I Always Like It Cool
simmering, gliding, and
sliding, these kinds of figures
of white herons, and
hawks, and
even gray fish on stones
beneath the
shallow sea
amaze me, i am silenced
by their beauty, and
trying to write about
them is always a disappointment
reading the lines
i am at a loss, i am less of what you
are, and my literary journey
has not even
begun
at any rate, it
really depends on how i see it
and how you see
it too, i like just being what i am
and that is the biggest
win.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Related quotes
Our biggest fish
When in the halcyon days of old, I was a little tyke,
I used to fish in pickerel ponds for minnows and the like;
And oh, the bitter sadness with which my soul was fraught
When I rambled home at nightfall with the puny string I'd caught!
And, oh, the indignation and the valor I'd display
When I claimed that all the biggest fish I'd caught had got away!
Sometimes it was the rusty hooks, sometimes the fragile lines,
And many times the treacherous reeds would foil my just designs;
But whether hooks or lines or reeds were actually to blame,
I kept right on at losing all the monsters just the same--
I never lost a little fish--yes, I am free to say
It always was the biggest fish I caught that got away.
And so it was, when later on, I felt ambition pass
From callow minnow joys to nobler greed for pike and bass;
I found it quite convenient, when the beauties wouldn't bite
And I returned all bootless from the watery chase at night,
To feign a cheery aspect and recount in accents gay
How the biggest fish that I had caught had somehow got away.
And really, fish look bigger than they are before they are before they're
caught--
When the pole is bent into a bow and the slender line is taut,
When a fellow feels his heart rise up like a doughnut in his throat
And he lunges in a frenzy up and down the leaky boat!
Oh, you who've been a-fishing will indorse me when I say
That it always is the biggest fish you catch that gets away!
'T 'is even so in other things--yes, in our greedy eyes
The biggest boon is some elusive, never-captured prize;
We angle for the honors and the sweets of human life--
Like fishermen we brave the seas that roll in endless strife;
And then at last, when all is done and we are spent and gray,
We own the biggest fish we've caught are those that got away.
I would not have it otherwise; 't is better there should be
Much bigger fish than I have caught a-swimming in the sea;
For now some worthier one than I may angle for that game--
May by his arts entice, entrap, and comprehend the same;
Which, having done, perchance he'll bless the man who's proud to say
That the biggest fish he ever caught were those that got away.
poem by Eugene Field
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Teach Them How To Fish
you may give them fish
but for how long will you be giving them fish? for how long will you fish yourself?
teach them how to fish and they will also teach others how to fish.
that is wiser that way.
teach them poetry at first. let them read the easiest one to understand. let them
see the beauty of the simplest lines from you and from the poet that you love.
teach them how to write one from the fingers of their hand. love their work and tell them how beautiful are they. there is always beauty in every personalized line. i know.i am telling you. your lines speak what is in your heart and everything
inside our hearts are always innately beautiful
let them read their lines. let them speak the meaning that they are hiding in there. that which you have never seen yourself. let them defend beauty and grace and truth in their own work. beauty and truth and goodness have to be
defended by its creator too.
listen. open your mind. listen attentively.
teacher. listen to them. they are now making their own.
love each work.
teacher listen. now they are teaching you. now you are learning some more.
they have their own wings now.
teacher, see the sky. see them. oh how beautiful are they. they are all flying
and singing. do not wish them to come back to you. let them fly away.let them see the big wide world. let them find the other universes.
they are not yours. they belong to themselves. they are now free.
that is your happiness that even the gods cannot give you.
sit back. and write another poem for another batch. some more. some time.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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And If I Did, What Then?
1 'And if I did, what then?
2 Are you aggriev'd therefore?
3 The sea hath fish for every man,
4 And what would you have more?'
5 Thus did my mistress once,
6 Amaze my mind with doubt;
7 And popp'd a question for the nonce
8 To beat my brains about.
9 Whereto I thus replied:
10 'Each fisherman can wish
11 That all the seas at every tide
12 Were his alone to fish.
13 'And so did I (in vain)
