En.Citatepedia^®.ro

I Think You Know What I Mean

a young man sits inside his orange car
puts his legs above board
wipes his face, sweaty, cleans his nose
idly, looks around
in silence

he gazes upon a vacant road
there is no car
no people,

from where i am seated
i observe him
he is contented upon his idleness
i can't read his mind of course
whether there is sorrow
or bliss

beside his car is a wall
enclosing a garden of cassava and papaya trees
there is a guava tree
laden with its fruits

beyond us is the calm sea
plain blue as coconut trees tower
like guards

or lighthouses on an early morning
contemplation perhaps
about what to do next after this gentleness
this calm

will it be chaos? will it be too much noise?
can pandemonium be not far behind

the white chickens arrive and pecks upon some grains of rice
upon a bowl of clay lies the water that can satisfy thirst

you know what i mean
life is a variation of everything
full of color, wanting sound, longing for scents
expecting some happenings.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Why Do You Think That This World Is Not Interesting?

everything has a reason, that is the tenet, nothing happens by random
that is a restatement, perhaps an accent, and emphatic stress for those who still doubt.

every reason explains itself, whether you know it or not, they have mouths and minds.
though they do not speak to you, or think of you, they think, they speak. A premise.

the fire tree blooms today, and there is fire all around the wildlife part. Warmth is intentional.
Fire for summer. Warmth on a hot day. There is a reason. The petals speak for themselves.

an old pedicab under the mahogany trees, the driver pedals its way on a dusty path.
a child wearing an orange shirt sits restlessly wanting to jump screaming. Noise in stillness.

the trees are shedding off yellow leaves and the ground accepts a good cover. There is no sound.
the grasses are starting to wilt and the moss on the pebbles are dark brown. Time to die.

the joggers are here feeding an activity to this oval the silence of which is finally broken.
Summer. This is rest for most. The holy week and time to reflect. Meanwhile the sun shines

on top of the world, the clouds are cottony and so white. The wind blows on my face.
There is a reason for everything. That is tenet and i know nothing happens by random.

I scribble some notes on my mind. Stating what is not spoken by the sun, the trees, the mountains, the joggers, the dusty path, the child in orange shirt. The pedals squeak and

I am watching and listening. There are too many reasons wanting to be written. Anger, and
pain and bliss and company and solitude. Why do you think that this world is not interesting?

Are you not amazed with what we still do not know? Did i not tell you the color
of the daffodils? Or that the man pedaling its way under the mahogany trees
is an old man feeling so useless and that the child in orange is his grandson?

Life need not be what we think we do not have.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

The Fish Pound and Violin

My grandpa stay in the house
Near the river
Where its water flow end in the South Ocean

His garden hedged with Bamboo trees
In front of the garden planted three tuft trees
The children like to climb the tuft tree
Pick up the fruits and eat on the tree
Glad and laughing
My grandpa was silent and said nothing
He just smile subtly, and gaze at far away

There is a fish pond in the backyard,
In its edge planted pineapple and banana trees
My grandma always give brand and papaya leaf to the pound
Giving food for the fish like Gurame, Sepat dan Nila,
While my grandpa make a biola, gitar and bass
In the litlle studio, near the kitchen
I passionatedly gaze the fish jump around
And glad
While they don’t know their destiny
Decided by mothers in the cities
On the frying pan, roastibng, caserate,
With imagine to ecpanced their plan on the rice filed
Near the road forgeted how farmer produce,
Fish, rice and vegetable,
And actually
Their Self conscience.

poem by Prasetya Utama
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Early Morning Happiness....

this morning
i wake up early

i see this hen
and her sixteen chicks
roosting
upon a strong branch
of the narra tree

i get a handful of
rice grains

and scatter them on
the ground

the chickens fly down
from the tree
and feed on
the scattered grains

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Shall She Throw Then The Apple Of Discord?

out there is the calm
and the harmony of the leaves
and the grass
the silence of the ants and
the privacy of the worms

she does not like this
she needs the chaos to divert the
lulling ennui
that will soon numb and kill her

and so she climbs the only living
tree at the center of this paradise
gets the only apple
that she throws under the trees
beside the grass and flowers
and then the discord starts to unfold

now she watches all of them in their
domestic wars
the trees shake the leaves
and the worms are eating the barks
and the ants are building their empires
on sands

simply because they have turned
the blind eye the deaf ear
the gaps of communication bore
the holes of pandemonium

she sits and weaves herself a bandanna
now she is ready to go

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Wisdom From Life

I can't forget the mango-tree that grew
So well, and gave us luscious fruits umptine
In mother's rented house garden we left,
When mother left the world to be with God!

