Groping.....
the language is barbaric,
do not equate it violence but with something that
we cannot understand
because no matter what we do
open our minds like windows
scrub the floor to start with a clean slate
even take the roof
at its senseless option
the vessel still cannot hold on
to what is given
perhaps the vessel is just too small
or the message is
egyptian
like thai characters or
arabic
we give up
perhaps there is nothing to be understood at all
but something only to be felt
like warm or cold,
or hot potato or melting ice cream in our tongues
yes, do not figure out
because there is nothing to be
figured
it is a jargon, a drool,
a language of feelings,
so miserable and
enigmatic simply because
the hands of thoughts are groping in the darkness
and there is nothing there
except the coldness
and the silence.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Related quotes
She Brought Them All Kindly To Her Grave
of course i know what coldness is
apart from something that is cool
when mother died her hands were extremely cold
for my hold
i let them go
there was no sadness
there was that happiness of letting her rest
and giving myself a little space
for tomorrow
when coldness comes again in an empty room
with open windows
i know not what panic shall be
my hands are extremely cold these days
when i kiss them
my lips become frozen
they break like glasses
i cannot speak
there is no way that my tongue shall give in to
words
it cannot face coldness in the mirror
of my face
since you ask and you demand an explanation i open my hands
and i let your hands touch them
i cannot speak i am afraid i will be cruel
you must hold these extreme coldness for a long time
so you can all let them go
like white birds against a dark sky
so you can also experience what happiness
i had when i let go off
mama's fears
when mama closed her eyes
because what was important she knew
need not be said anymore
she brought them all kindly to her grave
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Scrub, Scrub, Rub-a dub dub
Scrub, scrub, rub-a-dub, dub
cleaning is such a chore.
Scrub, scrub, rub-a-dub, dub
cleaning's such a bore.
Washing, dusting every day,
seems there is no end.
I know that when I'm finished
it will start all over again.
Windows, floors and kitchen sinks
just can't seem to stay clean.
The kids go out. The kids come in
and there's the same old scene.
Wash the clothes. Let them dry.
Put them on to wear.
Before the day is over
there's a spot that wasn't there.
Scrub, scrub, rub-a-dub dub
when will it ever stop?
If I could find those rub-a dub men
I'd gladly give them my mop.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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The Process Of This Manner...
groping for the metaphors
to illustrate the dark, light, and
twilight,
going back to the days of
childhood trying to see if
adulthood is well deserved,
the process is tedious, and
so much time is wasted, and
all for these, in these trying times,
the essence of what to really say
is lost.
to save this species of speech
from extinction, i gather all
dusts, equate that patience,
raised so many spiders between
the frames of my windows,
as light is let through, as though
there is a saint kneeling on
the floor, i must, give this language
what mystery it deserves, learn
the art of wanting to speak but
not speaking at all.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The language of love
The dialogues that love broke the silence with
Like the roses that grew on mountains
With the salt from the winter sky
The unabashed soliloquy, even in monologues
They grew noisy like bees,
The string of words tied to my tongue
They mutter an odd dialect of love,
The grammar of silence was hideous
How could you bear something like that?
the language of silence I understood not
It wrote in whispers and spoke in empty pages
Lulled to sleep by the barrage of lyrics
Even the poems looked liked slangs
Just then, at that very second
I remembered silence is just a figure of speech,
And dear when of love we speak
With tongues savoring every move
The eyes measuring, the ears leaning
The eternal night singing
The language of love is after all
The silence
That meanders within…………….
poem by Reshma Ramesh
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The Vessel That I am!
I am a weak vessel.
Strengthen me, O Lord!
Help me fill up to the brim
With virtues of all sorts.
I am a small vessel.
Make me hold more, O Lord!
Take away my porosity;
Let things remain intact.
I am a clay vessel.
Polish my sides, O Lord!
Let me stand most splendidly,
Glorifying my God.
I am a mere vessel,
Distorted somewhat, O Lord!
Place me on a rocky base,
To show the world my class!
The vessel whatever that I am
Will serve Thee only, Lord.
Fill me up with thy grace, O God
To prove that I’m fine clod!
