En.Citatepedia^®.ro

His Usual Routine...

last night he made love to her
on longer hours
his tongue working out her nipples
genitals on deeper penetrations
trying to reach the deepest part of
the wells of
their souls

it was unusual

attempting to achieve what was never there for once
new techniques of pleasures
unlearning traditions of
the missionary positions
time is elongated
there is a new fantasy
of an abstract
painting a la
Picasso at the back
of his mind

a woman with two faces
a man with a twisted jaw
a guitar with
a broken string
a river without visible
banks
a ship without a port
abandoned lighthouse
dark clouds
boundless seas
trees without leaves
hands with nails removed
detached arms
half man half horse
a lion with the tails of
a fish
ceiling without beams
rusty nails on walls
about to collapse

(how can he tell her that he never had
an ejaculation?
that there is something in him that is never understood
and tapped)

as lays there in bed
snoring
he stares at the ceiling
silently
composing all the possible
questions
still without any
drafted answers

he is a submarine on uncharted
depths of
deep blue oceans
charting out
the bottom
where due to so much pressure
he shall shrink
like a crumpled
paper

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Boatman's Crossing!

The boatman is out, crossing the swollen river,
Dips the bamboo staff, churns the frowning waters,
Calling for strength from the still depths, he moves on,
Like children running behind a cart, waves giggle along.
The river asks no questions.

Dark for lies shrouded in curtains of inky black,
Moon just a strained smile, is seized by the clouds crack,
Lovelorn silver edges aglow, puff in pride on the conquest,
Homesick, signaling to each other, stars join in the jest.
The night asks no questions.

Yet to startle darkness, the weakest hour of morn,
Pushing this log of wood, is yet to be born,
Thick as honey, wind flutters leaves in bouts of rage,
Dripping with the scent of hill balsams and lush foliage.
The wind asks no questions.

Heaving branches of blossoms and figs, offer themselves,
In homage to the river, on either banks banyan trees swagger,
Dipping their flowing roots, like an old woman’s tress,
Bait fish; like one throws pebbles in water seeking answers,
The trees ask no questions.

This, a strange journey he makes in the quiet of the morn,
Questions arise in his head, like on the banks- the wayside corn,
To lull them sings, a wailing tune, like in wilderness richotteing nails,
His mother sang, to stall his questions after
her bed-timetales.
The boatman asks no questions.

As they sail by, birds sent aflutter, snigger, trees jeer,
A startled stork from the far-off horizon hollers-All clear,
Drawn by his song, in his trailing nets fishes ensnare,
Like a maiden in panic, the river hastens, after a night’s dare.
The birds ask no questions.

Dawn breaks its garland of flushing colors galore,
A veiled maiden sits at the boat’s far-end, shadows devour
Head bowed, eyes downcast, break not her silence of the night,
Lest she should dropp off like an unopened bud at first light.

poem by Seema joglekar
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Switch on the light, please

I always rise from a fall
From the floor I lift my bottom
Up this table
And from this table I stand
And reach this ceiling

It is dark and you simply sit there
Like a blind creature
Learning to live & even love
♥
This darkness

You keep telling me about your
Broken dreams
The walls enclosing you
The wails of the past
Screaming at you

Up here I hold this
Fluorescent bulb
And put it on the socket
On the ceiling and now
It is finally done & ready

To have light however
It is still you
Who must stand
Move to that dark corner
And then switch on
This tiny thing
☼

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Painting The Walls

painting the walls,
rolling over handprints,
cobwebs, and smoke stains....

over splashes of color,
over peels of time.
painting over the sounds

of voices whispering, laughing....
painting over tears hidden
from the world, from each other.

painting over running, and working,
working all day and half the night.
painting over children, and dreams,

folded like old clothes, and put away.
painting over notes from God,
that were often barely noticed...

painting over the nail that held
up the clock, hands moving slowly,
turning the seasons of living....