I want to kill the squirrels, birds that steal
The ripened guava, custard fruits atop
Their trees, I eagerly await to pluck,
But cannot do for they much faster!

I wish to curse the children who come stealth,
And climb the trees to steal the fruits unripe,
Like cats that love to drink the milk when spilled,
And not from bowl that house-lady offers!

Charity has more value when you're poor!
Love is better given when you need it;
Sharing what you need is of greater worth;
Advice others what you didn't get in life!

poem by John Celes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Freedom Metaphor (corrected)

the little bird
driven by hunger
comes near the place
where you are seated
because you
spread some grains
of rice
on the grass just
below the tree

without looking at you
it pecks upon a few
seeds
and then in a few seconds
flies away
from you

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Summer

summer is an ancestral house
surrounded with antique trees
blushing leaves
rainbow flowers
nearby the blue sea
white sticky rice and
grilled tangigue
fresh buko juice and
straw hat and a swing
between two coconut trees.

and silence and sea breeze.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

The Orange Tree

The young girl stood beside me.
I Saw not what her young eyes could see:
- A light, she said, not of the sky
Lives somewhere in the Orange Tree.

- Is it, I said, of east or west?
The heartbeat of a luminous boy
Who with his faltering flute confessed
Only the edges of his joy?

Was he, I said, borne to the blue
In a mad escapade of Spring
Ere he could make a fond adieu
To his love in the blossoming?

- Listen! the young girl said. There calls
No voice, no music beats on me;
But it is almost sound: it falls
This evening on the Orange Tree.

- Does he, I said, so fear the Spring
Ere the white sap too far can climb?
See in the full gold evening
All happenings of the olden time?

Is he so goaded by the green?
Does the compulsion of the dew
Make him unknowable but keen
Asking with beauty of the blue?

- Listen! the young girl said. For all
Your hapless talk you fail to see
There is a light, a step, a call
This evening on the Orange Tree.

- Is it, 1 said, a waste of love
Imperishably old in pain,
Moving as an affrighted dove
Under the sunlight or the rain?

Is it a fluttering heart that gave
Too willingly and was reviled?
Is it the stammering at a grave,
The last word of a little child?

- Silence! the young girl said. Oh, why,
Why will you talk to weary me?
Plague me no longer now, for I
Am listening like the Orange Tree.

poem by John Shaw Neilson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Choose Your Color

I will paint the walls blue
Blue is calm, blue is power
Blue is the color of tranquility
Do you see my colors yet?

I will paint the ceiling green
Green is healthy, green is peace
Green makes time move faster
Do you see my colors yet?

I will paint the floor red
Red is fire, red is danger
Red is the symbol of passion
Do you see my colors yet?

I will paint the sky purple
Purple is sad, purple is gloomy
Purple is the color of romance
Do you see my colors yet?

I will paint the tree black
Black is fear, black is death
Black is the symbol of grief
Do you see my colors yet?

I will paint the street yellow
Yellow is happy, yellow is fresh
Yellow is the color of sunshine
Do you see my colors yet?

I will paint the fence orange
orange is wisdom, orange is wealth
Orange is the color of success
Do you see my colors yet?

I will paint everything white
White is good, white is pure
White is the color of faith
Have you seen my colors yet?

(August 16th,2006)

poem by Christopher G. Turner
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

The Life I Live

It has been said that blue is the color of the sky although others may say
Blue is an emotion when someone is close to tears-
Sad, melancholy and disheartened-
I look upwards toward the sky on a sunny day when
I don’t feel sad and blue.
Green is the color of the leaves upon the trees, although
I have heard others say they are jealous- green or envious-
I enjoy the trees, especially in the summertime,
Blown about in a gentle and cooling breeze-
The same leaves turn yellow, gold and orange in the autumn and
Fire blazes a bright red in color-
It is the fire of my spirit that burns
When anger plagues my troubled mind-
Rain falls and puts out the fires but
The rage inside of me is a shade of red that will not be tamed.
I look upward towards the sky on a sunny day,
As the leaves upon the trees rustle in the wind-
I pray for the rain to fall to quench the fury that burns my soul-
I don’t feel melancholy blue or jealous-green-
I have days when I enjoy the colors of the autumn foliage-
But the color red of rage defines the life I live.
Today I glance upward toward the blue sky and the leaves upon the trees-
Today I feel sad and blue and close to tears because
Of the pain that the fire inside of me that is always burning-
If the sun and the trees could laugh and send me good vibrations perhaps
They would cheer me and I could capture the colors blue, green, orange and yellow-
And perhaps even red as being bold and beautiful-
And with these colors I could paint a rainbow upon my horizon and
There would be no reason for anger to smolder my heart again-
I could laugh with the sun at the splendor of the rainbow against the sky of cobalt blue- And glad to say that raging fire of resentment
Is behind me now and I never feel sad and blue because
I have repainted my world with colors of joy, happiness and eagerness
To live my new life beneath that rainbow of contentment.-

