Habit
this is by force of habit
that my fingers
caress the keys
to make
another poem
for the day,
nothing is really
significant,
nothing to give
us power,
it is like
brushing my teeth,
washing my hands,
gargling vinegar with salt,
defecating,
putting my brief
and shorts,
straightening my collar,
inserting my shirt
locking my belt,
combing my hair,
going to the office,
you try going further
than all these,
sorry, there is nothing here
but just routine,
plain typing, and reporting,
stating
and even
by force of habit
without thinking
i said, keep doing
what you do with your life,
do not follow me,
there is nothing
important about this,
this is routine,
the usual path,
where everyone passes
and goes and enters
and exits and
exits and enters
all over again
until death surprises
you no more,
comes like
plain closing and opening
of the office door.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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For The Rest Of My Life
for the rest of my life
i will take the same routine
home, office, school,
home office, school,
a straight life confined
in a certain space
too confined and too
tight for my soul
and too boring
for my body
home, office, school,
school, home, office,
you ask me if there is
something wrong with
my life? there is nothing
right in it, everything has
always been wrong
and everyday has always
been an attempt to correct
it, but nothing
nothing has fit into it
to cut the routine to
break me from the
chains of everyday
nothing comes and nothing
goes, i think, that is how
it is meant to be,
i think, i simply have
to imagine, make some
figments of stars, and moon
and sun and mountains
and seas and valleys
and castles and princesses
and kings and queens
and too they become routine
too, some poems and stories
some people that do not
actually exist, some imaginary
earth, imaginary creatures
they are all here, in this routine
of imaginations, of poetics
of illusions and allusions,
these lines, my life, these routine
and all my excuses, you and I.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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It...
IT IS everyday
like everything that you do: waking up
washing the face
brushing the teeth
combing the hair
defecating on the
throne
in the comfort room
taking breakfast
reading the news
watching tv
waiting and going
and coming back
on the table
searching for words
to mark your day
above all those
rantings
take the cure: write, write,
write
they follow you and
read and say something
about you
perhaps it will matter
that your existence
is being confirmed
by all
you too stalk as they
stalk you
it is fair then.
They are your ITs
And you are their
It too.
but actually it would have been
a better world
if we did not write at all.
simply because
we have chosen the
right course:
talking.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Thoughts After Sex
after sex
people sleep
that is the
usual exit that
people who want
to escape seem
to know and do
they sleep
the routine keeps
going like
house, office,
office, house
roads, doors
doors, road
after sex
the usual exit
is closed
you look at the
ceiling trying to
open another
door
but there isn't
any.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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My Daily Bread
you do not believe when i tell you that i write everyday
it is routine to me
so my poems
are like
breathings
inhale
exhale
a poem
here a poem there
writing has become like a beating of my heart
so every beat
every pulse
is a poem made
like one kind of a factory
mass production
of breathing and beating
i have developed sort of too much familiarity with this kind of poetic activity and it has become so
so ordinary
and so much familiarity comes my contempt for my daily poetry
it is nothing extraordinary
it is like washing my face
brushing my teeth
cutting my nails
going to the office
teaching my class
reading books
walking the dog
taking a morning walk
lunch with my wife
listening to
lawyers argue
their cases
in court
all these are so ordinary
routinely clockwork
and they are nothing
they are
my poems
my daily bread.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Death When You Come
i am thinking when death comes,
i wish it has hands
to knock three times my
door
before it enters
chances for me to say
a prayer or two
for my safe and enjoyable
private journey into the
exciting unknown
to dress up
comb my hair
brush my teeth
and leave
a short handwritten message
for those who still do not
believe about
the propensity of life.
and then i will welcome
death
sweetly like a long lost
lover
that i kiss
lips to lips.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Our State Of Affairs...
we shall say, we are honest,
there is no cloning, nothing imitated, we are
trying to be original,
we do not listen much, we talk much,
we write much, in fact,
it is an everyday undertaking like defecating
and brushing of teeth
and looking at the mirror
and washing the face
shaving and combing the hair
and talking to oneself
nothing makes us that happy
not money, not honor, no laurel leaves on the head
not a number of unfaithful lovers
or plastic friends,
this makes us happy,
another one 'bites the dust' another lousy thinker
writes,
another mouth opens, another ear breaks,
another one comes to you and says
is my poem good enough?
to you, another one belongs, this non-exclusive club
of breathers, of
'lunatics' of persistent lovers
junked most of the times
and yet lovelier still
the second, the third time,
the nth time
around.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Someone
Someone's heart-door shuts
And the song of life never comes out.
Someone mutters
But it's voiceless
And in the feverish air
That never travels to her
Unless a great force.
Oh! It's a gloomy Sunday
The unusual bench in the park
Waits for a stranger to chat.
But the park gate was closed
As the gate-keeper lost his bunch of keys
After a nightcap.
A handsome beggar found the keys in an early morning
At the tavern door step
And he thinks he could enter the Kingdom of Heaven.
