Inside My Study Room
five o'clock, the usual time
but i already woke up at 3: 45
too early really
but i could not go back to
sleep
the words arrive
riding on the boat
such wind
hovering
disembarking in my
brain
i am surrounded by
glass walls
and light brown
drapes
books scattering
like garbage
on the floors and
tables
i smell the odor of
dust and
water inside a vase
unchanged
the red rose
had long wilted
no one comes around
to fix things
and keep all of these
in their proper places
the windows are still
closed and it
is still dark outside
though the crows
have already
sounded their
sad calls
the cocks keep sounding
it is already morning
and the windows
must not be opened
i write some lines
as usual and then
i'll wear my socks
and put on my
rubber shoes
and then i will take
my walk to the
woods
it will be cold
and i can see my breath
like smoke from a pipe
but i need this
my body craves
my feet want to move
the walls are too much
and the curtains feel
like they have to be washed
i open the door
and then i meet a new
world again
i know at first it will
still be cold
that is usual
i know after this
the sun comes again
as usual
and things will warm themselves
again
on promises
like what hope is all about.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Related quotes
So Unusual (Live @ Java Joes - 06.27.02)
This is the most unusual story, of a most unusual girl
she stood painting my picture, of a most unusual world
she can crawl out of frame while shes hanging on the wall
and shes calling my name
shes not so usual
shes most unusual
shes not so usual
shes so unusual
shes mostly a ghost, the way she watches over me
she complains when i smoke, but then you do the same to me
shes controlling my brain activity, knowing when i go to sleep
she'll catch you when I'm falling hard
shes so unusual
shes not so usual
shes not so usual
shes so unusual
shes not so hooked on the drugs like i thought she was
and never sucking on the lime, and hardly sipping on the wine
and dispite of her biopolar rollercoastering
i think i can try, she'll keep me singing differently
and its fine cause shes with me now, most all of the time
trying to saving the light, thinking not of her own
and always kissing me goodnight when i just need to be alone
shes so sweet, so discrete, shes exactly what i need
not even make believe
shes not so usual
so unusual
shes not so usual
so unusual
not so usual, and not to practical either
but shes not so mystical, but not to magical either
but shes not so outta control, and not so used to the flow
shes not so usual
nah, shes a natural
ohhh, shes not so usual
shes most unusual
shes so unusual
shes so unusual
shes gonna use me ohhh
shes not so u...
shes not so u...
not so u...
not so....
song performed by by Jason Mraz
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Ennui (whatever)
there are four corners of this room
(as usual, us usual,
we are here again, both
on a togetherness
since the early days of our
union)
i want to go away, remember the flight
of the little bird, away from its mother's nest?
but i can't, your tears are holding me
like a mother,
and so how can a son get away?
how can a lover go away and be stripped
from its beloved?
the vinyl floors are dusty
the curtains unwashed for weeks
the door creaks like a man complaining
for its usual work
to close and open
to open and close
the door has always been closed in here
there is no exit
but i shall not scream, that is too much for this
harrowing experience
there is no tv, no ref, just the sound of an AM/FM radio
that i bought from a cheap department store
i hold your hands
that is enough for me now.
i stare at the ceiling, and then i get so weary and i close my eyes
asking shelter
in the colored world of dreams.
are you happy now?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Worn Out
last night after the usual
three-hour lecture of the law
i arrive late in the house
without the lights on
it is a blackout of some
metaphors
but the heart has been
numbed
and the mind has been
shut out
from having any contact
with any object
of affection
the hands open the car
and the feet move on
to the room
where the bed waits
it is dark in here
and the window is closed
and the air is thin
and the walls are damp
with all the
mildews still clinging
on the white tiles of
the bathroom
as though in a trance
i have thrown all the books
on the dusty floor
and without having to remove
my shirt
and pants and socks
and shoes
i retreat to the nooks
of a very sound sleep
i must have been dreaming
hearing my own
snore
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Not So Usual
This is the most unusual story, of a most unusual girl
she's the paint in my picture, of a most unusual world
she can crawl out the frame while shes hanging on the wall
and shes calling my name
shes not so usual, wo
shes most unusual
shes not so usual
shes so unusual
shes mostly a ghost, the way she watches over me
she complains when I smoke, but then you do the same to me
shes controlling my brain activity, knowing when i go to sleep
she'll catch you when I'm falling hard
shes so unusual
shes not so usual
shes not so usual
shes so unusual
shes not so hooked on the drugs like I thought that she was
and never sucking on the lime, and hardly sipping on the wine
and dispite of her bipolar rollercoastering
I think I can trust, she'll keep me singing differently
and its fine cause shes with me now, most all of the time
trying to saving my life, thinking none of her own
and always kissing me goodnight when i just need to be alone
shes so sweet, so discrete, shes exactly what I need
not even make believe
shes not so usual
so unusual
shes not so usual
so unusual
not so usual, and not to practical either
but shes not so mystical, but not to magical either
but shes not so outta control, and not so used to the flow
shes not so usual
nah, shes a natural
ohhh, shes not so usual
shes most unusual
shes so unusual
shes so unusual
shes gonna use me ohhh
shes not so u...
shes not so u...
not so u...
not so....
song performed by by Jason Mraz
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Morning Greeting
good morning, my friend
hope you're fine like the smooth morning rays of the sun
on soft hands caressing the shiny brown skin of my face
did you sleep well last night? let me ask if you have dreams
that make waking up a regretful event
i am out now for my usual walk to see the usual rising of the sun
on the golden ricefields on the road leading to a group of nipa huts
i am asking myself today: is there meaning to this usualness
this routine that comes to us without any break?
is there something new to the sun that we always expect to shine?
