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In Truth I Like Aldo

i truth i like aldo
does this man exists?
that was the question
thrown by him to me
and he answered
such questions well
enough
he has a dimple
on his chin
grey curly hair
on his head
tall, not so dark,
smiling,
a not so big
tummy,
always with a coat
but without a tie
beside his
another older
friend
advocating
against
child abuse

at least,
that is the picture
he sent me once
nice man
on some
unfinished poems
that i love
to finish

so here we are
on this poetry
we love each
poem after poem

the next question
is
smartazz unloved

who loves us?

will you william?
shine on the siennes?

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Paradox Of Poetry

The Paradox of Poetry
Is that every poem contains its own questions-
And that each question it asks
Is answered in another question
Raised from somewhere else-

The paradox of Poetry
Is that its meanings
Cannot be contained by themselves-
And so each paradox too
Bears within it its own ambiguity-

I call this a poem about Poetry
But in Paradox
It is a statement of Love
Which abstract as it is
Lacks poetic feeling
A non- poetic poem
Aspiring to be poetry too-

poem by Shalom Freedman
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This Poem

THIS POEM

This poem
This first poem
This last poem
This poem that invented Poetry
This one and only one poem
This fictional poem
This ideal poem
This perfect poem
This would – be holy poem
This unreal poem
This poem which is not a poem
This poem which is the essence of all poetry
This poem
And that poem
And my poem
And your poem
And all poems
Poem poem poem poem poem
This poem
Mine and yours
This one small poem of so so many
And not such a good poem at all.

poem by Shalom Freedman
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I Too, Like An Unfinished Poem

an unfinished poem sounds like
an incomplete sentence
sometimes just a predicate without a subject
like love unrequited
a verb without a noun
an adjective so misplaced that
it calls for an adverb

it is more like a mouth
that opens but says only some syllables
though you as the reader
understands what the poet
wants to stress and mean and accentuate

for some parts of the poem are meant
not to be finished sometimes
in fact, they are meant to be concealed
and well covered like a bikini
to your.........or the prohibited love
you still keep in your........
or the memories that hurt you and are meant
to be unsaid.......you still want her not to
know..........

i, too, like an unfinished poem
like the sketch of your secret love many, many years ago,
once when you were young
the face is unfinished, you have not drawn the eyes
of that love so profuse that no canvass could ever contain

you still like this love unfinished, who knows
the ripe time comes and both of you
will finish
the unfinished love poem soon......

or some poems cannot ever be finished
because the words to complete them still
do not exist
or they are simply missing,
too lost like you,

they are not there yet to a feeling so new
so fragile and so indescribable.....
so rare........

and i, really, like it that way the poem
unfinishes itself

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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438

To Choose Between A
Hot Breakfast Ready On The Table
And Finishing Another Poem
I Choose The Breakfast
Together With My Wife

This Poem Can Be Suspended
In Time
And Become Another Unfinished
Act Of Creation
By A Man Wanting To Fill This
World With Poems

After A While
When I Have My Fill And When
I Make Some Nice Conversations With My Wife
And My Dog Beside The Table
Looking At Me
For A Piece Of Fried Pork
When The Sipping Of Coffee Is Over
When I Finally Wipe My
Chin With The Sky Blue Napkin
When I Consider
Eating As Finally Over

As Promised
I Will Come Back Again
And Finish This Poem

And There Is Something
Nice In This
Act Of Creation
You Feel It

It Is Warm Like The Hand Of
A Beautiful Woman
It Is As Hot As Ever
Like This Wanton Desire

Lovely,
As Lovely As You Love Each Letter
Of The Word
Of Your Poetry

I Am Feeling It In The Bone
Of My Soul

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Breakfast Is Ready

(7: 45 in the morning)

to choose between a
hot breakfast ready on the table
and finishing another poem

i choose the breakfast
together with my wife

this poem can be suspended
in time
and become another unfinished
act of creation
by a man wanting to fill this
world with poems

after a while
when i have my fill and when
i make some nice conversations with my wife
and my dog beside the table
looking at me
for a piece of fried pork
when the sipping of coffee is over
when i finally wipe my
chin with the sky blue napkin
when i consider
eating as finally over

as promised
i will come back again
and finish this poem

and there is something
nice in this
act of creation
you feel it

it is warm like the hand of
a beautiful woman
it is as hot as ever
like this wanton desire

lovely,
as lovely as you love each letter
of the word
of your poetry

i am feeling it in the bone
of my soul

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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You Should Have Finished His Unfinished Poem

the poem was panting
when he left it, it was wounded and blood
flowed from the veins
of its own words
the poem was choking
and you pity it
on its last breath
it was saying
i know you did not love me
but i still love you

you should have saved the poem
at least from the
death he himself inflicted

by finishing it because
if you don't
you know what i can do
under said circumstances

