En.Citatepedia^®.ro

In This Bin

in this bin
i put
everything

pains, sorrows,
&
joys, happiness

my bin
and my own alone

like some mailbox
of my
emotions

this is a world
where
i am: open, close
mystery,
double talk
whisper

shout
angry, scream, howl,
wail,

this is where
i can be everything: a mocking bird, a werewolf, an angel,
devil,
crocodile, merman, worm, fish, butterfly
eagle
monkey, ghost, soul,
passionate body

fingers, hands, feet
lips

all the feelings and colors
of my mind

feel me, as i too feel you
what have i to gain
what have i to lose

you say, you think, words, words, and nothing but words,
no,
no,
do not reduce everything to simple terms of words
and letters
and syllables,

this is a field where i have sown the seeds of my self
and some flowers
begin to bloom here, and some fruits are ripe for the picking

i like you being the child who climbs
the tree where my fruits are sweet and ripe

i like you being the lady who comes along
and picks my flowers

i like you being the wind that helps my clouds
drift only to be alive
crossing the boundaries of space between
peaks of mountains

this is not a dustbin anymore, this is my house
this is my dwelling

there is a soft easy chair in my mind
a glass vase with a red rose
glazed with dew

like my tears, like my eyes that i am hiding
for you not to clearly see

this is not just a dustbin, this is now my home
come
come
come

make this your home, enter my door, follow me
in the labyrinths of my feelings
my hopes and dreams

come
come
come

take a seat, and have breakfast with
me
see the glass window opening to a view
of the pines and the green mountains

a little frost may blind us
but here we are, i have prepared you tea
and
sympathy and some stories about myself

listen, and be free, to tell your stories too,
the sun has just shone

and indeed, it is a very new day.

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

i teach my child by G. Abad

I.
I teach my child
To survive.
I begin with our words,
The simple words first
And last.
They are hardest to learn.
Words like home,
Or friend, or to forgive.
These words are relations.
They are difficult to bear;
Their fruits are unseen.
Or words that promise
Or dream.
Words like honor, or certainty,
Or cheer.
Rarest of sound,
Their roots run deep;
These are words that aspire,
They cast no shade.
These are not words
To speak.
These are the words
Of which we consist,
Indefinite,
Without other ground.

II.
My child
Is without syllables
To utter him,
Captive yet to his origin
In silence.
By every word
To rule his space,
He is released;
He is shaped by his speech.
Every act, too,
Is first without words.
There's no rehearsal
To adjust your deed
From direction of its words.
The words are given,

But there's no script.
Their play is hidden,
We are their stage.
These are the words
That offer to our care
Both sky and earth,
These same words
That may elude our acts.
If we speak them
But cannot meet their sound,
They strand us still
In our void,
Blank like the child
With the uphill silence
Of his words' climb.
And so,
I teach my child
To survive.
I begin with our words,
The simple words first
And last.

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

238

i teach my child by G. Abad

I.
I teach my child
To survive.
I begin with our words,
The simple words first
And last.
They are hardest to learn.
Words like home,
Or friend, or to forgive.
These words are relations.
They are difficult to bear;
Their fruits are unseen.
Or words that promise
Or dream.
Words like honor, or certainty,
Or cheer.
Rarest of sound,
Their roots run deep;
These are words that aspire,
They cast no shade.
These are not words
To speak.
These are the words
Of which we consist,
Indefinite,
Without other ground.

II.
My child
Is without syllables
To utter him,
Captive yet to his origin
In silence.
By every word
To rule his space,
He is released;
He is shaped by his speech.
Every act, too,
Is first without words.
There's no rehearsal
To adjust your deed
From direction of its words.
The words are given,

But there's no script.
Their play is hidden,
We are their stage.
These are the words
That offer to our care
Both sky and earth,
These same words
That may elude our acts.
If we speak them
But cannot meet their sound,
They strand us still
In our void,
Blank like the child
With the uphill silence
Of his words' climb.
And so,
I teach my child
To survive.
I begin with our words,
The simple words first
And last.

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

I Feel I Can't Feel My Own Feelings

I feel,
I feel like a stranger with my own feelings
I feel like an outcast in my own healing
I feel like deception in my own truth
I feel like a coward in my own greatness
I feel like a loser in my own victory
I feel like the victim in my own attack
I feel I can't find right words from my own lips
I feel am opting out of my own success
I feel my soul dodging my own body
I feel my failing exceeding my own guts
I feel my nightmares overcoming my dreams
I feel dejected in my own being
I feel a refuge in my own nation
I feel missing in my own premises
I feel blind with my own open open eyes
I feel empty with my own well-informed mind
I feel stolen with the divine likeness am wearing?
I feel you could tell me what you feel am feeling right in my feelings.

