Hidden
he was sitting on one benches of the public park
where anything goes really,
after a stroll, he sits again, putting his feet on a trunk
his arms on the upper side of the bench
the air fans him and he looks at the trees lush with leaves
it rained last night and the scent of freshness is here again
he simply sits there alone...
there is no need of anything
or anyone, in this kind of a very simple bliss.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
Daily Routine
Every evening at 5.09
he leaves the office,
takes the streetcar
into town,
goes for a stroll
down to the park
by the canal,
there he sits
on the bench nearest
the ornate water fountain;
He dreams,
of a lost childhood
long summers ago
by the sea,
days filled with singing,
laughing and
crying;
Crying now,
the little girl
by the fountain
who has lost her way,
golden hair, eyes of grey,
reflected in his thick lenses;
As he watches her
he dreams,
of long summers ago,
a childhood by the sea
filled with laughing
and crying;
now in the park
he lies beneath a summer sky,
side by side with
the golden girl
and
she lies
very still.
poem by Louis Kasatkin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Image...
twilight
an old man walks in the park
trying to breathe in
fresh air
morning comes
with the fingers of light
the old man sits on one of the benches
in the park
hold his staff
and looks at the horizon
alone and peaceful
as children pass by
rushing for the early school
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Contented With Your Own Silence
in one instance you step out of your door
walk on the road,
keeping your gaze away from the danger side
you keep things to yourself
there is no one to share with
what story you have for the past days
when you hibernated in that room,
it is a break,
you stroll in the park
take your breath under those trees
sit upon one of those empty benches
lose your mind
upon what is obvious and
visible upon those
that do not need any
kind of scrutiny and fathoming
this the time to fish
for nothingness
you lay your hands upon the grass
it is this coolness
that makes you feel connected
to the earth
you sigh and sigh again and again
it is this exhaling that makes you a giver
rather than a taker
it makes you
comfortable like what smokers do
when (they pollute
the air)
there is a certain fulfillment
in this kind of loafing
you carry nothing and thus
you leave nothing
you are not alone
feel this solitude
there are so many of you
doing the same routine in the park
fishers of
nothingness
but i tell you
do not talk do not start a conversation with the one near you
or that one
who is walking his dog early morning
i tried it once
when you get no response
it will just make you lonelier
it is like taking a stone in your hand
and hitting your head with it
sit there,
just sit there
relax
take your time,
and simply be whole
nothing falling
apart
it is beautiful to
see
now that you are
contented with your own
silence.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Your Own Disater
Just think of this and me,
as just a few of the many things,
to lie around and clutter up your shelves
I wish you wern't worht the wait
cos theres somthing id like to say to you
and i dont think that you knwo what you've been missing
and i dont think that you knwow hat you've been missing
and i dare you to forget
the marks oyu left across my neck
from those nights when we were both at our best
and now i could make this obvious
and you, you could deny me
all in one breath you could shug mr off your shoulders
cos i dont think that you know what oyuve been missing
and i dont hitnk that you knwo what you've been missing
cos i dont think that you,
i said i dont think that you know
cos i dont think that you know what youve been missing
hey lush, have fun
its the weekend
hey lush have fun
hey lush, have fun
its the weekend
hey lush have fun
(no i dont think that you know what you've been missing)
hey lush, have fun
its the weekend
(no i dont think that you know what you've been missing)
hey lush, have fun
(no i dont think that you know what you've been missing)
hey lush, have fun
its the weekend
(forget me, its that simple)
(no i dont think that you know what you've been missing)
hey lush, have fun
(forget me, its that simple)
(no i dont think that you know what you've been missing)
hey lush, have fun
its the weekend