14 But since it may not be,
15 Let such fish there as find the gain,
16 And leave the loss for me.
17 'And with such luck and loss
18 I will content myself,
19 Till tides of turning time may toss
20 Such fishers on the shelf.
21 'And when they stick on sands,
22 That every man may see,
23 Then will I laugh and clap my hands,
24 As they do now at me.'
poem by George Gascoigne
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What We Have Become
in the shallow part of the river
we decide to play: life is a game
we like to believe that
our arms drip like cold water
on the side of the glass
that you hold when you have felt
the first thirst
i shall not satisfy you
and so i have become the bait
of the fish
you have become more interested
on what i have to say
not to be mistaken as trivial
i have also taken more glances at you
i believe you
and so with this trust i ask you to go with me
to the deep part of the sea
i swim first then you follow
you know how to swim and you swim well in fact
like a fish
at the shallow part
i told you that nothing is hidden
nothing signifies anything
the stones are stones
and nothing else
your questions are just ordinary questions
which i have answered to well
and you believe me more until
we dive deep
deeper into the ocean floor
where the sands though silent
have more to say
than what i can tell you
the stones on the sides of the deep
now are telling you more
and you begin to understand
why for all those years
on that dry land
i have kept my silence
my distance.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Five Images
I
A naked body
bronze as the sun
poises against the sky
to dive,
then flings his form
into the tide,
parting waters
without a splash,
like the day sliding
beneath the sky.
II
The day is sliding
beneath the sky,
slipping away soundlessly,
like a diver
parting waters without a splash.
III
The bronze that tanned his body
slips below the lip of earth,
as bit by bit blue turns to gray;
And the sea darkens as it swallows
the single diver and the sun.
IV
The day drains
beneath the sky
as the lip of earth
fuses with and enters
the blue-gray parted waters
of the eastern sky,
and stars bit by bit
find their light.
V
The sun beneath the sky
so silently sank away,
I had not noticed its descent,
until I rubbed my eyed from strain
and turned on the light.
poem by Lillian Susan Thomas
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A Writing Break
I sit and write
Literary expelling my mind
On thoughts and feelings
In words I sometimes reflect
Seeing my every image
My pretence of character
Both good and bad staring back
Between the lines of the page
There in stories made up
In verse I see captured
Broken up pieces of myself
That others may relate to
Its all a humane experience
Literary coming off the page
In poetic dedication
I sit here and I write
Feeding my obsessive addiction
Now back to writing
poem by Matthew Holloway
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The Birds
the birds, sparrows and robins
and some herons
are flying on the blue sky
you watch them
a robin comes near you
and makes a stare
the white heron glides
past your face and flies
away without much ado
a sparrow feeds on your palm
and after all the grains are
consumed it goes its way
north and finally the kingfisher
which is late tries to give
you its catch, a small fish.
you see the difference
and then you go south,
i mean, the difference,
towards another direction,
that one that gives and not
the one that takes,
the one that thinks about
others
and not more about oneself.
you are supposed to be that
a giver not a taker.
one bird has shown you
with a very small fish and
that was enough to feed
you in another long and lonely
journey: south.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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In The Darkness
In the darkness
Waiting for the day to be begin
Perfectly alert and awake
I write these lines
That have no message
Except their own existence.
We want to be
Not only for ourselves
But for others -
We need our voices to be heard
Not only by our own dreaming
But by those who respond to our sounds-
You are with me as I write these lines
Whoever you are reading this
You are with me-
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Hoar-Frost
In the cloud gray mornings
I heard the herons Flying
And when I came into my garden,
My silken outer-garment
Trailed over withered leaves.
A dried leaf crumbles at a touch,
But I have seen many Autumns
With herons blowing like smoke
Across the sky.
poem by Amy Lowell
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I Walk And Lines Come To Me
I WALK AND LINES COME TO ME
I walk and lines come to me-
Then I stop somewhere
And wait for more lines
To complete them-
Then when I am at home
I rewrite them-
Then I listen to them inside me
Again and again,
And when I hear that they are not right
I try to find what is missing for them,
Write and write again
Until reading it to myself
It sounds as it should be.
And when I am done
I am quiet inside,
As if all the Hope in the world
could be reborn
through a poem.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Two Pathways
Two pathways for one journey...
a start from two to one
and the journey has just begun...
On this journey of many trials and tribulations
the two shall merge as one,
starting on their journey, that has just begun...
For love shall conquer all,
and will always prevail,
for the two that were once apart,
will now forever be one...
poem by Nancy Winter Miranda
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That Spot....
this is a blank slate.
when i write some words on it
and you begin to read each
something really happens
though you do not know it
because you are too busy with
the reading of the word
either a part of me dies or lives
it depends on where you stop
and when
tomorrow i shall write again
you must learn where you stopped and
when.
it is that precise moment
that you make me begin to write again.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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My Own Kind Of Hat
Cowboys and outlaws, right guys and south-paws
Good dogs and all kinds of cats.
Dirt roads and white lined, and all kinds of stop signs
Ill stand right here where Im at
cause I wear my own kind of hat.
