He Has His Own Way
as i enter this cheap
restaurant he also sits
on the other side
of the table on one
of those dusty
rattan chairs
i take my bite
he puts his
toothpick between
his lips and leave
them there
for a while
his hands are
on the table
holding an
orange as
though it is
a cotton bud
that his fingers
play with
he looks at me
and i look at
him. I know what
he wants
any simpleton
will know what
the tongue
has been doing
on the toothpick
between his lips
i look down the
floor and then
i decide to
leave. It is not
the usual rush
hour in this
hot city far
from my
rural home
where the mountains
protrude to touch
a bulging blue cloud.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Related quotes
Reincarnate....
she says she had been here
once
she remembers the exact
details
he was frying an egg
sunny side up as she wants it
to be
she sits on one of those rattan
chairs beside a
mahogany table
he is about to put a cup of coffee
brewing on her table
and that is it...
there was a big bang...flashes of light... then
darkness... reality sucks...
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The little things that make my teeth clean
Of course, the champion is the toothpick
Always the wooden, bamboo toothpick
Or could be the fine dental floss
But I always need a mirror to use that
And eventually I find it more expensive
And time consuming
And then I can have a little twig
Of guava,
I like the odor and I have the
Last chew and
Oh my
I can chew the same and swallow
But without the toothpick or the floss
And when I am in a bus and there is
No guava tree
I simply have my tongue and the
Nail helping it to get rid
Of
You know what.
Life is like that.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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What Is Fair?
soon this restaurant shall close.
the customers are not satisfied
discriminatory food is served
the waitresses are arrogant
and the soup is bland and bugged.
it will be very lonely here
the bar will be colder than ever
the table dusty, and the chairs empty.
soon i'll pack up too, leave the place
and go somewhere else for good.
i shall not leave a word, i am not saying anything.
i shall choose what's next and what is fair.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The fruits on the table
I love the papayas
Spread on the table
Reddish orange papayas
Plump and Smooth to my
Hands
And some purple grapes
Sweet pulp
Luscious to my
Lips
Some rambutans
Hairy fruits in red
Tickling to my
Fingers
Pungent durian
Tasting like
Heaven to
My mind
They are all spread on
The table
And I would caress smooth
Reddish papayas with
My bare hands
Put a grape in my mouth
And my tongue
Does the savoring of
Juicy rambutans
My lips close in
To a juicy roundness
As I breathe on some
Red hairs
Of this magical luscious fruit
The durian is opened
And the taste of heaven
Comes to my mind
With eyes closed as
Though I own all the passions
Of this world
When we were young and
Crazy about ourselves
I laid her on the table
And spread herself there
She was all those kinds of
Fruits to me and I was the
Hands, the mouth, the lips,
The tongue
The stomach that swallowed her all
Every bit that was juicy
Every freshness every plumpness
She was all fruits to me
She was all nature giving in, all over
To the passions of this fruit lover.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Another Day
having the low down blues and going
into a restraunt to eat.
you sit at a table.
the waitress smiles at you.
she's dumpy. her ass is too big.
she radiates kindess and symphaty.
live with her 3 months and a man would no real agony.
o.k., you'll tip her 15 percent.
you order a turkey sandwich and a
beer.
the man at the table across from you
has watery blue eyes and
a head like an elephant.
at a table further down are 3 men
with very tiny heads
and long necks
like ostiches.
they talk loudly of land development.
why, you think, did I ever come
in here when I have the low-down
blues?
then the the waitress comes back eith the sandwich
and she asks you if there will be anything
else?
snd you tell her, no no, this will be
fine.
then somebody behind you laughs.
it's a cork laugh filled with sand and
broken glass.
you begin eating the sandwhich.
it's something.
it's a minor, difficult,
sensible action
like composing a popular song
to make a 14-year old
weep.
you order another beer.
jesus,look at that guy
his hands hang down almost to his knees and he's
whistling.
well, time to get out.
pivk up the bill.
tip.
go to the register.
pay.
pick up a toothpick.
go out the door.
your car is still there.
and there are 3 men with heads
and necks
like ostriches all getting into one
car.
they each have a toothpick and now
they are talking about women.
they drive away first
they drive away fast.
they're best i guess.
it's an unberably hot day.
there's a first-stage smog alert.
all the birds and plants are dead
or dying.
you start the engine.
