Her Own Departure
Her own departure is a show.
a big bag hanging on her
shoulders, her left hand
holding a coin purse,
her right crumpling a
white handkerchief wet
with her tears.
she is crying. Her blue
blouse fits her fat and her
black pants are loose
like two shirts.
She wears her white rubber
shoes, sort of telling me
that she will be running
towards the place
that she will be hiding
for days.Or just towards
the airport. Or bus station
or port.
I don't really care.
She takes the ATM
with her, and the credit cards.
She does not tell me
where she is going.
She gives the hint that
it will be far away from
this cold house.
I am staying. I am glued
to this house.
I am silent and peaceful
now. I still have many things
to think and write.
My first poem after she leaves
shall be titled, 'Good riddance! '
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Related quotes
On A White Bench
at the plaza of this town
fronting the cafe
where i am now writing this poem
i see a white cemented bench
beside a mahogany tree
three men are sitting
they are talking
and i cannot hear them
i am walled
by this glass wall
one wears a white cap
holding a radio
blue faded jeans
and rubber shoes
the second one
a brown subanen native
wearing a white shirt
with a political ads
to vote for mayor dong
the third one
already left before i finished this poem
i could have described him
but i fell short of time and sensitivity
i ask someone beside me
what these three men are up to
they are waiting
they are looking for a job on this hard times
when the price of rice has gone high
together with the gas
i know you want something more than this kind of write
did i keep you waiting too?
tell me did i keep you waiting too for something that you want me to tell you?
i have nothing to tell you
how does it feel to wait, hours perhaps, for something that does not come/
how does it feel to wait
for nothing? tell me, tell me, if you understand now, how is it to sit on a white
bench beside a mahogany tree, in the plaza, in front of an internet cafe
where i write a poem
and nothing nothing really happens
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Waltz Of Blue Smiles
Please read it on a waltz rhythm: One! two, three...
She's losing her house
She's losing her house
And what what what what
She does?
A poem she writes
Paints both of her eyes
And feet in dark blue
then she cries:
I'm loosing my house
I'm loosing my house
There's nothing to do
Oh mine!
I'm loosing my house
I'm loosing my house
Blue eyes and blue feet
Oh, sweet!
Why are you so sweet
Why are you so sweet
Blue eyes blue face
and blue feet?
Her handkerchief fly
Slow searching the sky
blue rivers of tears
got dry.
On a smile smiley
cheek
colours pass through
With tears and fears
Of blue.
She's losing her house
That's sad very sad
But we know she'll survive
And smile.
Blue cute sign became
In a book of one poem
blue fears, blue tears in
origami folded again.. Insane? ! ..
poem by Elena Sandu
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A Pain In The Neck
too many words,
too many promises,
too many loves
meant to be forgotten,
too many woes
these telling and retelling,
how can i be so submissive
to these literatures of lament, these incantations of madness?
a pain in the neck
a migraine, somehow, i lack sleep and the dogs keep on barking
on the streets of sorrow,
on the boulevard of broken dreams,
lights shutting off slowly like fireflies dissolving in the horizon.
it is morning,
and a yellow bird with a black beak is chirping on a twig
just beside my window.
i breathe the breeze from the sea.
The seagull pass by.
A yacht with a white sail and white banners is approaching the port.
My loneliness like an island
A broken port, a history of a typhoon, a rope, and a fallen coconut.
Someone farther from this house is waiving a hand.
A white handkerchief. A truce.
I am sleepy.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Shattered windows, Colors of white
Across the street is a new house with a room painted red, with no holes of white.
Next to me, a house purple, with its color pealing off, with holes of black and white
At the end of the street, an old house once yellow, what now remains white.
The sound of a hammer building a house, entering a place with a color unknown.
On the street,
Windows covered with ice
Some shine with light.
Some broken
Some fixed
Some lost, out of sight.
A house, two blocks from here.
Shines with lights of yellow, red, and green everywhere.
A wall keeping the wind from blowing anywhere.
The house next door, at the dawn of the day.
Paints its room black, and peals the color away.
The wall crumbles.
The wind blows across the colors of yellow, red and green
Breaks all the windows.
Turns the yellow to blue, red to black, and green to white.
The house two blocks away.
Adds a line of yellow red and green everyday.