Copyright by Dr John Celes 2-1-2009
poem by John Celes
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Going Back To Kindergarten
Wittgenstein
went back to kindergarten
trying to figure out
how a language is learned
to know that language is born
not with a word or two
but in a cluster of sentences
like the birth of a baby
that comes not with spare parts
of hands and legs and toes
but as a whole coming out
from the womb and with a
spank from this world
cries to let you know that
it is alive and has already
some feelings and thoughts
of its own. Like us, we learn
the language of love not on
a piecemeal basis, we know
love when we are accepted
as a whole person, not as
bits and pieces and chunks
and cold cuts, but as tomato
sauce garnished with cheese
and mint and rosemary and
meatballs and salt and pepper.
Wittgenstein went back
to kindergarten
not as a kid but as a philosopher.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Voice Of The Dead Lover.
I know you will never understand.
Oh how I wish you would.
Oh how I wish I could.
Reaching you from beyond my grave.
An angel has come to save.
Are thou truly so brave?
Risking it all in the name of love.
Just because of something I never was.
A creature of conformity.
A lie that burns the eyes.
A tear dropp that will never fall.
No matter how hard I try.
If only to die delivering the ultimate message.
My thoughts are always with you.
It is getting cold.
I can no longer see.
You will always be a part of me.
Call it destiny, but to the next world I must go.
Becoming an empty vessel on a bed.
This is the voice of the soon to be dead.
poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
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Different Languages
On the factory floor
Two ethnic women speak
In their native tongue
A language that flows beautifully
Their tongues roll
And the impact of a d or a t can be felt
Amongst all their chatter
The women laugh
That’s when others start to look
The sound of the language
May not be to everyone’s delight
No one cares what they say
Then all of a sudden......
LAUGHTER
And everyone starts to look with fright
What are they laughing at?
Is it me is it her is it him
Looking around
What did I do wrong?
Did I forget something?
Is it my zipper?
The women continue to chat
And laugh
The laughter now becoming too much
For the annoyed man
Of only one language
He goes to the boss
And files a complaint
Please boss tell those women over there
That it is not right to speak in their tongue
The boss agrees
And we are all back to uncultured boredom
As the sound of the
Lovely t and d end
So reigns the simple sounds of
A language that doesn’t flow
And the machines
That continue to sew
poem by James Dylan
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Ramdas, Start Talking With New Language!
Ramdas, start Talking with New Language,
Talk with people and every life,
That language which can take world to new dimension,
Or world shine with beauty and freshness,
Be the one among builders of new world!
Language of love and acceptance,
language that comes from the
depth of the heart,
affectionate and humble,
language that is full of gratitude,
Free of doubts and fear, Language of smile and presence
of mind,
Mindfulness which uses silence
and words well balanced,
the world to new dimensions,
Make world Look like a new world in the light of wisdom!
poem by Ramdas Bhandarkar
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The Disciples Of Silence
the disciples of silence,
speak not with their mouths...
for their hands speak the language
of the heart,
and their feet that of the soul.
whose prayers are written by ears,
whose breath is always shared.
whose eyes are open windows,
whose god smells of human need.
whose actions be but forgiveness,
whose thoughts are not restrained.
the disciples of silence keep walking...
living in constant dialogue,
they have no need for words!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Symbiosis
you are the glass
and on your open mouth
i am the water
i will fill every space
of your body
do not feel my coldness
you do not deserve it.
keep the thirst
i shall quench it.
do not be carried away
by my coldness
do not spill me
i need you as vessel
of my directionless fluidity.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Show...