poem by Iyamuremye Wilfred
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

The Pursuit Of Happiness

the irony of this pursuit is this:
the more you pursue it
the more it escapes
away from your grasp

you think your hands
finally catch
happiness, and you
hold on to it
tightly like you
are a bird with claws

like an eagle holding
on to the monkey
then blood drifts
on the holy mountains

the paradox lies
not in the taking of happiness
but in giving it away

and then the magic happens
the mountains dance
the caves open
and the rivers sing

it is clear, when you take it
you simply release it

then you are happy
and the pursuit is nothing
but
in simply the giving
the patience of waiting

like a tree whose fruits
are ripe where children
climb
gather the fruits
and chew and swallow
every sweetness of
the pulp,
the fiber
juice sliding smoothly
inside innocent their throats

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

Ghost of who?

These words wrap themselves around my throat
Barbed wire grows and they nurse a poisoned coat
Simple words that my mind cannot, will not allow
Make my eyes bleed dark and my head bow

These syllables, letters, rhythms and vowels
Around my blackened soul they now prowl
I know that these sounds are what hurt the most
But I beg you to see, these are the words of a ghost

They care not what has past, how many have left
Nor do they see what they do as an attack, a theft
But surly you understand the pain I now feel
Because of their shallow vengeance my mind reels

Why can't you see just what they have done to me!
I try my best to dispel their dagger hopes to be free
But somewhere deep down I know it's only a matter of time
Before they break down my defences and cross that line

Irony has the best ways to break ones entire being
It wasn't the ghost that I host that had me fleeing
It was the spectre that I fell so foolishly in love with
Now I have no qualms with giving my soul to let you live

poem by Rebecca Pepper
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Because I Am Blind With You I Can See

i ask for your fingers and you were so kind
you touch me with the gentle feel of such
tiny ten tributaries
with so much love your fingers have become a set
of loving hands
and you take me to places i have not been before
to things i have not ever touched
to feelings i have never felt

this is our house, you first tell me, feel the living room
it is warm and cozy and full of concerned conversations,
this is actually what we call a home,
and you are here

you are telling me with the definite and bold strokes
of your choice of words

and this is the window, you continue telling me
this is where you see the world outside
those are blue clouds, and i have known blue
through the ice cubes that fill the glass of orange juice
that you give me

those are red roses in the garden, and i feel the red
through the hot tea that you serve me,
and then
you take my hands to your breasts, and you tell me
this is me, and i feel the beating of your heart and you tell me
again
inside is my heart, and with all love you are telling me again

you are always here

and this
i have felt, and since then i am never blind.

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

Untitled 15

there is a mountain of words
an ocean of words
a continent of words

there is a rain of words
a flood of words
a river of words and true to their being words

they also disintegrate as syllables
on the other hand some form the clauses
conditions and terms
some make sentences and paragraphs

a world of words full of words
i am not a word and i am buried in a mountain of words
a sea of words i drown
a continent of words i am condemned to walk all the days of my life

too may words my ears do not listen anymore.
my eyes do not like to read anymore.

i like something not having to do with words.
what about a touch? what about a picture?
what about a kiss?

why don't people just make love without saying a word?
let us start touching the hearts of people
to avoid this war of words that lead us to our own perdition.

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

I Am Not Bothered

all i do are mere exercises
as i flex a word
make it run in the confines of a clause
into the sentences of
my soul

i take you and i play
i create a door and when you are inside a room
you may have seen nothing at all

because you very well know
about the story of the wind
it makes you colder and feel
that it is just lying there

i am always far away from you
even if you kiss me passionately

all i do is caress a letter
and it grows into some pretty words
because of love

i sow a vowel into a fertile ground of consonants
and then the sounds of concerns begin to hush

you see a baby
you baby talk it
you surrender the maturity of your thoughts
because all it has given you is pain

a thousand flowers bloom
filling colors to the black array of stones

in silence the sands are too beautiful
the sea breeze wants to drown them

these are the exercises of the mind
looking for justifications for some hardships that are left
in the dark

words are not just tools
they are also toys
to make the child believe that this world is too a
playground for joys

there is an experience of so much freedom
in every clause in every cause

you wonder why i do not dabble into punctuations
anymore
i am not bothered
i am not sour....

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

When My Dreams Say, ' We Are No More There

When my dreams say, ' We are no more there'
I shall sail unto an island far off.
There I shall have the sapling of a dream tree planted
And it will grow.

When my dream tree begins to bloom
I will never pluck its flowers ever,
So will when its fruits begin to ripe
I remain hungry and thirsty there.

I shall lie in the shade of the tree
Without ever dreaming to have a dream for me.
Then I shall climb its branches and see for myself
The vast expanse of water green or blue.

I shall hoot from the top of it like an own
Blind often or blinded by the dreams of the past.
I shall shout unto the skies blue
About having dreams aplenty and not still having them.