To allow the house of blue, black and white to shine for us some day.
poem by Linda ErikssonBique
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Black Sunday
Tomorrow is the one day I would change for a monday
With freezing rains melting and no trains running
And sad eyes passing in windows flimsy
And my seat rocking from legs not quite matching
Got passport, credit cards, a plane that Im catching
Black sunday falls one day too soon
The taxi that takes me will be moving too quickly
My suitcases simply too full for the closing
Of pants, shirts and kisses all packed in a hurry
Two best-selling paper backs chosen at random ---
No sign of sales-persons to whom I might hand them
Black sunday falls one day too soon
And down at the airport are probably waiting
A few thousand passengers, overbooked seating
Time long suspended in transit-lounge traumas ---
Connections broken and special branch waiting
Conspicuously standing in holiday clothing
Black sunday falls one day too soon
Pick up my feet and kick off my lethargy
Down to the gate with the old mood upon me
Get out and chase the small immortality
Born in the minute of my next returning
Impatient feet tapping and cigarette burning
Homecoming one day too soon
And back at the house theres a grey sky a-tumbling
Milk bottles piling on door steps a-crumbling
Curtains all drawn and cold water plumbing
Notepaper scribbles I read unbelieving
Saying how sorry, how sad was the leaving
...one day too soon
song performed by by Jethro Tull
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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White Shoes
(jack tempchin)
I want em, I need em
And Im gonna go out and get em
White shoes
I know Ill feel better
When I slide down into the leather
White shoes
White shoes ... woah, oh, oh... white shoes
White shoes ... woah, oh, oh... white shoes
I woke up from a dream
When I saw em in a magazine
White shoes
I said lou you gotta start new
And the first thing you gotta do
Is get some white shoes
White shoes ... woah, oh, oh... white shoes
White shoes ... woah, oh, oh... white shoes
You know he left me with the lonesome blues
Been hangin round too long with nothin to do
Yeah, he really made me pay those dues
But Im goin out on the town tonight in
White shoes
Well, I wanted em, I needed em
Yeah, and I went out and got em
White shoes
That new boy when I see him
Im gonna walk right up and meet him in
White shoes
White shoes ... woah, oh, oh... white shoes
White shoes
Im goin out on the town tonight
White shoes ... woah, oh, oh... white shoes
White shoes ... woah, oh, oh... white shoes
song performed by by Emmylou Harris
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Blue Suede Shoes
Recorded live at the varsity stadium, toronto, 13 september 1969
-hello! a-good evening!
Ah!
Okay?
Okay, were just gonna do numbers that we know, you know, cause weve never played together before.
Okay.
Well, its a one for the money, two for the show,
Three to get ready, now go, cat, go!
Dont you step on my blue suede shoes.
Well, you can do anything
But lay off them blue suede shoes.
Well, you can knock me down, step in my face,
Slander my name all over the place;
Do anything that you wanna do,
But, aw-aw, honey, lay off them shoes.
Dont you step on my blue suede shoes.
Well, you can do anything
But lay off them blue suede shoes.
Well, you can burn my house, steal my car,
Drink my liquor from the old fruit jar.
Do anything that you wanna do,
But, aw-aw, honey, lay off them shoes.
Dont you step on my blue suede shoes.
Well, you can do anything
But lay off them blue suede shoes.
Well, hey!
Well, its blue, blue, blue suede shoes,
Hey, blue, blue, blue suede shoes,
Hey, blue, blue, blue suede shoes,
Hey, blue, blue, blue suede shoes.
Well, you can do anything
But lay off my blue suede shoes.
-thank you!
song performed by by Yoko Ono
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Blue Suede Shoes
Recorded live at the varsity stadium, toronto, 13 september 1969
-hello! a-good evening!
Ah!
Okay?
Okay, were just gonna do numbers that we know, you know, cause weve never played together before.
Okay.
Well, its a one for the money, two for the show,
Three to get ready, now go, cat, go!
Dont you step on my blue suede shoes.
Well, you can do anything
But lay off them blue suede shoes.
Well, you can knock me down, step in my face,
Slander my name all over the place;
Do anything that you wanna do,
But, aw-aw, honey, lay off them shoes.
Dont you step on my blue suede shoes.
Well, you can do anything
But lay off them blue suede shoes.
Well, you can burn my house, steal my car,
Drink my liquor from the old fruit jar.
Do anything that you wanna do,
But, aw-aw, honey, lay off them shoes.
Dont you step on my blue suede shoes.
Well, you can do anything
But lay off them blue suede shoes.
Well, hey!
Well, its blue, blue, blue suede shoes,
Hey, blue, blue, blue suede shoes,
Hey, blue, blue, blue suede shoes,
Hey, blue, blue, blue suede shoes.
Well, you can do anything
But lay off my blue suede shoes.