(forget me, its that simple)
(no i dont think that you know what you've been missing)
hey lush, have fun
(forget me, its that simple)
(oh i dont think that you know what you've been missing)
hey lush, have fun
its the weekend
(forget me, its that simple)
(no i dont think that you know what you've been missing)
hey lush, have fun
(forget me, its that simple)
(oh i dont think that you know what you've been missing)
hey lush, have fun
its the weekend
(forget me, its that simple)
(no i dont think that you know what you've been missing)
hey lush, have fun
(forget me, its that simple)
forget me its that simple
forget me its that simple
forget me, its that simple
forget me, its that simple
no i dont think that you know what youve been missing)
forget me, its that simple
forget me, its that simple
forget me, its that simple
forget me, its that simple
just forget me , its that simple
song performed by by Taking Back Sunday
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
All Alone
SHE SITS THERE ALL ALONE
HER CHILDREN GROWN
WITH FAMILY OF THEIR OWN
SHE WONDERS WHAT HAPPEN
CHILDREN ALL OF THREE
THEY HAVE GROWN LIKE FRUIT UPON THE TREES
GRANDCHILDREN SHE HAS SIX
GETTING HARDER TO REMEMBER THEIR NAMES
SHE SITS THERE ALL ALONE
NO ONE COMES TO VISIT
HER GRANDCHILDREN DOESN, T KNOW HER
HER CHILDREN HAS FORSAKEN HER
SHE WONDERS WHY
SHE SITS THERE ALL ALONE
SHE LOVED HER CHILDREN DEARLY
WANTED NOTHING BUT THE BEST
WORKED HARD AND WENT WITHOUT
HER CHILDREN SHE WOULD DIE FOR
SHE SITS THERE ALL ALONE
SHE WONDERS WHY
SHE THOUGHT THEY WOULD BE AROUND HER
LIKE ALL MOTHERS DO
GET TOGETHERS ON SUNDAYS
SEE A MOVIE OR TWO
SHE SITS THERE ALL ALONE
SHE REEKS HER BRAIN
WONDERS WHAT DID SHE EVER DO
TO GET SUCH COLD TREATMENT
FROM THE BABIES SHE ONCE KNEW
SHE SITS THERE ALL ALONE
THE ANGELS CAME AND CARRIED HER HOME
poem by Verna Ralph
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Old man
Old man sits on a bench
His life surrounded by a cyclone fence
Remembers times from way back when
As he sits beside his best friend Ken
Relives the old times again and again
He was married to his late wife Jen
The love of his life from back then
He says his sorrow will never mend
Pulls out a card he never did send
Tries to be tough but he can`t pretend
He says Jen was his very best friend
Was very sad when her life did end
Tells ken that you never know when
The time you have will come to an end
Send your love as soon as you can
Don`t delay for another day
Sometimes god will take her away
Here on the bench the old man stays
Day after day he sits and prays
A tear from his eyes as they start to glaze
With love in his heart that never strays
Even after they have parted ways
poem by Joseph Whelan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
replaying mozart's serenade #3 in G
middle age sits on a bench
at the park
just watching people pass by-
a fat lady with a pink purse as small as as a snail
a thin man looking like he's dying of tuberculosis
a little boy being held tight by his mom smiling at me
two lovers as sweet as sugar and walking too close like a glued pair of slippers
middle age sits alone and laughs loud like he's winning
this lonely game of optical illusion
this trajectory projection
middle age inside this cell of himself
looking for an opening
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Fisherman
He sits by the shore
all day long casting his bait
line after line
into the lake fishing
hoping for that bite
the kind that makes his day
but nothing comes
he sits there alone
only thoughts for company
what goes through his head
while he sits there
watching cold eyed
the open lake before him
is he at peace
or making plans
who could say
he just sits there alone
watching
poem by Matthew Holloway
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Old Man
The old man sat on a park bench
just watching the people pass by.
He did it day after day
alone in everyone's eyes.
He would smile occasionally
but no one ever knew why.
Everyone who saw him
wondered why he sat so still
and just looked out
at everyone who passed him there.
The old man sat in repose
from dawn until dusk fell.
He sat there in the summer sun
and as winter's bleakness fell.
He looked for some face
he might remember from his past
so they could reminisce for a while.
Sadly, the years slipped away.
Everyone spoke about him,
but no one ventured to talk.