painting over the final words,
the last breath held in the hands,
of lives written in the grain....

the testimony of each feeling....
painting the walls,
and brushing the corners,

as if we never lived!

poem by Eric Cockrell
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Opening Up To You

Opening up to you,
The night before,
red finger nails!
Dark finger nails!
White finger nails!
Blue finger nails!
To utter it out;
The thoughts of man,
The thoughts of woman,
The thoughts of a child! !
But, holding the torch and to touch you.

poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Escape

you are in prison and you know it
there are no bars
but you simply feel the closing in of space
around you and you sense the choking
and tightening
of your body with so much pressure
against the walls
of your imagination
the concrete beams
and ceiling moving
towards the floor
and you are at the middle
of all these things

you want to escape
and you assume the shape of a very small bird
growing wings on your sides
like the new born leaves
of a seed

without still the claws and beak and tongue
you fly away
unhesitantly without so much waste
of time
& words

except the note
of a very sad song
left on the barren floor
for someone
you no longer love

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Deepest Bluest

uh, my head is like a shark's fin
Chorus:
(we're in) deepest, bluest, my head is like a shark's fin,
(the deep) deepest, bluest, my head is like a shark's fin,
(blue sea) deepest, bluest, my head is like a shark's fin,
(ah, ah) deepest, bluest, my head is like a shark's fin,
Man-made terror
Hungry jaws of death
Y'all don't cross my depths
I'll pause your breaths
I cause you to sink down forty thousand leagues
Bleeding to death with no arms in short sleeves
My world's deep blue
Killers gotta eat too
Looking for human flesh to rip my teeth through
Other fish in the sea but barracudas ain't equal
To a half human predator created by a needle
Jet black eyes baby they stare while you sleep
When your titanic sink i'm the one you gon' meet
Hearing terrified screams they surround my team
All you see is trails of blood
Even god won't intervene
Nightmares of darkness
My appetite is heartless
Even if we related, you eliminated regardless
In the deep blue, underwater wars
Half man, half shark
My jaws don't pause
Chorus x2
Our father who art in heaven
Hallowed be thy name
Killers sworn to beast
Swallowed them in flames
Switch my dna
Flip me into cool j
I can't fight the feelin'
I'm born to kill prey
To survive an attack
There's only one way
Battle to the death
That's how sharks play
Weapons left behind
We dueling with the mind
You blind, crippled, or crazy
You're real easy to find
Struggling to float
With heomorhages in your throat
Getting the lap dance
While i smash through your boat
Eat your whole fam'
Nothing left but da right hand
Clinging to a rail
Escape attempts fail
You'll never make it home
Tear the flesh off your bone
Walking in undercurrents is a dangerous zone
I'm talking death out a moment's notice
You wasn't focused
Me and my crew strike
Like some underwater locust
Chorus x2
Uh, uh take it deeper
Uh, uh take it deeper
Uh, uh take it deeper
Uh, uh take it deeper
These waters are waist level
The hallway's flooded
Lost your scuba gear
The killer's cold-blooded
His name's ll
You don't really want it
I ate your ancestors
The ocean is haunted
I'm closing in cause i'm supposed to win
How the cold steel feel when it froze your chin
Should of stayed on dry land
Stroke while you can
Cause now you under pressure in the land of the damned
Abandoned pirate ships
Eels and sod scum
Fish that glow in the dark
The titanic's hub
Underwater storms
You're blood is so warm
You're life vest is off
And that turns me on
Killer for centuries
The gotti of the deep
In the next millennium
I'm still gonna creep
Sand under my belly, ocean over my head
Through the light in the shadows
You become the living dead
Chorus x2
Yeah, dbs

song performed by by LL Cool J
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Depths Are Not Meant For Us...