Anonymous submission.
poem by Charles Bukowski
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As you read these lines
As you read these lines
Another toothpick
Is chewed by my teeth
Something is wrong
With my tongue and
Teeth, how they compete
For recognition, the teeth
Claiming it chewed the
Words the tongue claiming
It approved the taste,
I am listening how they
Argued and quarreled,
And in the chaos I bit the
Toothpick chewed it
And spit it out,
How choppy have I
Become, how some
Of my parts have been
So disjoined, and how
Have I become
So disengaged, divided,
Like the tongue &
Teeth, in their bickering.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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It's probably not a good idea to be chewing on a toothpick if you're talking to the president, because what if he tells a funny joke and you laugh so hard you spit the toothpick out and it hits him in the face or something.
Jack Handey in Deep Thoughts
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A waiter writes a poem in a French restaurant
I am only a toothpick that never gets a kiss from your sherry lips.
I am only a serviette Mademoiselle,
You wipe your golden fingers and throw away.
I am only a firefly in your chandelier room of heart
And really I am a fool who cries for the Moon in daylight.
*To the moths where they fly at night and burn with flames.
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Table
Who is sitting at our table
In our favourite restaurant.
Looking into each others eyes
While chatter smothers
Loving sighs.
As she holds his hand to squeeze
Under the table.
Will our ghosts drift on the breeze
Out of the window
Through the trees.
To be lost forever
Like a heartbeat
In dark streets
To pass away
Like loving nights on satin sheets.
Who sits at your table
Where candlelight
Lit your smile.
And we drank red wine in style.
To taste the sweetness
On your lips
The fruit of love
Minus the pips.
All out plans
We'd always discuss.
You would always make a fuss
About what you would wear
On our wedding day.
At that table
Our guest of fate did sit.
But didn't rest,
Couldn't stay.
Leaving me alone in twilight meadow
Like one last flower
To sway.
poem by Kevin East
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Red And Orange
Ther's a red house,
Inside there's an orange door.
Beside that there's a red carpet,
On top of an orange floor.
There's a red table,
Below an orange ceiling.
Upstairs there's a red bed,
Inside an orange room.
There's a couple of red people sleeping soundly,
Next door two orange ones too.
Outside there's a red truck,
No one knows what to do.
I don't see the proble,
Why don't you leave us all alone.
But now I see the red more clearly,
And I know what's done is done.
And I'll float away with the cloudy smoke,
Before the inevertable happens and I start to choke.
Good bye red house,
So long orange door.
I'm going for a long sleep noe,
Six feet under the floor.
Dubrovnik 1972.
Dubrovnik seemed
a second home,
and you, in a street
cafe, sat drinking coffee,
with that book on
Schopenhauer open
on the table, a cigarette
smoking in an ashtray
unattended, thinking
of the girl in the hotel
restaurant the night
before, the waitress
who smiled at you as
she served and went
by your table, and your
brother said, I don't
fancy yours much,
indicating with a nod
of head, another
waitress over by a
nearby table, plump
and spotted, wearing
a scowl instead of a
smile, and all the while,
he eyeing, as young
men do the beauty
that had caught your
eye going by, but all is
fair in love, so men
have said, so picking
up the book on
Schopenhauer, and
further reading,
holding the cigarette
between the fingers
of the hand not
turning pages, you
inhaled with deep
concentration the
smoke and words
spread across the
page, written by a
philosopher of a
foreign tongue
and different age.
poem by Terry Collett
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An Ode for David
Inspiration
From a lopsided table?
Words written down
Told as a fable
Strange request you have
My dear friend
Inspiration I will find
This I do intend
Wooden Table
Possess my tongue
Wintered table
Cry from my lungs
Pen striking paper
You shall be my muse
May the bleeding ink
Cry of your blues
Splintered skin
In a corner rest forgotten
Winding legs
You stand wild as cotton
Pen stroke slide
Across your lofty floor
Three legs you stand
When you should have four
Awkward table
You have no friend
Ancient table
You've reached your bitterend
Should my pen learn sea legs
I'd love you once more
But, on three legs you stand
When you should have four
poem by Kay Gardner
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Beach Chairs
Sitting on the beach chairs
watching the setting sun
holding hands and reminiscing
how it all begun
Sitting on the beach chairs
watching the ships out on the sea
holding hands and smiling
together we're meant to be
Sitting on the beach chairs
watching people walking past
holding hands and knowing
that our love will always last
Sitting on the beach chairs
watching the waves along the shore
holding hands we realize
our love is stronger than before
Sitting on the beach chairs
watching the changing tide
holding hands with happiness
to be by each others side
Sitting on the beach chairs
watching the sunrise
holding hands with tears of joy
there are no more good-byes
poem by Joyce Ebrecht
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When I leave
When my arm is cold and numb
And laid to its final rest,
What would be the last thought they would have
If you could remember or relive one last quest.