Then one day the old man
wasn't on the park bench
and he was nowhere to be seen.
Now a different question was asked.
Day after day, the bench was empty.
Where had the old man gone?
Had he simply passed away?
The questions remained unanswered
because no one ever stopped
to enquire of his name.
I would like to think
that in the dying hours
on the park bench one day
that he had found
what he was waiting for
and then happily he faded away.
12 July 2012
poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
A Rainy Day
the trees are full of green leaves.
the shrubs are flowery.
the grasses are still wet with dew.
two muscular men pass by.
Under one black umbrella.
One hand on the shoulder
of the other
keeping themselves close
to avoid being wet by the rain.
On the bench beside the
pavement
One lean white man
sits with sad eyes
(i guess there must
be tears on his cheeks)
looking at them.
Not a word is heard.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Ressurection
Burning leaves,
Stinging scent in nostrils,
Tender leaves resurrect on Earth.
Dull feet
Tired pistons
Farmer throws mud caked boots
New dawn, a bird sings.
I look for a glint of fire
For my grandmothers pipe
The smoke will rise,
Mother, resurrection sits on hope.
poem by Charles Jagongo Ogola
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The day and night are moving
through the cityscape billboards and landmarks
the benches in the park stand frozen alone
nothing sits them the way they sit despair
dead crumbs lying by the cigarette butts
city posts lights and a couple of open windows
like traffic signs of things directing too slow
each foot seems to be moving into
'where do we go? '
'uncontrolled movement into several directions'
flat screen tv will call it a 'situation'
I guess that's where we are placed
into a difficult, conflicting, conflicted 'sitting'
Copyright circled C Miroslava Odalovic
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Haunted Haven
Beyond the woods
The branching oak and canopy of leaves still abide
The bench is there
The leaves still fall
The cree still flows beneath the trees
The difference is
The oak is baren
The shiny bench is covered in moss
The leaves now lie beneath my feet
The place now lacks the presence of life
Though our laughter still echoes
Haunting the place of our childhood haven
poem by Humna Hamid
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Watching And Waiting
Watching the world fly by as I sit here
Waiting for you to come for so long
I've turned into a statue sitting here on this bench
waiting for you and watching the world fly by
People once looked at me now I'm just part of the scenery
Waiting for you to come for so long
watching the world fly by as I sit here
I think you forgot and the world did too
about the girl you once knew who now
sits here waiting for you never knowing that you'll never will
and watching the world fly by as she sits there
poem by Amanda Shields
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Labourer and His Owner
Black and white -
His spade always wakes up the dreams
in the sands,
Except when he hugs
the coconut trees;
Sweat drops decorate his body
under the sun.
His owner, of the same age,
who simply stands
Or simply sits in some shade.
"A blessed man",
My mind always murmurs.
Now -
In the same coconut grove,
though very aged,
The same labourer decorates his body
with sweat drops.
But in the place of the old owner,
his dear son
Simply stands or simply sits.
Many years after,
My mind murmurs again, "Who
is really blessed? "
FABIYAS M V
poem by Fabiyas M V
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
A Casualty
The old man sits
On top of a brown
Battered suitcase
This now contains
All his belongings
I remember him
He was the toymaker
In our village
He was always a happy man
Now I see him
As we flee
The light has gone
From his eyes
There is fear there
That stops me cold
What does he know?
What has he seen?
He sits there
Waiting for his family
People pass by
Asking him
If he needs help
He says no
He is waiting for
His daughter to come
She went into the fields
To pick some sugar canes
That's when the soldiers
Set the fields on fire
Burning sugar
Caramel
Now pungent
But the first whiff was sweet
That's when the village
Began to burn
The old man sits
And waits for her
I wonder how long
He's been sitting there?