* All the time I feel that someone knocks at my door,
And I peep out but nobody's there.
I have heard that the death has a habit of knocking at doors?
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Habit and routine have an unbelievable power to waste and destroy.
quote by Henri de Lubac
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Twice Becomes a Habit
Doing what we please.
With the selling of our embellishments.
Has come under much scrutiny.
And a call to be precise...
Does not sit too comfortably,
With those irresponsible.
And others n'er do well.
Seeking a laziness to entice.
To abuse this twice becomes a habit.
To keep it fed becomes routine.
Some may see this as discrimination.
Not a justification...
To do away with incompetence.
And those who half accomplish...
What their intentions find difficult to finish.
These days a mediocrity,
Is being ushered from the spotlight.
Success comes with applied effort.
Not from those accepted as nice.
But aren't up to the challenge...
To get things done,
With sacrifice.
To abuse this twice becomes a habit.
To keep it fed becomes routine.
Gone are those days of going through the motions.
And adopting the notion,
Procrastination fascinates those with patience waiting.
Time is not a blind date...
Hoping to approve who shows and comes,
Out of breath with expressed excuses.
And annoying the diligent ones.
That tick-tocking on those clocks have stopped!
To abuse this twice becomes a habit.
To keep it fed becomes routine.
And refusing people like this,
From addressed strict agendas...
Keeps a purpose with direction flourished.
As long as it is understood...
They will always be kept in minds respected.
But their absence is welcomed,
When they are far away from strategic scenes.
Not to demean.
But to accomplish.
'No offense.
But we are here to get things done.
You understand that,
Don't you? '
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Pieces Of Self....
everyday i see myself
first as the wholeness of the egg
its whiteness ignored
cracked by the fork and
scrambled and fried
those pearls of white rice
cooked and handed over
on white porcelain plates
breakfast is not strange
otherwise if i ask, i will be
strange to all that is expected
to be familiar
in the bathroom i turn on the light
and see the miniature of sun
after the pee and the poo i feel
the softness of tissue and the
cleansing of water
flushing is such a relieving sound
and everything is in order now
the brushing begins and the
mirroring and the parting of hair
the shower gives some songs
life is cool after all and then one
gets used to the usual grooming
putting on socks fitting on belts and
shoes and buttoning shirts and
zippering
one gets outside finally and see the
real world feel the real air and hear
the real sounds of the traffic
one who reads this finds nothing
spectacular
after all
what is spectacular about routine?
and life is just one of those
routines in all your pieces of self
that you scatter all over the office,
the streets, the house
the room
and in all places of the heart and
spleen.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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wondrous, no, how wine
enters dark, exits clear?
Kidnies are so smart.
haiku by Morgan Michaels
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A Morning Greeting
good morning, my friend
hope you're fine like the smooth morning rays of the sun
on soft hands caressing the shiny brown skin of my face
did you sleep well last night? let me ask if you have dreams
that make waking up a regretful event
i am out now for my usual walk to see the usual rising of the sun
on the golden ricefields on the road leading to a group of nipa huts
i am asking myself today: is there meaning to this usualness
this routine that comes to us without any break?
is there something new to the sun that we always expect to shine?
is there a twist to the usual chirps of birds, the usual white color of their wings? is there something better to do than walk and think the usual
thoughts of how to make a living and be the fit person to survive
this war on boredome
this struggle for meaning
this monotonous routine of this and that and this and that and this and that and this and that and this and that this and that and this and that and this and that and this and that and this and that this and that and this and that and this and that and this and that and this and that this and that and this and that and this and that and this and that and this and that this and that and this and that and this and that and this and that and this and that this and that and this and that and this and that and this and that and this and that this and that and this and that and this and that and this and that and this and that this and that and this and that and this and that and this and that and this and that
there is no stuttering here, nothing symptomatic of sickness
and even death, there is this boredom again that will make us
not sleep the nights
and make us uneasy and restless and asking some more
what is this life? what is it giving me?
what am i giving it? how long?
just asking, i am returning to the house from this short walk
there is no music in my ears
more questions popping
i will just take tea
i need really to pee.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Complicated Lifestyle.
a man's life is simple.
he has a routine, like this: house, office, house.
he gets bored, adds another place,
like house, office, park, mall, house,
waste of money, but a little interesting, he adds more
a friend's house, another house where he can be intimate with someone,
then sex, and games and romance and betrayal and use and sue and
lots of booze,
he retreats back to house, office, house,
but it is not the same again.
he sins, feels so broke, and
to a certain extent
attempts at suicide.
sad, but it can happen to you.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The widows tale
The widows tale
~
He sits down at the local bar
Same old table by the window
Overlooking the river passing by
A pint of the usual half drunk
Sat squarely on the beer mat
He looks around observing the room
Nodding towards familiar faces
Never sure of their names
The little routine he’s known
Reminiscent of so many nights past
There’s a look in his eye telling
Something’s not quite right
A missing companion, loyal friend
Is gone now lost, taken away
The one who shared the laughter
When the conversation filled itself
Who danced to the music with a smile
Now the music just plays out
Memories tainted with each new night
The routine of an old habit
Keeping hold so as not to let go
And slowly growing old
poem by Matthew Holloway
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Drool, Etcetera....