Claudia Krizay

poem by Claudia Krizay
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

By The Ocean (For Dislocated Heart)

I stand by the ocean,
Breathing in the crisp air of night fall,
Watching the moon slipping away,
As the sky melts into the sea;
An endless darkness.
I can feel my mind falling into its depths,
Thinking about every breath I take,
About the world above,
And the world below.
Questions fill my mind,
Questions of life, living, and existence,
Yet still I stand,
Silent and still.
The gentle breeze in the palm trees,
Brushing my hair across my face.
The wind pushes my dress against my legs,
The feeling almost mimicking that of the water.
I can feel the cool spray of the ocean with each wave,
A giant lung breathing the same air as I.
It is a calm entity existing to exist.
A world so unknown and full of wonder,
Yet so simple from above…
I breath a sigh and close my eyes,
The sight of the waves imprinted on my eyelids,
The scent filling my nose and mouth,
The water touching my skin,
The taste of the salt on my tongue,
The repetitive sound of the water endlessly fill my mind.
My feet buried in sand as if to be innocent sand crabs.
A moment so calm and simple,
Yet so meaningful,
If you take the time to experience it,
A moment in which nothing else matters,
Nothing but the water, the sand, and living.
Everything else, like the sky,
Melts away into the sea,
Into the endless dark abyss.
And so I stand,
By the water,
Living and breathing.
If only the world would stop for a moment,
A moment to live and breathe too;
So relaxing and yet so eye opening.
The silence of the night wrapping around me,
The ocean rocking me into sweet oblivion.
Until I have to open my eyes and walk inside,
Back to reality,
But until then,
I'll just stand here,
By the ocean.

poem by Bethany Maxwell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

iN dAKAK

We are here in this island
at the back the surrounding mountains
a little near the woods and bushes
we hear the birds singing this morning

it is eight o'clock in the morning
you walk along the coastline
as i watch you

i lay my body on a swing tied
between two coconut trees
under this big pitogo tree
i bathe in air and hear the hush of a
certain longing

it is so peaceful here
the clouds are bluer than in the city
do not ask me why
the sea is like a pastel blue blanket
spread in bed

the silence runs on the white sand
the hermit crabs run and stop and run
i can hear the crumpling of the castles in the sand
last night we built them

i put my buri hat hiding my hair and covering part
of my forehead
the leaves fall inside my mind
there are certain notes of sadness trickling
inside my heart
a cascading loneliness
my ears are hearing them
my arms till now cannot embrace

i do not doubt it
here is this paradise even with her
i still long for you

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Sorrow Under Mist

Mist -

Giving wispy vapour to the breath,
Cool calm to autumn afternoons,
A hovering air of mysticism
Over brooding lakes -

Was different here,
Affording company, closeness -
A caring arm around her shoulders.

In the eyes, a once-clear oceanic blue
Wavered under water -
Tears telling torrid truths
She couldn't face -
Like the glowering image in the mirror
You don't see in your mind's eye
Of compensation; delusion.

We see her sitting on the concrete steps
That led down to the dew-laden garden.
She's peering up, sensing her diffuse companion,
Refreshing in its chill; giving crispness
To the stealth of dulling evening.

But the bite of air couldn't lift the sorrow
Of pale youth in love,
Shouldered by a not-in-love and scoffing eye.

Rejection hurt;
Hurts -
Wrenches deep -
Emotion that we can't deny!

Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2011

Sorrow Rain

sorrow sorrow sorrow sorrow sorrow sorrow
sorrow sorrow sorrow sorrow sorrow sorrow
sorrow sorrow sorrow sorrow sorrow sorrow
sorrow sorrow sorrow sorrow sorrow sorrow
sorrow sorrow sorrow sorrow sorrow sorrow
sorrow sorrow sorrow sorrow sorrow sorrow
sorrow sorrow sorrow sorrow sorrow sorrow

poem by Mark R Slaughter
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Angle of view

This garden is invisible for me
As a whole
When I'm inside of it,
Walking under its trees.
All I can do
Is to smell
Its unique natural flowers
And eat its fruits,
But when I get out
For standing in some distance
On that hill,
I can see it
In its entire splendor,
Having such a brilliant orange-red
Autumn color.

poem by Marieta Maglas
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

I Am Calm In The Pain

I AM CALM IN THE PAIN

I am calm in the pain,
And calm in the rejection,
And calm through the insult,
And calm through the anger,
And calm calm calm,
Though I feel so deeply
How I have failed
I am calm
Very calm
So calm
Until suddenly
In the middle of the morning prayer
I begin to cry to God
Cry with a terrible crying
And then when the prayer done
Calm calm calm calm calm.

poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

London To Folkestone (Half-Past One To Half-Past Five)

A constant keeping-past of shaken trees,
And a bewildered glitter of loose road;
Banks of bright growth, with single blades atop
Against white sky; and wires—a constant chain—
That seem to draw the clouds along with them
(Things which one stoops against the light to see
Through the low window; shaking by at rest,
Or fierce like water as the swiftness grows);
And, seen through fences or a bridge far off,
Trees that in moving keep their intervals
Still one 'twixt bar and bar; and then at times
Long reaches of green level, where one cow,
Feeding among her fellows that feed on,
Lifts her slow neck, and gazes for the sound.
There are six of us: I that write away;
Hunt reads Dumas, hard-lipped, with heavy jowl
And brows hung low, and the long ends of hair
Standing out limp. A grazier at one end
(Thank luck not my end!) has blocked out the air,
And sits in heavy consciousness of guilt.
The poor young muff who's face to face with me
Is pitiful in loose collar and black tie,
His latchet-button shaking as we go.
There are flowers by me, half upon my knees,
Owned by a dame who's fair in soul, no doubt:
The wind that beats among us carries off
Their scent, but still I have them for my eye.
Fields mown in ridges; and close garden-crops
Of the earth's increase; and a constant sky
Still with clear trees that let you see the wind;
And snatches of the engine-smoke, by fits
Tossed to the wind against the landscape, where
Rooks stooping heave their wings upon the day.
Brick walls we pass between, passed so at once
That for the suddenness I cannot know
Or what, or where begun, or where at end.
Sometimes a Station in grey quiet; whence,
With a short gathered champing of pent sound,
We are let out upon the air again.
Now nearly darkness; knees and arms and sides
Feel the least touch, and close about the face
A wind of noise that is along like God.
Pauses of water soon, at intervals,
That has the sky in it;—the reflexes
O' the trees move towards the bank as we go by,
Leaving the water's surface plain. I now
Lie back and close my eyes a space; for they
Smart from the open forwardness of thought
Fronting the wind——
——I did not scribble more,
Be certain, after this; but yawned, and read,
And nearly dozed a little, I believe;
Till, stretching up against the carriage-back,
I was roused altogether, and looked out
To where, upon the desolate verge of light,
Yearned, pale and vast, the iron-coloured sea.

poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Sonnet-In Melancholia

'Tis Summer-time this year in its peak form;
There is no sign of leaves green, buds or flow’rs;
One's sweaty-skin could raise exanthems warm;
with water scarce, none can afford good show’rs.

Dry drumstick-fruits hang down from twigs so dry;
Papaya tree has not a single fruit;
The Moon has turned shapeless tonight;
I cry; ' The sky has clouds that look as black as soot.”

The place is airless; there's no noise of Birds;
My Allergy has reached a sorry stage;
And all I eat is rice with pickles, curds;
A battle 'gainst Nature, how can I wage?

Yet, things are settling down in God’s queer ways;
I feel as though these are my last sad days.

poem by John Celes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

A Song of Her Garden

She builds her pleasant garden
Where the winds are not so strong
The sun sometimes relenting
Becomes her companion

The garden spreads its arms to her
Thick shoulders, fragile hands
The creepers and the vines that bear
Her flowers from many lands

There is shade upon her shadow
And a path of leaves and stones
That were inlaid imperceptibly
Through years of life alone

There's a trickle of river water
Breaking on a precipice
An ornately painted corner
Where she sees the light of bliss

Papaya trees and lemon trees
That the hurricanes forgot
The garden is her mirror
It reflects her, then does not

Wind chimes in the moonlight
Songbirds awake till dawn
She cultivates the seasons,
Leaves the garden to be born.

poem by Frank Bana
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

His Loneliness

he undresses himself and
slides inside a tub of water

he buries his head to gain
the coolness of the water

he places his hands on the side
and looks beyond the glass windows

there the trees are green and the
clouds are blue and the sun is brighter

he closes his eyes and lies still
around his body are the foams and scents

he stops awhile for some thoughts
she is still there inside his mind

how can he ever forget her?
how long shall she stay inside his heart?

how can he be so powerless in this?
how can she be so beautiful still despite the years?

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

After The Bombing Incident

AFTER the bombing incident last night
at the church of San Pedro
tiny shreds of flesh hang on the walls
and ceiling of the confinement.

the cries are not prolonged except the
sounds of ambulance
and the military jeeps
to and fro the city gates

sleep was denied, and then that early morning
i opened the window
i saw this little blue bird perched on the guava tree
it was singing a very sad song beside a bunch
of ripe guava fruits.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!