When I once return to the home in the mainland,
I shall carry one hundred fruits from the dream tree,
I shall give them to men and women I like most
And nay, I will never give them to children ever.

I shall play hide and seek with children
And shall tell about the need for climbing the dream trees
Which will grow and touch the sky once
Even as they might still be dreaming a lot.

But I am afraid, friends,
Even as my dreams have begun to fade out
My island withers out further
And I am left with a rudderless boat
To sail unto that green paradise of my Utopia!

poem by M.d Dinesh Nair
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

As I work with my words as medium

I want to be profound
Deep, deeper than what i
Can possible swim

But I have seen
The limitations
Of words as medium
Of my thoughts
How can I put the
Color red
Of an apple
In words

Or the scent
Of lavender
In syllables

Here you are
Reading me
And I do not want
To disappoint
You, my reader

I want to create
A world of sensations
For such is the
World of poetry

I have long wanted
You to feel
My sadness in
Letters
My loneliness
In a single
Letter

This

i

Or...... ............................... me...................................

I want you to listen
To me
In the hush of the wind

In syllables

I want you to
Read my joys
In my phrases

Sometimes
I have given
You sentences
stanzas

I want you to
Be at home
With my words

But these are
Just words
And I must
Have failed
In bringing
Back to life

Your senses
Hopelessly
They have long
been dead

words, words, words,

And
Even this whole
Poem
Is not enough

Let me try
Again
On some
Coming
Illustrations

Birds falling
Their wings clipped

Leaves blown
Detached from
Their stems

Trees threatened
About the news
Of the coming storms

Oh I am so sorry
Your senses are sleeping

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

Everyday Is A Poem To Me

the people i love
and talk to, in some ways, do not talk
candidly, perhaps because of too much love, not really unspoken
because they want to hide it,
it is just because, i know, there are no exact words
to describe
what they feel,

it is
the same with me, feelings thriving but the inability to speak
is there, and so we use such symbols as a touch
of the hand
or a blush on the cheek, or some fingers landing at the back
of our soft skins

one need not say what longing and loving is
the lips have more to say
in fact, than the words coming from the mouth
or the mere
laying of her head on my shoulders

oh, the hug and that gaze and the clasping of my hands
to her hands,
such sensitivity that makes us feel
every rising of the hair

not in fear, but in the absence of letters fit
for the feeling

breakfast together
and then the parting and meeting again
tonight

they are all metaphors

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

My Opening Farewell

A lady stands before an open window
Staring so far away
She can almost feel the southern wind blow
Almost touching her restless day
She turns from her window to me
Sad smile her apology
Sad eyes reaching to the door
Daylight loses to another evening
And still she spares me the word goodbye
And sits alone beside me fighting her feelings
Struggles to speak but in the end can only cry
Suddenly its so hard to find
The sound of the words to speak her troubled mind
So Im offering these to her as if to be kind:
Theres a train everyday leaving either way
Theres a world, you know
Theres a way to go
And youll soon be gone -- thats just as well
This is my opening farewell
A childs drawings left there on the table
And a womans silk lying on the floor
And I would keep them here if I were able
Lock her safe behind this open door
But suddenly its so clear to me
That Id asked her to see what she may never see
And now my kind words find their way back to me
Theres a train everyday leaving either way
Theres a world, you know
You got a ways to go
And Ill soon believe -- its just as well
This is my opening farewell

song performed by by Jackson Browne
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!

Ode To The Hollow Bastion Within

Take part of the darkest of fruits and see me lose my mind.
My spirit has found repose in Angst's bosom.

Will no one save me from the bludgeoning of this life?

Why am I so angry? Where is the cause? it is hiding deep within me.
My heart cannot see it's face, and mirrors don't work in the depths of darkness.

Why do I feel so empty? I wish nothingness was more discreet.
I'm tired of pretending; where is my redemption? Here, yes, but where?

Why must clouds veil mountains? Ironic, mountains are so much bigger too. But even clouds have their Mountains I suppose.

poem by Soren Valentine
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Stories About Home

I lived once in the North
And for a while, way in the South
I have some stories... that'll
Tear a man's heart out

These are the one's
I numbered ten... eleven...and twelve...
They moved so fast...
I ended living... in living Hell

But those that I numbered one thru nine...
They let the world see...why... my eyes..
My heart...
Will never again shine

I know It's hard sometimes to live
Where you can't see the sun...
Because of all that... endless rain...
I look to see.. how too... help others
Because I have lived...every kind of pain

So I write the stories...
Some are good
But often... some are very bad
They often leave hearts torn....
Spilling eyes... so sad...
And sometimes... I'll talk about the incredibly bad

But can you see the purpose...of writing
These stories... these poems...
Through the tears.... the weeping... and crying...
It's just my heart....
Trying to find a way...to move back home...