do not ever let that
submarine of thoughts
go deeper
than what is necessary
or required of
us

those depths
are not meant for us
mortals

and for this which is
made of
inferior metal
and flesh

for in there we shrink
like a paper box
pressed
against all its four sides

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Last Night I Was Talking To Myself

last night i was talking to myself
asking and making answers
like the way i make a knot and
then untie them from a cemented
post at the port
so that the wooden boat
may finally be let loose
and be free to sail
to its chosen destination

the sea was so wide
like all seas that you have seen
but the night was so dark
like no other

last night i was formulating solutions
to a very common problem
like how to cure a cold
with just a glass of water
like how to appease the coldness
of a room with nothing but
a piece of a woolen blanket
and curling feet and
hiding hands in my pocket
so i can have the exact warmth
so i may finally have my much
needed sleep and
dream about the peace
between the clouds
and the stars

last night i could not sleep
and you are beside me
last night i opened the window
of our room while you
were there snoring
last night i was silently
talking about the absence of
stars the loss of the moon

and then the rain fell
heavily on the roof of this house
and then i closed the windows
and then i listened to every sound
and then i noticed a faint light coming
from a leak of these walls

i know
another morning has finally
come
it is broken they say.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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My Father’s Son

Once
when I was still a baby boy
obsessed, thrilled with dark night sky
father said, shut your eyes tightly
then sailed I into dark night sky
dreaming of my arms
dipping in deep, dark-blue velvety
palpating golden sheen of the golden full moon
snatching twinkling stars.

But

i fell like lead
just before hard ground
to my father’s arms- veinated, calloused
his chirped nails safely grabbed
then
i opened my eyes
stretching my empty arms, pink nails
for a earnest glimpse of
a dip of deep, dark-blue velvety
golden sheen of the golden full moon
snatched twinkling stars.

and I felt sad.

Then-

father buried his head on my nape
his grizzly beard tickling my face
making little ‘blurp’ ‘blurp’ sounds
my shrill laughter
accosting his deep throaty laughter
echoing my disappointment into dark night sky
before sailing me into dark night sky
back to his rough-gentle arms
again
again
and again
to dip in deep, dark-blue velvety
palpate golden sheen of the golden full moon
snatching twinkling stars.

“Drink all Ma’s omena* soup
to be taller, reach the dark night sky”
father said, following my gaze
into the dark night sky
static radio bleating reggae
golden full moon bathing us in golden sheen
just me and my father
sleeping in his rough-gentle arms
dreaming of my arms
dipping in deep, dark-blue velvety
palpating golden sheen of the golden full moon
snatching twinkling stars

poem by Manuel Odeny
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Million Man March Poem

The night has been long,
The wound has been deep,
The pit has been dark,
And the walls have been steep.

Under a dead blue sky on a distant beach,
I was dragged by my braids just beyond your reach.
Your hands were tied, your mouth was bound,
You couldn't even call out my name.
You were helpless and so was I,
But unfortunately throughout history
You've worn a badge of shame.

I say, the night has been long,
The wound has been deep,
The pit has been dark
And the walls have been steep.

But today, voices of old spirit sound
Speak to us in words profound,
Across the years, across the centuries,
Across the oceans, and across the seas.
They say, draw near to one another,
Save your race.
You have been paid for in a distant place,
The old ones remind us that slavery's chains
Have paid for our freedom again and again.

The night has been long,
The pit has been deep,
The night has been dark,
And the walls have been steep.

The hells we have lived through and live through still,
Have sharpened our senses and toughened our will.
The night has been long.
This morning I look through your anguish
Right down to your soul.
I know that with each other we can make ourselves whole.
I look through the posture and past your disguise,
And see your love for family in your big brown eyes.

I say, clap hands and let's come together in this meeting ground,
I say, clap hands and let's deal with each other with love,
I say, clap hands and let us get from the low road of indifference,
Clap hands, let us come together and reveal our hearts,
Let us come together and revise our spirits,
Let us come together and cleanse our souls,
Clap hands, let's leave the preening
And stop impostering our own history.
Clap hands, call the spirits back from the ledge,
Clap hands, let us invite joy into our conversation,
Courtesy into our bedrooms,
Gentleness into our kitchen,
Care into our nursery.

