
I’m pretending it always summer
and that winter never comes.
I’m pretending life is as it was
and I’m forever with you.
I’m pretending you are with me
and not in the arms of someone new.
I’m pretending that I am smiling
and that I’m not feeling blue.
I’m pretending,
pretending
I am still with you.
20 April 2009
poem by David Harris
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Chatting With A Friend
when you relax and forget about work for a while
chatting with a friend
about sweet nothings
about anything goes
some jokes and we all laugh
nothing about kiss and tell
nothing about the picture on the hill
just plain chatting
and in between she gets her cup of tea
while
i do some urinating
wait a minute, i have this poem
title it
friendship, now don't write about it,
just cherish it
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Poetry Is An Accelerator Of Time
i wake up
at 3 a.m.
symptomatic
of old age
and i open the
PC and start
scribbling
whatever comes
to my mind
a memory
a plan a
stream of
consciousness
that i simply
let go
like a flow
of an idea like
an electricity
running inside
my veins
three poems
and then
i stretch my
legs and
wriggle my
hands and
blink my eyes
grasping for
something new
now it is
4: 42 a.m.
how fast time can
run
to a man as slow
as i am.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I Went To Where The Sadness Is
I WENT TO WHERE THE SADNESS IS
I went to where the Sadness is
And tried to lie down there
But no one heard my cry
And so I went far away-
To a place where there is no Sadness-
And there I simply laughed and sang all day and all night
Until the Sadness came suddenly back to me
And took me into a deeper world I did not love
From where I now write this poem happily.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Mr. Fantasy was the only song that was scribbling on a piece of paper.
quote by Jim Capaldi
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Long Poems & Short Stories
Some think that a story has no place
in poetry - 'Put it in the short stories, '
he said, dismissing a poem I wrote
as a narrative, as though such verse
must be relegated to short fiction.
Must I go back to Beowulf, composed
in the first half of the eighth century,
to illustrate the validity of the form
(written in meter without using rime) ?
Robert Browning's The Ring and the Book
is a long poem of dramatic monologues
in twelve books concerning a murder
and an adulterous affair in Florence.
Less scribbling and more reading
might improve one's perspective,
don't you think?
poem by Michael Pruchnicki
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Excuse my scribbling, it is late, and I have a poor candle.
quote by Henri Rousseau
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Pretending
(by jerry lynn williams)
How many times must we tell the tale?
How many times must we fall?
Living in lost memory
You just recalled
Working on the sound of the band
Trying to get the music right
Two go out working
Three stay home at night
Thats when she said she was pretending
Like she knew the plan
Thats when I knew she was pretending
Pretending to understand
Pretending, pretending
Pretending, pretending
Satisfied but lost in love
Situations change
Youre never who you used to think you are
How strange
Chorus
I get lost in alibis
Sadness cant prevail
Everybody knows strong love
Cant fail
Dont be pretending about how you feel
Dont be pretending that your love is real
Dont be pretending about how you feel
Dont be pretending that your love is real
Pretending, pretending
Pretending, pretending
song performed by by Eric Clapton
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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