when you wake up this morning you rush yourself
on the usual
many things to do
but never completely done
but just the same
you keep on doing it
like opening windows, closing doors,
mopping floors, washing underwear,
brushing teeth,
etcetera
now you are working
the table offers you the menu for the stress of the day
you count them
and start at
the first file,
etcetera the clock even if you do not mind it
keeps on ticking,
nothing unusual really,
you keep on thinking and writing notes and then
making conclusions
affecting the life of other people
they become simply case numbers
and usual names,
nothing extraordinary really
etcetera
you stop, make some sighs, breathe,
stand, sit, lay your head on the sofa,
and think,
etcetera
this world is black and white,
there are no more rainbows, the rains are cats and dogs
the little shower is gone,
the slowness of beauty is murdered,
the strip teasing of something that your mind coddles
and fondles
takes time,
the unfolding of the flower is choked,
the buds are nipped,
births are scraped,
off,
and on,
push and pull,
that is the language i learn from you,
etcetera,
etcetera
i did not invent it,
we say it when we do not know
what follows next
etcetera
life.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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In The Form Of Music
Tens of people find hard questions,
Understanding them entails thoughts
As their complexities unravel the beauty
Of time as it enters and exits
The space around us,
As it does end and finish with grace.
Singers find decimals and other numbers
In the form of sound,
This metre of space has sounds
In the rest of the evening
And the coming dawn.
Tens of people musically overcome
Their time in life, their living signals
Are emitted from the strength of tallness,
How are they strong in their height?
How do strong minstrels force their noise?
Why do they sweat and see the real song?
poem by Naveed Akram
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All of us, if we are of reflective habit, like and admire men whose fundamental beliefs differ radically from our own. But when a candidate for public office faces the voters he does not face men of sense; he faces a mob of men whose chief distinguishing mark is the fact that they are quite incapable of weighing ideas, or even of comprehending any save the most elemental — men whose whole thinking is done in terms of emotion, and whose dominant emotion is dread of what they cannot understand. So confronted, the candidate must either bark with the pack or count himself lost. … All the odds are on the man who is, intrinsically, the most devious and mediocre — the man who can most adeptly disperse the notion that his mind is a virtual vacuum. The Presidency tends, year by year, to go to such men. As democracy is perfected, the office represents, more and more closely, the inner soul of the people. We move toward a lofty ideal. On some great and glorious day the plain folks of the land will reach their heart's desire at last, and the White House will be adorned by a downright moron.
quote by H.L. Mencken
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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trying to break my Habit
Memories consume
Like opening the wound
I'm picking me apart again
You all assume
I'm safe here in my room
Unless I try to start againI don't want to be the one
The battles always choose
'Cause inside I realize
That I'm the one confused
I don't know what's worth fighting for
Or why I have to scream.
I don't know why I instigate
And say what I don't mean.
I don't know how I got this way
I know it's not alright.
So I'm breaking the habit,
I'm breaking the habit
Tonight
Clutching my cure
I tightly lock the door
I try to catch my breath again
I hurt much more
Than anytime before
I had no options left again
I'll paint it on the walls
'Cause I'm the one that falls
I'll never fight again
And this is how it ends
I don't know what's worth fighting for
Or why I have to scream
But now I have some clarity
to show you what I mean
I don't know how I got this way
I'll never be alright
So, I'm breaking the habit
I'm breaking the habit
I'm breaking the habit
Tonight
poem by Pawan Kumar 'Meonlafesta'
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Rob Ford 2... Nov 29th,2012
ROB FORD 2... Nov 29th,2012
by
James Bredin
If we don't get Rob Ford back as mayor; we're ruined for sure,
God only knows what the other idiots will do to make us poor,
They might like insite clinics or those doing drugs and crack,
Therefore we need Rob Ford in office to keep Toronto on track.
We like Rob Ford because he's our kinda good guy,
The left-wingers didn't like him and forced him to say goodbye,
Used the courts and a judge to force him out the door,
As if Rob Ford was some sort of criminal bore.
The media has been filled with Rob Ford stuff for several weeks,
Telling Rob Ford stories and his various techniques,
Which goes to show that some can be a very vindictive bunch,
If they get the keys to Rob Ford's office, we will feel the crunch.
Nov 29th,2012
poem by James Bredin
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If any sink, assure that this, now standing
358
If any sink, assure that this, now standing—
Failed like Themselves—and conscious that it rose—
Grew by the Fact, and not the Understanding
How Weakness passed—or Force—arose—
Tell that the Worst, is easy in a Moment—
Dread, but the Whizzing, before the Ball—
When the Ball enters, enters Silence—
Dying—annuls the power to kill.
poem by Emily Dickinson
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