The ancestors remind us, despite the history of pain
We are a going-on people who will rise again.

And still we rise.

poem by Maya Angelou
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At The Surface Of These All.....

it is nice at the top
there is more fun in there
at the surface one sees
sun and landscapes of
plains and trees and houses and
trains and
roads,

at night, it is a city of
glittering diamonds
and you are on top of this
situation

it is nice swimming at the surface
seeing the rest enjoying their splash of
days

but it gets lonely
sometimes, at first, then most of the times
the nights are like clinging hands
pulling you down to
some depths of your
kept oceans

showing you the dark side
of your existence
the most silent part of it
this one
tells you the truth
and speaks straight to you
without
the flowers of
euphemistic living

you are plunged into a vast silence of the
deepest part in you
and you take all the risk
that somehow because of too much pressure
you break down into
pieces of
broken stars

porcelain, glass, cracking
and this inability to join the pieces together
makes you
incomplete again into the emptiness of your
being

what i hear is sighs in the depths like
some kind of
whales communicating that there is something greater
down there

rather than the top the surface which may offer you
a loud life laughing
but then deep inside their is this wailing and mourning
as though someone so well loved
has just passed away.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Morning Blues.....

i sit beside a soft
sky blue curtain
as i face the monitor
and i am taking the pains
of sight
i decide to stretch my
hands to the
ceiling
and breathe
deep and take my gaze
beyond this
old glass window

out there is the old house
that i see here
everyday

the caretaker
has taken the weeds this morning
and the land appears
naked
as some trees are
cut to give way to a
space of
sunshine

the rusty grills and
roof tops are
newly painted

a face-lift of
an insignificant landscape
of a house and
mini
forest

despite these new
mechanics
there is nothing
significant in this day

i go back to work
concentrate on my fingers
tire my brain
and think that i should not have
been
swayed by
small outbursts of
emotions which should not
have interfered
in my
bread and butter thing

i am split and
two faced and i feel like i am
a Picasso painting of
a woman
who is afraid to
focus in one
direction

i like to be a bust of
a hero
staring at anyone who
pass me and
give them that sense of
guilt
that the real mission
and the noble purpose
of life
is always
unaccomplished

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Holy Wings

The twisted moon
moved horizontally,
plunged in cleavage
of dark trees
eating the stars.

Aloneness; midnight dream,
faces the wall of nails.
Scratches on the flesh
blood oozing.
The benign end.

Put off the lights,
it helps to think clearly.
Drape the mercy of night.
Snake was hissing, may strike.
A cramp will kill the joy.

The fish will be welded
to a candle.

poem by Satish Verma
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Geraldine's Bus Ride to Work

Geraldine rides the bus to work.
She sways side to side with the
motion of the bus, sitting in the
compact human zoo, faces, limbs,

bodies, eyes, mouths. The sky
outside is an early morning icy blue.
A man opposite stares, his eyes
moving over her, his hands in his

lap, fingers playing with each other.
His eyes settle on her legs, drink
them in. She feels as if he were
undressing her, taking each item of

clothing off one by one. His eyes
are dark, deep set. She stares back
at him, takes in his lips, parted, thick
and saliva sits there. Her thoughts

move to Holly and the night before,
the game they played, the role plays,
the pre-sex drama. The man shifts
in his seat, wrinkles his nose, moves

his eyes to her breasts. She looks away,
senses his eyes fondling her tits, his
imaginary fingers groping. Holly would
have said something to the creep opposite,

would have shown him up, but she
doesn't have that way with her, she sits
it out, pushing thoughts of him away,
focuses on Holly's tongue licking the

inside of her thighs, sensation electrifying.
The man looks away, no doubt to masturbate
in his dark mind with his imaginary fingers.
Geraldine lets the thoughts of Holly and

her deeds linger, sucks in the hotness,
the scents, the sighs, the smells. She stares
at the man. He looks at his hands, his fingernails.
There is dirt beneath the nails, black as soot

as if he'd rooted in dark soil. She looks away;
Holly has set her (with her deeds) to sexual boil.