He looks to every face
And says her name
Every girl he stops
And examines to see
If it might be her
The old man sits
All alone.
poem by Rabia Minhas
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
95
sitting, waiting
sitting, as simple as sitting on a stair
you look around through dragonfly eyes
from higher places
like a cliff overlooking a village
closer to cotton clouds
patches of hissing
winds up here,
alone,
you sit, sitting is simple, it is not complicated
as waiting which is heavier sometimes with a person who is not
showing some shadows for the coming,
sit,
i sit,
i am sitting viewing a wide horizon, a vast expanse of a field,
some white herons heaving leaves blown from dead trees this summer,
they fly away
from you, they fly away from where you are seated, from your country,
you remain sitting,
sit, like a dog to his master telling him to sit,
sit,
it is simple as being yourself alone, not even waiting
things end in darkness
dust settles finally on the ground after a truck fully loaded with almost
everything leaves
the road heading far away from you,
you are not waiting for anything
you have no time
left for waiting, everything leaves and goes away, always everybody
utters the word goodbye
except these, the rain, the rain, there are many of them,
these hordes of rains
they are coming and you sit and do the last thing possible
listen
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Ex
to the one we love
that we desire we always remember the specific
hard to forget
really: the mere touch of the hand
scent never leaves from the palm
the nearness of the breaths
there is still fire burning
crackling popcorn nearby
that time where you were seated near
at the park
in one of those benches
facing the road
the smell of the pines still
sticking in your nose
the laughter of children
playing
that exact bench that spot
where you left
the mark
the feel of wood
the color of the wind
the taste of that ice cream on the
crispy cone
that orange sunset and then the neon lights
that started to flicker
like stars in the sky
that evening
the sadness of departure
finally
oh, it made you stronger.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Forgotten Hero
He rambles, solitary along the streets, His body enervated with aching feet,
He’s spent half his life deserted and alone, Heading for destinations unknown.
His clothes are soiled, rancid and torn, The shoes on his feet are totally worn,
A carrier bag holds his only effects, An outcast, an exile one of societies rejects.
Just a forgotten hero, who done his country proud,
But now he is forgotten, just a beggar in the crowd.
He’s an old man now, going on seventy four, A veteran and hero of the second world war,
The medals on his chest, he will not trade, They’re just a small reminder of the price so many paid.
A heroes welcome he received, in 1945, Now he struggles day by day just to stay alive,
By day he sits there begging, with memories in his head, Of the wounded and the dying and the ones he left for dead.
Just a forgotten hero, begging amongst the crowd,
Huddled in a doorway, a blanket, his only shroud.
The blinds of darkness are pulled upon day, It’s time to find a place to stay,
Headed for the local park, He makes his way through the shadows of dark.
It’s minus two and he shivers alone, Stretched out on a park bench, his icicle home,
The sequestered memories of his life flash by, As his haggard body let’s out a sigh.
Just a forgotten hero, sleeping out in the cold,
A park bench as a bed, no place for the old.
He’s found in the morning, by a passer-by, She stares, sheds a tear and asks herself why,
He’s no longer a burden or public liability, now that he’s found his peace, and tranquillity.
On his grave there is no inscription, No cross or stone of any description,
A mound of earth marks where he lay, But he’s still not known, even to this day.
Just a forgotten hero, who done his country proud,
Not even missed by the apathetic crowd.
poem by welshrebel GMR
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Spying On Me?
While quietly sitting down
In one of the benches in Central Park,
Bewitched by a Sunny afternoon,
I saw something moving fast/
I imagined it was a ghost
That found refuge under a shadow
Of a lonely tree still standing
In the middle of the open field…
For a moment, I thought
That it was you spying on me.
Yes, the woman that silently hid
Behind a colorful mask,
Some time ago!
The one that broke my heart
And run away like a frighten thief
Almost caught
In the middle of the night…
In a starry and clear night,
Sitting again in the same bench,
I observed the bright full moon
And suddenly I heard a loud voice
Like somebody calling my name
And for a moment, I was afraid,
I thought it was you calling me
While hiding behind the moon…
Now, a question remains:
Were you the one spying on me?
Only time will tell
The day you come back to me!
©All Rights Reserved-2011
poem by Romeo Della Valle
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!