i'll have to finish it myself,
i will put

the question mark
and it will always be
open and endless

in fact, with a question
as an ending
that poem becomes
a line
ad aeternum like a star on its
journey,

never ending

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Poem Is Just A Poem

a poem is just a poem and if it is just a poem
it must be just a poem just like another poem

a poem is nothing but just a poem otherwise
it cannot be my poem; it may speak about

anything, or something, or about everything,
but my poem is just a poem just like anybody's

poem, which is just but a poem, like any other
poem, for a poem to be a poem it must just be

a poem: it has nothing to do with my love, and death
my life, or bliss, but as i have told you, once, twice

thrice, eat some rice, and be that wise, a poem is
just a poem, just like your poem. Why do you insist

on asking, what is happening to me? I am not a
poem, for i am but just the composer of the poem,

need i tell you again, that a poem is just a poem?
just like any other poem, which is just a poem

it is just a voice in my head that i have heard
someone comes and speaks and i listen so

this poem is not actually my poem but the poem
of someone else's: theirs not mine, from a mind.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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There Was A Poem Long Ago

THERE WAS A POEM LONG AGO

There was a poem long ago
A poem of youth and hope
Now there are other poems
Poems of age and sorrow.
There was a poem once
Of love – and happiness in love
Now there is a poem of lovelessness
And sadness.
There was a poem once
Of the long and distant open road
Now there is a poem of the dead end.
There was a poem once
That believed in Poetry
Now there is a poem that knows
Even the most beautiful worlds of words
End in dust
There was a poem once – long ago.

poem by Shalom Freedman
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Not Every Poem Knows Its Own Name

NOT EVERY POEM KNOWS ITS OWN NAME

Not every poem knows its own name
Or can have itself be written easily-
Not every poem lives in the light
There are dark poems also.

We, possessed of poetry
Often do not know where we are.

We would like to believe
That the light of our soul
And the light of our words
Are one-

But we know deep down
There is one poem somewhere
And another poem somewhere else
And whoever we truly are
Cannot be wholly found in either.

No poem is us completely
And we are not complete Poetry either.

poem by Shalom Freedman
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The Poem I Did Not Write Today

THE POEM I DID NOT WRITE TODAY

The poem I did not write today
Will never be written.
No one knows what it is
Or where it is
'How it can be? ' is another question
No one can answer.

The poem I did not write today
Never went away
It is always here with me and with you
It is the same simple poem
Written over and over again
In our everyday minds.

It is the poem of love of life
The poem of happiness
The poem of belief in God
And in the goodness in the world to come
It is the poem which believes too that poetry will help save the world.

It is the good poem
The happy poem
The poem I did not write today
Is the poem my life is writing now and always
And with you it says
‘What a miracle it is that we are here
reading and writing
and loving life as we do’.

poem by Shalom Freedman
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This is a poem....

This isn't a poem of one direction,
This is a poem about perfection.
This isn't a poem about who won the election,
This is a poem about correction.
This isn't a poem of getting it right,
This is a poem of standing up to fight.
This isn't a poem of being lost like a kite,
This is a poem about trying to find the light.
This isn't a poem of running tears,
This is a poem about chasing your fears.
This isn't a poem of love and hate,
This is a poem of destiny and fate.
This isn't a poem of the end,
This is a poem of a heart unable to mend.
This isn't a poem of cruilty and pain,
This is a poem of a thng i need to gain.
This isn't a poem of shame,
This is a poem of fame.
Thsi isn't a poem of the life i let loose,
THIS IS A POEM OF THE TRUTH.

poem by Tammie LilAimo
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There Is No Poem For Me Today

THERE IS NO POEM FOR ME TODAY

There is no poem for me today
There is no poem of yesterday
The poems have gone
And far away
There is no poem
For another day.

There never will be another poem
Poems are gone
Poems are stone.

All the words I will ever write
Are not enough
For a Poem of Life.

The Poems are not
They will never be
I am not a Poem
Nor Poetry.

poem by Shalom Freedman
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What Do We Do To Aldo Kraas?

i have poured
a bucket of cold water
to wake him up
so he can finish
his poems
that we love
to see
in full
whole

he didn't
he holds us in super suspense
our feet could have danced
all night
our hands could have touched
the world in so much
thrills and freshness

but he didn't
he caught us suspended
frozen and
almost dead to extinction

what do we do to Aldo
to finish the poems
we want to read?

i am afraid
hot waters cannot
make him finish
what ought to be

i am afraid no one
can

because Aldo is Aldo
and just like me
Ric is Ric

that is how it goes
without saying

let them be
let me be

the freedom to be
unfinished
the freedom to be
finished

and perhaps be praised
or just be scorned

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The History Poems Have Not Been Written