Theres two kinds of lovers, two kinds of brothers
Two kinds of babies to hold.
Theres two kinds of cherries, two kinds of fairies
Two kinds of mothers Im told...............Im told
Cowboys and outlaws, right guys and south-paws
Good dogs and all kinds of cats.
Dirt roads and white lines and all kinds of stop signs
Ill stand right here where Im at
Cause I wear my own kind of hat.
Theres two kinds of brother, two kinds of lovers
Two kinds of babies to hold
Theres two kinds of cherries, two kinds of fairies
Two kinds of mothers Im told .............. Im told
Repeat first chorus:
song performed by by Alan Jackson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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You break every cliché (a reply to Octavio Paz)
As I turn the magazine’s page
I see your lovely face
catching my eyes
like a morning glory opening
for the sun in a clear sapphire blue sky
and the glitter of your teeth
shines like a set of perfect pearls
and the lines beneath your dress
draws attention to your sheer beauty
and I write this poem to you
whose intelligence and character
I know from the times
that we have met
and I know that there is much more
to you, than photo perfect looks.
Far too many men view you
as just one more shallow head
and instead I know that your beauty
comes deep from your heart,
that it’s part of your soul
and that your integrity
makes you to break every cliché
and that your good humour
and sharp whit
makes you a pleasure to be with
and that you break
the frames that people set you in
by just being you.
[Reference: No More Clichés by Octavio Paz.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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I have always loved reading, so was interested in the literary world, and took many literary portraits.
quote by Fay Godwin
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Gray Folk
THE house, with blind unhappy face,
Stands lonely in the last year's corn,
And in the grayness of the morn
The gray folk come about the place.
By many pathways, gliding gray
They come past meadow, wood, and wold,
Come by the farm and by the fold
From the green fields of yesterday.
Past lock and chain and bolt and bar
They press, to stand about my bed,
And like the faces of the dead
I know their hidden faces are.
They will not leave me in the day
And when night falls they will not go,
Because I silenced, long ago,
The only voice that they obey.
poem by Edith Nesbit
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Secret O Life
The secret of life is enjoying the passage of time
Any fool can do it
There aint nothing to it
Nobody knows how we got to
The top of the hill
But since were on our way down
We might as well enjoy the ride
The secret of love is in opening up your heart
Its okay to feel afraid
But dont let that stand in your way
cause anyone knows that love is the only road
And since were only here for a while
Might as well show some style
Give us a smile
Isnt it a lovely ride
Sliding down
Gliding down
Try not to try too hard
Its just a lovely ride
Now the thing about time is that time
Isnt really real
Its just your point of view
How does it feel for you
Einstein said he could never understand it all
Planets spinning through space
The smile upon your face
Welcome to the human race
Some kind of lovely ride
Ill be sliding down
Ill be gliding down
Try not to try too hard
Its just a lovely ride
Isnt it a lovely ride
Sliding down
Gliding down
Try not to try too hard
Its just a lovely ride
Now the secret of life is enjoying the passage of time
song performed by by James Taylor
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Our tree is actually a tree of the short-term interest rate. The average direction in which the short-term interest rate moves depends on the level of the rate. When the rate is very high, that direction is downward; when the rate is very low, it is upward.
World of beauty
Before I meet you I believe that there’s a limit for the beauty
But when I see you I know that I was wrong
Because your beauty don’t have a limit your undescribable beauty
When I see you I see the real beauty a sea of beauty
So I try to write about it to descript it and I do write and write and write
And I look to your eyes and start remember what I write about this beauty
So I find out that all what I write don’t equal a dot in your beauty sea
And I ask the poet’s to help in describe this beauty and the all try but we all know that what we write and what the poet’s will write is just a dot
A dot in your beauty sea…
By Walid T Salame
poem by Walid Salame
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Who says I'm a poet
Yes I write lines
And rhyme rhymes
I write puns
Simile alliteration
And all figures of speech
But who says I’m a poet
In some cases I write and scratch
Sometimes I think crack
Voice out loud dah
Making speeches like damn
Combining words
Building sentences
But who says I’m a poet
I maybe great and brave
Embracing grave
Like person reading a Braille
Showing how strong I dare
But still at night I stare
Thinking who says I’m a poet
I may speak with sticks
Throwing ink turned into voices
Beat with lips
To defend my choices
That might be pointless, thoughtless
Maybe fair-less
Because no one says I’m a poet
They say;
Self recommendation has no justification
Practice makes perfect
But I say;
If you can’t recommend yourself who will
Why practise if no one is perfect
Because I’M A POET I say
poem by Zama Ashley Helebe
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