-thank you!
song performed by by Yoko Ono
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Scribbler's Stymie
Pen and paper in sight
I've got no poem to write
Staying up all night
I've got no poem to write
Although my mind is bright
I've got no poem to write
It's windy out tonight, should I go fly a kite?
I've got no poem to write
My ceiling, it is white
I've got no poem to write
It's 4: 59! Five, but not quite
I've got no poem to write
In your arms I'd feel so light
I've got no poem to write
I've had no sleep tonight
I've got no poem to write
Will you just hold me tight?
I've got no poem to write
Outside it's almost light
I've got no poem to write
It's late, off goes my light
I've got no poem to write
poem by Julia Grace
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After School Tea.
Mother said
you were to go back
to Mrs Clark's house
for tea after school
and she would pick
you up later
after work
and so when
the bell went
for the end
of the school day
you went with Mrs Clark
and her daughter Helen
for tea and Mrs Clark
talked all the way
to her house
her words rough
as hewn stones
going over your head
to which you just nodded
or shook your head
and when you arrived
at the house
which smelt
of past dinners
and washing drying
and the baby's nappies
she said
What would you like for tea?
Bread and butter
bread jam
bread and Bovril
or dripping?
and how about
a large mug of tea?
Helen said
I'm having bread and jam
and a mug of tea
why don't you too?
you said
Yes that will be fine
and shyly sat in a chair
by the window
looking out
at the backyard
where washing hung
on a clothesline
and an old doll's pram
sat rusting by a wall
and Helen came
and sat next to you
in her grey skirt
and off white blouse
and swung her legs
back and forth
under the chair
her white ankle socks
and black scuffed shoes
coming in
and going out
of view
and she said
After tea
I'll show you my dolls
and the doll's house
my daddy made
out of orange boxes
and as Mrs Clark
made the tea
you sensed Helen's small hand
run along your arm
which set alarm bells ringing
in your head
and a sweating in your palm.
poem by Terry Collett
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Do Not Jump Into Conclusion
do not jump into
a very bad conclusion that
the one who leaves
and who shall be considered
as the poem
called 'Good riddance'
is my wife
or my concubine
or my common-law-wife
or my girflfriend
or my housemaid,
as i am telling you,
she can be any woman of this world
she can be any wife of any husband
who knows the many versions of what a
departure can be
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Christmas House
On the second day of Christmas
we left the white house
which had enveloped us.
Ice-crisp evenings
we waited for the train;
the black, shining giant
that took us away
from Christmas.
The lights from the house
winked safely laughing
in white window-frames,
peacefully,
always the same.
Our fingers were freezing,
and we stared enthralled
towards the house
where Christmas dwelt,
not wanting to go away,
wishing to stay there
in Christmas
forever.
Translated from Norwegian by the author of the poem,
Åse Lilleskare Faugstad
poem by Aase Faugstad
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The Grey Areas: Revised
they think and teach you
that black is black and white is white
that either you are moral or immoral
that either you leave or stay
that either you die or live
that there are only choices of
either/or
they tell you do not do this
do not do that
do only this and that
they prohibit you and tell you
it is for your own good
as though they are gods
and you are the dogs
an old man with bright eyes
asks me to go near him
and he says: try the middle of things
it is not just black or white but
there are shades and shades of choices
in between
in there everything is allowed.
the grey areas. the exceptions. the exemptions.
try them. they are all exciting. like the colors of the rainbow
like the patches of red, and orange and blue and pink
you see, who is telling you that there are no other colors
than black and white?
i am neither good nor bad.
In truth, i am just myself.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A White House
There is an old abandoned house.
I planted a white rose in it's precious soil.
Clouds begin to rain calmly on the peaceful rose.
Its sparkling roots and stems slowly cover the house.
I returned the next day only to see the white rose turn the house into a big, beautifully white rose.
poem by Roshaun Beasley
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Love Hate Relationship
i see you, seated on the staircase, the old one
left by your parents long dead, and
you are crying there, some tears falling on the
carpeted floors, so your sorrow is invisible
to his eyes, when he comes home, you put on a smile,
like a light that you switch on when it is dark,
it has always been that everyday with you,
and him, and he tells you every instruction to keep that love
burning, you listen, but as soon as he goes
to another place, far, and you sit again on that old staircase
counting the rails and the chairs of the house
you begin to think honestly, that this affair is nothing but a
fraud. It is only him. But to him that should not be, as you he goes
away for days, and you keep on staying put
with all his instructions. You worry about the electricity of the house.
and the gas that keeps the oven hot for the bread
and the muffins
but for how long. The tank of gas will be empty soon.
and what he will find in this house, when you decide to end it all
is just the muffin that the ants of the house
are still eating. There is always a season to end what was started.
soon. It will be. You sit on the stair, looking out the door.