in this Act, of this Scene
you are not the Actor, you are
the Spectator,
they will use the language that
you do not understand
it is not the first time that
they do this,
neither is it the first time that
you will hear them,
they have been here for so many
years, but you were then so busy
and you speak the language
of the restless, and the
fenced,
the world of cubicles
they do not demand much from you
they understand and they
ask that you must try to understand too
there is no effort
there must be no effort at all
just sit there and relax
in here
they start with the reverse
they start with the Ending
and there is No Beginning
when the Curtains fall and
when the other Spectators clap
when their eyes close
and when there hands are put
crossing their breasts
then the Show begins to unfold
and then Everyone will be
lost.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Body Language
Words and music by freddie mercury
Give me body give me body body
Give me your body
Dont talk dont talk dont talk dont talk
Baby dont talk
Body language body language body language
Give me your body
Just give me yeah your body
Give me yeah your body
Dont talk
Body language huh huh
Body language body language
You got red lips snakes in your eyes
Long legs great thighs
You got the cutest ass Ive ever seen
Knock me down for a six any time
Look at me I gotta case of body language
Look at me I gotta case of body language
Look at me I gotta case of body language
Look at me I gotta case of body language
Of body language of body language
Yeah sexy body sexy sexy body
I want your body
Baby youre hot
Body language body language body language
Body language body language body language
Body language body language body language
song performed by by Queen
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Also, they don't understand - writing is language. The use of language. The language to create image, the language to create drama. It requires a skill of learning how to use language.
quote by John Milius
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Homer's whole language, the language in which he lived, the language that he breathed, because he never saw it, or certainly those who formed his tradition never saw it, in characters on the pages. It was all on the tongue and in the ear.
quote by Robert Fitzgerald
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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You come before me this morning with clean hands and clean collars. I want you to have clean tongues, clean manners, clean morals and clean characters.
quote by John Burns
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Kind Of Sorrow, A Secret Suffering
to lose you i know is one kind sorrow
for i claim a loss that i never had even once owned.
a play of words, and i know you do not understand
what each word means, what a punctuation is.
this heart that grieves for what it cannot even touch
with its fragile hands, its trembling fingers
for what i see is but a glimmer
a faint light, a shadow, a hush, a slight glimpse
no one knows what secret suffering is all about
(secret so to say, i give it a language of its own)
a heart that bleeds without drops of blood
a heart injured yet without the bruises and wound
i mix with the crowd just like what we do when we go malling.
i smile like the way all people smile. i always have a glimpse of you.
yet i know, i do not wait for anybody, or anything, this is simply
an impossible endeavor. Clouds that dissipate. Air that vanish.
a door that closes. a bus that leaves. a plane turning into a dot in space.
i look up actually for nothing. i pretend sometimes that there are stars where there are none but black clouds and tree tops.
i look down and only see suffering. Pebbles and gray sands.
i sleep without remembering my dreams. i wake up not thinking
about what to do specifically with my life. I have everything you say.
but since i do not have you, i am still nothing. I am simply arms emptied
of its embrace. I am hands groping with nothing but space.
it does not matter. i touch my chest and feel that i am strong.
i give up the gift of speech. I take in the gift of words written in utter silence.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I do not use the language of my people. I can take liberties with certain themes which the Arabic language would not allow me to take.
quote by Tahar Ben Jelloun
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Language from Womb to Tomb
It is heard from mother's womb,
taught and learned through the days
and years; repeated, remembered,
quoted, mimicked, twisted,
spoken to bless and to curse.
It is to make one
come across the border lines
It is to feel a part of the whole
It is to understand and be understood.
It is seed that grows through the years
It is a pen that records the scars and stars
It is present in the years of our life
the years lost and gone
and the years to come.
It is language
from mother's womb
to our own tomb
It is language of jubilation,
of judgment and adoration
It is law and order
It is history-
document and monument.
It is victory and defeat.
It is the language of love
It is the language of hate.
It is the language of life
and the language of death.
_____________
May 7,2010
poem by Elizabeth Padillo Olesen
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Silence and Language
Silence is our original composition and speech
Languages are the dresses we wear;
What we convey and understand remains the same
Despite the various languages we use;
Words are clothed senses in silence;
Once we decipher, understanding dawns,
Silence, peace and bliss pervade us;
What we experience, mean, understand, conceive,
think, utter, listen, perceive, understand, experience
Through languages and communication are in essence the same.
The manifestations of Silence;
Silence is Divine Mood
Lord's Speech;
Communication with our Self is Silence;
Communication with the rest is
Silence wrapped, by language;
We need Silence and Language
Which are supplementary and complementary
In communication and for realization;
poem by Varanasi Ramabrahmam
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