poem by Terry Collett
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Thoughts Before The Much Needed Sleep...

one wonders, at times, in the middle of
(nowhere)

of the room, where books scatter like chairs
after a wild party, that class reunion after

25 long years, (back to the main point)
of wonder, when pushed at the edge,

whether, the things done, year after year,
polishing each, like old shoes that do not break

priding of their crocodile skins, are right
correct, and justified, whether the conclusions

arrived at are, true, useful, and normally
good, one lays his head against the tip

of the easy chair, supports the neck with both
hands and look at the ceiling for answers that

do not come out easily, but appear like lizards
still waiting for their cockroach and favorite mosquitoes,

this office has mosquitoes and cockroaches,
and, as the answers are not ready made, but

slimy like fishes on the river Kwai, one stares like
a blank wall, eyes closed later, fall into sleep and

dream.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Half The World

Words by neil peart, music by geddy lee and alex lifeson
Half the world hates
What half the world does every day
Half the world waits
While half gets on with it anyway
Half the world lives
Half the world makes
Half the world gives
While the other half takes
Half the world is
Half the world was
Half the world thinks
While the other half does
Half the world talks
With half a mind on what they say
Half the world walks
With half a mind to run away
Half the world lies
Half the world learns
Half the world flies
As half the world turns
Half the world cries
Half the world laughs
Half the world tries
To be the other half
Half of us divided like a torn-up photograph half of us are
Trying to reach the other half
Half the world cares
While half the world is wasting the day
Half the world shares
While half the world is stealing away

song performed by by Rush
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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An Answer, Please!

I lay down on my bed, facing the ceiling.
My thoughts are dealing
with problems, floating free,
but still part of me.

What's to do!

Must think things through
and make some decisions,
as there are collisions
within my brain.
It's so inane!

An answer, please,
something to ease
the hurting in my head.

So here on my bed,
I face the ceiling
with such a reeling, feeling.

But what is that?
Oh, drat!
The paper on my ceiling
is PEELING!

poem by Ernestine Northover
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Staring At The Ceiling

it was when i was about
to squirt
a useful, clinging idea
between my head
and ceiling
when the lights went out

it is a blackout again
in this ruined country
i go up the house
lay on a bamboo bed
and rest my hands on
my head
opening my eyes
i stare on the ceiling
for more questions on
my mind
this existential questions
like lizards
waiting for mosquitoes
lost
ready for the eating

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Distances....

this distance shall seal
the fate of those bridges
the empty space
are cut arms
the chasms between our
thoughts
are sliced feet
there are no more nails
to scratch what pleasures
are there
in this all broken
arrangement

the words fall from the trees
like poisoned leaves
as i walk away like a thief
you shall have the last
laugh

when you are dead and there
shall be peace
i shall come back
not to bury you with all
the requisites of
religious dignity
i am coming with my vultures
and they shall have a feast
on your rotten
belly.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A River Flows

Where does the river flow
if not to you?

How deep its depths
if these
are not yours?

How broad is the river bank?

Broad enough
for the tug-boats
to push my heart along.

If there are fish in the river,
they sing your name
open-mouthed,
fish-style,
making tiny bubbles float
up, up to the river surface
where they pop
spread
announcing to the Firmament
that Love lives just below
the deep river flows.

Yes, you and I
are the river;
we flow,
run deep
down to that
ocean-mix
in which
our souls
swirl.

Mix me then
in depths deep.

Mix you then
amid this ocean sweep
and all else,
for me
becomes meaningless
so great
is our Soul Mixed
Ocean Bliss.

poem by Lonnie Hicks
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