When my eyes close their very last time
What would be the last sight for them to see,
Would it be a sight, that gave a delight,
To be cherished by my soul through me.
When my fingers loose their sense of touch
What touch would be missed most of all,
Would it be the roses in the summertime,
Or the many leaves, that I touched in fall.
When my lips quiver their last time to shut
What would be the last feeling for it to miss,
Would it be to say a prayer or speak a thought
Or would it be to perform one last kiss.
When it is time for me to leave this Earth
I know that I must go all alone,
Sadly I will leave and happily I will go
As I live a empty world, to enter a new home.
Before my arm goes they need one last hug
Then it will go with pain and delight.
Before my eyes close shut as surely they’ll do
They will see Heaven in sight that night.
Before my fingers loose their sense of touch
A loves hair they would need to brush
They must feel the softness that they once knew,
Then they will leave, with just a hush.
My heart would beat one last time for you
And for my lips, what would be their finale wish,
Would it be a prayer or a poem to recite
Or would it be a last goodbye kiss.
Randy L. McClave
poem by Randy McClave
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The art of living
at the center of my room
delight
on fresh roses
like your
red lips
on my bed
soft and warm silk blankets
strawberry juice on the side table
and cherry on the
glass
the window is open
fresh air from the sea
cools the room
silence is gold here
and solitude is silver
every moment is
a moment
every hour is not a rush
but on softer touch
every inch of skin
is a caress
every thought is
beautiful
every reality is true
embracing and embraced
this is the art of living
every second a relaxation
sleep comes on cat's feet
like a cloud drifting away
peace in the corner
privacy in my door
and yes, love is always
air-conditioned.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Pause
You walked me to my car
As I pretended not to care
Under a night sky with no stars
I was happy you were there
You couldn't see me blush
As you caught me glancing your way
We walked in stride as our fingers brushed
And the silence a symphony played
I'm laughing at nothing at all
The taste of your beer still on my tongue
You laugh because I'm new to it all
I shiver because I'm so young
So you lean into me
As I lean against my car before I fall
Your breath is warm on my neck
My fingers trace your jaw like I'm not scared at all
Your eyes ask if you can kiss me
I bite my lower lip because I can't speak
Your lips greet mine gently
And put a smile on my face for all of next week
I try not to lose my balance
For being so high
And when you leave
It's almost like it never was
Touching my lips on the way home
Trying to remember what his felt like
If life was a movie
You would be my favorite place to pause
poem by Aria Siren
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Trois.....
we are all the same
towards the destination
that island of
desire
three of us in this
boat
body
we do not mention names
what for?
the elements of wind and fire
and hands and thighs
and tongues
making memories on sands
and picking time like pickles
licking the
toothpick
and opening the
legs of what they do not
beforehand
understand as the three of these
who are here
unwind and in freedom
discover
the secret of
what cannot be uttered
here leave the hands
and mouth
open.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Touch Of Your Lips
When troubles get me, cares beset me,
And wont let me go.
I turn to you for consolation.
There I find new peace of mind;
To leave behind my woe,
I turn to you as I shall always do.
The touch of your lips upon my brow,
Your lips that are cool and sweet,
Such tenderness lies in their soft caress,
My heart forgets to beat.
*The touch of your hands upon my head,
The love in your eyes a-shine,
And now, at last, the moment divine,
The touch of your lips on mine.
(Instrumental interlude and pick up at *.)
*The touch of your hands upon my head,
The love in your eyes a-shine,
And now, at last, the moment divine,
The touch of your lips on mine.
song performed by by Nat King Cole
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Upon A Day Of Reckoning
it is always i
who cleans the table from
morsels
who throws away the trash
of what is unconsumed from
the kettle
it is always i
who wipes the spilled milk
on the floor
who takes all the shit
on the sink
who kills all the bedbugs
on the pillow
it is always i
and on the day of reckoning
the table and chairs will be smooth
and glossy
the windows look to the other side without blinking
the door shall be mute forever
the hinges and frames all numb
on the last slamming.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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If You Are My Food Spread On The Table
granting arguendo
my dear beautiful girl
that you are my food for dinner
what shall i take first?
your lips, oh, i love delicious lips
sweet lips, wet lips and tight lips, and
gripping lips to my lips
then your eyes
so i can enter your soul
these windows that cannot close
someone so lovely and loving you
as i try to be this air
invisible and yet so essential
to your being
i shall take every flesh in you
and every bone and every nerve
but there is one thing i shall not attempt to take
away from you
your heart, you may not tell me, but i know
it already belongs to someone else
in respect for true love
i shall leave it there
breathing, wishing, and still loving....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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