So to anyone whom read these stories. They're what I write.
They're the words of what I feel. They're the stories about wounds,
about that life, my family, about souls that never seem to heal.
They're the words of truth, they help with what I feel. For these stories
are the cause of tears...that just wont end...they're the stories that are
impossibe to bear.
They are the stoires of my family, abuse, of damage
and how love was not spared....
So many stories that'll never disappear
A soul covered with scars
Of sadness that fills a heart
That burns each time those hate words...
And abuse that breaks it apart

Clyde Grant Bryson

poem by Clyde Bryson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Read My Lips

verbal silence. read my lips.
if you see them.
read the words. read it here.

these words. read them like
flowers in the garden.

these words speak a little.
tips of the iceberg. They are less
compared to the color of my eyes
the warmth of my fingers
the suppressed beatings of my heart.

these words that you read.
if only you can see my lips.
if only you can see my face.
and body, naked on the flowing sheet of
pure paper. IF only you know
what silence means, how emptiness
eats it, if only you know how inferior
verbs and adjectives are
compared to the caresses of the hands
and the tenderness of the fingers,
touch.

read the lines silently.
these words do not shape my lips.

they come to your eyes.
in the silence of your understanding.

never shall they speak
about me. they only talk about

the hands that write sometimes
without any meaning at all.

infinitives are not infinite.
neither do verbs know what is it to be still.
and adjectives talk only about the surface.

deep under, the noise begins.
and silence of the verbs move to another side.
now, the mountains of ideas collapse
and bury the casualties of silence.

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

It Is You All The Way

during times of my confusion
when i have no one to trust
when there is simply no one that i can talk to
no one to be with
on these dark moments on these moments
that i feel like it is alright for me
to leave
to die
to be annihilated by all the monsters in my mind
when i begin to view a resting place
spreading green spaces
flowers all in white
a door that is open that i can easily close
and have my own time with you
it is just you and my hands and my words
and my monologues
just you
because the rest do not want me
because the rest of this world is unkind
and too demeaning
it is you my rain
my sunshine
my confidante
just you in this
and that.

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

Perhaps, I Expect Too Much From You....and So Here I Am Feeling So Disgusted

words flowed
like some reunited letters lately

the concepts come out
from the mind

still like words, syllables conjoining
there are no images still

i wait, i am waiting, i keep on waiting
like a commuter of a train

perhaps i have expected too much from
you
something graphic
like sun rising from a hill
in the full majesty of its
inborn light

after i have read
everything that you have written for years
following each like
the running ticking seconds
of the hour

i feel so disgusted

stalks without flowers
ladies stuffed like mummies

mountains bald deprived of the
green and yellows

there is a world without
sky and sun and sea and dolphins

a patch of light without
a hue

i want to see those prisms
refractions

interactions of colors inside
the depths of
our souls

perhaps i have expected too much from you
and so i am disgusted

give me your world
i will scatter it with stars tonight.

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

Are You Sincere?

The words you said to me,
you repeat to someone new.
You say the things I want to hear,
but are you sincere?

I sit alone and wonder,
if your words are meant for me,
that I am the only one that you hold dear.
However, my mind keeps nagging, are you sincere?

Friends tell me stories about you,
I do not want to believe.
You just say the words are all lies.
In my mind the questions still arise, are you sincere?

I find the back door open,
when I come home at night.
You say you left it open in a state of fear.
As I close and lock it I wonder, are you sincere?

(12 June 2007)

poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

To Be Content About What Is Missing

i rush to pluck words
from the twigs of memory trees
lining on the avenues
of my mischief

words are flowers
and thoughts are colors
my lips are hands
with open fingers

i think of you
as always
i feel you like air
inside my lungs

i see nothing but
i am content about what is missing

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

I Wish I Have A Mouth That Knows How To Speak My Love

i wish i have this kind of mouth that knows to speak
about my love
one that opens so easily and dashes with words like

you know i love you, tell me, do you love me too?

a candid mouth, like a shrew who gambles with words and
will not mind losing
a mouth who kisses your mouth without
shame and if shamed because you slap it
does not bother at all,

one who says, why hide love, why not pour love like a
strong wine to a chalice and let it warm
the glass and let the glass
be nothing but a glass

one that does not mind at all, one that loves and if not loved in
return takes the other possibilities
without regrets
or pain,

the mouth that i have is closed and will not open
afraid
i have kept the words

i love you only for you

like a worm inside my tongue,
wriggling
turning into a little butterfly
that never had the chance to see what is outside
and feel the freedom of air,
yesterday
it died and i keep it for the whole night

now, i spit it out
and my mouth closed again
eating only silence
while you just watch there
asking me
and i said there is nothing to worry
nothing at all
i just don't feel anything and there is nothing

worth saying, i look at you as you go, i hold only to your shadow
and you will never never never know,

this

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