You will know how to make the dust. Soon, It will be.
He will never know.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Grey Areas
they think and teach you
that black is black and white is white
that either you are moral or immoral
that either you leave or stay
that either you die or leave
that there are only choices of either/or
they tell you do not do this
do not do that
they prohibit you and tell you
it is for your own good
as though they are gods
and you are the dogs
an old man with bright eyes
asked me to go near him
and he says: try the middle of things
it is not just black or white but there are shades and shades of choices
in there everything is allowed.
the grey areas. the exceptions. the exemptions.
try them. they are all exciting. like the colors of the rainbow
like the patches of red, and orange and blue and pink
you see, who is telling you that there are no other colors
than black and white?
i am neither good nor bad. In truth, i am just myself.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Laughter
They said they were sending two men
Two men not one
They would come,
Unnannouced
Into the place where you were living
The place where you were sleeping ad eating
The place where you were wasted time
And losing sleep and memories
The place where there was too much to do
And nothing to fill in the hours lost between
sleeping and eating and cleaning and waking
And taking back
And not taking
The things you had lost
The loves forsaking
The laughter
The days without speaking
The rooms full of weeping
Of not getting things done
A house full of fun
A place full of rest and unrest
Unwashed glasses
Silent protests in
Unpaid bills
They said they would come
Unnannouced
To your house
When you were ill
And too happy to know
That the laughter
Was the cause of it all
The cause of a fall
A high pitch screeching
A howling
A holler
They said Two men would come, not one,
When you were laughing and having such fun
When had stopped feeling rotten
Forgotten the plot
Left those dark looks aside
When you were out of control rolling about on the floor
Crying with laughter tears in your eyes
Two men would come
You would here them knock on your door
You would see them waiting outside through the glass
And when you asked them 'Why? '
Their swift reply would Be 'Just don't ask'
The they would take you away, no cup of tea
No polite tete,
The interrogation would begin
'Don't you know it's a crime, a sign of the times? '
And you will reply 'What? I was just havin a laugh'
Then a photograph and a finger print
Then a hand round your throat
And a sinister grin that will pass
It's on the tip if your tongue
'Why two men and not one? and where's your white coats? '
poem by Yvette Smith
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0377 Should be, but
I should be writing a poem
about those small wisps of white cloud
moving unusually fast across a blue blue sky
on their way to somewhere else
as if they're late for an appointment.
I should be writing a poem
about the way the breeze is so gentle
that it seems to have a secret plan with the sun
and the new green leaves
to do something quite extraordinary.
I should be writing a poem
about the way that the trailing geranium leaves
are giving out a scent more white than green
more heavenly than any thought.
I should be writing a poem
about the way that the purple and blue and yellow and white flowers
seem to say nothing but beauty.
I should be writing a poem
but all I can do is gaze in amazement
at what I've seen before
and never seen before.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Black and White (Stream XV)
I have black thoughts,
It is a black day,
A day when the black dog
Coal black, hovers at my shoulder.
I shoulder the burden.
Deep in the black hole.
Black as a black hearted night.
Negative.
Stark.
Black and white.
I do not call my good days white days.
Why?
Or have white thoughts
On a white day,
When the white dog
Pure white sits upon my shoulder.
Which is unburdened.
Out of the pit,
Luxuriating in the bright white light;
White as the purest snow.
Positive.
For we live in a too white world
Maybe we should have grey days,
And light days.
Why should Black be negative and White poitive?
For me then, today is a grey day.
Maybe tomorrow will be a light day.
Copyright P H Brookes 2012
poem by Paul Brookes
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Life Is Poem
to me life is a poem............maybe a child's singing and crying.....sometimes......when I wake up........I go to a park.......in my leisure.......though I am alwayss leisured by life......I sit on a desolate bank.....look around...what I see.......The sparrows eating our troubles......hopping around........to me.......they are the hopping champions of life......easing our troubles....when there is a sparrow.....there must be a life...of some how.....some what....I watch the people by passing......there is the blind couple.....with their white white long stick....tapping....ı t is a music played ı n pavement stones....composed by them....listen to it....sometimes a black crow crows....writing his black poem, , , , , , tearing our ear drums....to me life is poem......the crying of the living...good or bad....ı wish....I had written this piece...like a child.....they are my beloved ones and friends...who me only understands...and write poem s best........
poem by Metin Sahin
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