The history poems have not been written
The poems after Milosz
The Wallace Stevens poems will never be written
I can’t come close
I have tried the Blake poems
But of course I am not near them either
I would like to the ironic intellectual poems
I might be able to do them
I could do a kind of surrealistic association mind poem a prose poem
But I don’t like that very much
The poems of Jerusalem have not been good enough
Poems of propaganda are awkward and unacceptable
The small poems that tell of my life
They are for me the chance at real poetry
And I will continue as best I can with them
The American poems I have not yet found the idiom for
I can be epigrammatic in Emerson Thoreau fashion
But not with the hard New England observing eye
Borges poems I love
And the stories of mind and literature
Making the drama of a life of a storyteller
Interest me
But I doubt I could truly do them well
Imitation can only take one so far
And through it one may lose one’s way entirely
I can really do only what I am
Not the Dickinson poems nor the Hopkins poems nor the Wordsworth poems nor the Keats poems nor the Amichai poems nor the poems of many others whose poetry I love
The Biblical poems have been tried
The poems of cosmic and scientific reflection
I could try to improve them
There are too many different kinds of poems to write
And I cannot write almost all of them
This is another poem about poems and poetry
I have written many for a long time now
Perhaps I need to go elsewhere and write in a new way
A way I have not dreamed or even remotely understood possible before.
The poems of the unknown poetry await me
I will go on but I am not sure now I know in which wa

poem by Shalom Freedman
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There Was A Poem About Poetry

THERE WAS A POEM ABOUT POETRY

There was a poem about poetry
Written by a poet whose name was hidden within the lines-

The poem about poetry
Became a song in the night
And a distant metaphor
For the incomprehensible journey that is life-

It became anything it could be made to be-
Love,
A world of a kind,
A mystery,
The holy sounds of light far far away -

All the poems we know are like this,
In the darkness they say one thing
But in the light in the light
Oh how dark and deep and far and lonely they are-

poem by Shalom Freedman
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A Ode Poem To You

My mother gave me an ode poem, oh how I love that poem
The scene of her perfume on it, the picture of me in her arms
This letter I keep with me all the time, I love it so much I sleep with it under my pillow
To her nice hand writing, to the black ink she wrote in, she wrote until her ink went low

My poem is great, my poem is wonderful, to the white paper she wrote on it’s beautiful
To the green words of the title, my poem she gave me is the best
I love how she gave the lip stick print on the top of my poem, sad to say she's at rest
I will always love the poem she gave to me before she passed

To the words in the poem she gave me will always endure
Word by word my lovely poem is speaking to me gratefully
This ode poem was from my mom and for only me sincerely
I love my poem, oh how wonderful it can be

Its so wonderful do you want to read,
Take a look, take a look and you will see

poem by Twilight Simmons
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Child Abuse

How many pleas go unanswered
as their cries echo through the night?
Too many, I am afraid to say
as we hear about child abuse almost every day.

Committed by those who are most trusted,
our guardians of the young
are the ones who defile
the young lives in their care.

What about those who are abused
will they become abusers one day
for the treatment they have received?
That question will remain unanswered
until sometime in future years.

15 October 2009

Author's Note:
Although this poem may depict that all child carers are abusers, they are not. Although in the news in England of late there have been several cases in which child abusers have been people who were in charge of children. I wish now to apologise to the genuine carers that are perfectly innocent if they feel offended by my poem.

This poem was written to underline a question do those abused in turn become abusers.

DVH 15/10/09

poem by David Harris
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I Escape Again Into A Poem

I escape again into a poem
I hide here
I forget the practical duties and questions
I forget the meaninglessness of it all
I escape into a poem
And in the small dream of writing
I am whole and at peace-
And without a question
Except for the poem itself-

Here I am again running away today
While the days themselves are running out -
Until the day comes
When nothing more need be done
And no poetry needed either.

poem by Shalom Freedman
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Prayer is Poetry

Prayer is poetry
To Heavenly Father's ears
It is sweet music
That he loves to hear
It is to express
Our emotions
Our loves
And our strives
All my prayers are poems
Because they are so deep
I divuldge everything
All of my soul
All of my mind
And all of my heart
Because I know he hears me
Prayer is a poem
Of the heart
Do not be afraid to share it
With the Father
Who loves you
Beyond everthing
I love poetry
I love prayer
In perfect harmony
Simplisitc clarity
Prayer is powerful
More than the weapons of man
Yet so gentle
As a poem
My favorite form of poetry
Is the beuaty of prayer

poem by Bella Ravenstar
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The Poetry Groupies

Where are the poetry groupies
Those girls who’d give their hand for a poem
Who’d lay down for a verse so finely written
In the hope of some poetic dedication
If I write it, will they then come
To pay homage, adoration to my pen
Where are the girls who’d give their all for a poem
Those who are drawn to such a man
A romantic who writes to seduce
To sway the heads of each pretty girl
With poetic tales of a great love
How beautiful the object of all affection
What are all these poems and tales worth
If this question remains unanswered
Where are the poetry groupies
Who’d give their hand to a poem
And their all to a poet

poem by Matthew Holloway
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