is there a twist to the usual chirps of birds, the usual white color of their wings? is there something better to do than walk and think the usual
thoughts of how to make a living and be the fit person to survive
this war on boredome
this struggle for meaning
this monotonous routine of this and that and this and that and this and that and this and that and this and that this and that and this and that and this and that and this and that and this and that this and that and this and that and this and that and this and that and this and that this and that and this and that and this and that and this and that and this and that this and that and this and that and this and that and this and that and this and that this and that and this and that and this and that and this and that and this and that this and that and this and that and this and that and this and that and this and that this and that and this and that and this and that and this and that and this and that
there is no stuttering here, nothing symptomatic of sickness
and even death, there is this boredom again that will make us
not sleep the nights
and make us uneasy and restless and asking some more
what is this life? what is it giving me?
what am i giving it? how long?
just asking, i am returning to the house from this short walk
there is no music in my ears
more questions popping
i will just take tea
i need really to pee.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Novameco A Journey
You are lost and you’re telling me you are lost
And you are so afraid about doing things in the usual ways
So you come out from your window
You do not use the door
Or the stairs because as you said you do not like to things
In the most usual ways
You are tired of the usual ways and they do not appeal to your
Sense of exciting
Journey
A journey to the unusual to the unknown desert to the undiscovered
Ways
When you go home tonight you shall take the path of stars
As you wonder
To this place
Where there are not stairs no doors no windows
Where there is no house
And you take the journey alone and there will be no directions
You will like it
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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1: 38 Dawn...
inside the room
divided by the light brown drapes
between me and the window
beyond the steel gates
is the world... it is cold and dark
and there is no one
walking on the road...i peep
and let the cold wind
enter the orifice of
my nostrils...it is cold and dark
and there is no one in this house...
everyone is either asleep
or gone away for good,
their names are listed and
there are some
short biographies...this must
be a little scary
says the listening wall...
it is. Sickness confronts
the eyes of those who want to
write some short notes
of their brief stay
or visit as you want to call it...
Eye to eye, in the most silent
silence, the man in his usual
black robe,
through his hands
speak.
and the world trembles
we want to kneel and ask for more
but nothing
shall be given.... that is a
fact.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Daily Life
the procedure is the same all day
repeating and
always repeated
for making a difference is
a risk
altering the pattern simply
gives birth to
pain and so one goes all over
again
start with a picture of oneself
then the other
perhaps a model or the object
of your
physical desire and stay there
for a while
somehow you wish you move
to a higher level
like something emotional or
self-redeeming like something
higher than oneself
the spiritual but you come to the
conclusion that the environment
is simple enough
all images or tangible walls
and wooden bridges below the boats
keep on sailing even without you
in it
you hold on to what is
routine
there is no fear here
the formula keeps on working for you
a self, a picture of yourself, another
picture of the other
then you wrap your body with
your arms
and it is so comforting
no sweat
things shall begin again as usual
you step outside the
door and
mix as usual with the crowd
where no one knows you
and you know no one
at night you arrive on a room
nothing's altered
the smell is the same
and then
you open the window
there are no stars
all city lights
damned.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Sleep
Woke up
slept for quite a while
severe noise
around me
I look around
The wind
The hills
The sands
The flowers
as usual
were there
before I went to sleep
Your hand
as usual
was there
before I went to sleep
(August 25,1997)
poem by Sangnam Nam
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A love poem for my wife
When the time comes
That I become a very sick man,
Unable to do the usual things
Expected of myself and the demands
Of your sweet society, when I no longer smell
What men smell of women
Their underwear and underarm
Deodorants titillating to our masculine
Desires, when I no longer find
Motels as interesting places
To make more stories or
Those dark secret places of two hearts
Where names and age and reputations
Are irrelevant, when the time comes
For me to kneel and pray and
Find the usual places for solitary
Old men facing the final curtains
Of the play, please my dear
Be gentle with me,
I may have lied, and pursued
What made you mad
But you must know the eulogies
Of the rotten flesh and
Distinguish it from the hymnal truth
Of the spirit
I am not afraid to profess
I have not loved so true
Other women than you.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Get Used To All These Somehow
get used to all these somehow
these that i cannot understand
always the questions in my mind
like open mouths
longing for a kiss
empty and cold,
there are answers to choose
got nothing
i move in an open field
gasping for air
like a fish on the floor
shattered glasses and water
seeping on the
wooden floor
too dry for me but I'll get used to
all these
tomorrow the usual sun shines
if you ask me
i have no answers i will pretend
that this is the usual day
nothing extraordinary
like the passing of the wind
i shall not be carried away
but i have to rearrange my hair
gets crumpled
and i do not really like it
being seen by you and you ask
if it's me
i am. it was me.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Fighting With Usual Ones
Usual cravings, as usual,
Come to me in plural.
For not enough defense,
For over offensive bad,
Shall I lose this pretty math?
Nothing I hate more than usual ones.
Like November that needs only December
To end one year,
Shall I give up my intense desire?
Together with usual theory,
To get the pass-mark solitary,
Should I sit this exam blowzy?
If there were a right map of life,
I would avoid those with unusual might.
But now, by riding a horse neither male nor female,
Shall I keep acting as a character stray?
I don't wanna be a king in usual custom paragon.
I don't wanna ascend already used throne.
If your heart is not new,
If your love is blue,
You will fail my interview.
Let my loner life live along
Instead of being in usual crowd.
My heart wishes unusual heartbeat sound.
poem by Aung Si Myanmar
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Taking A Bath
last night stains
of pretensions now gone
soap and water
on an early morning bath
less the whistle
just the pressure and then
anew you come out
of the bathroom
the usual day the usual
activity: always hoping
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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What looks in (windows and rain)
Rain upon windows…
Dark bedroom walls
Shimmering pastel mists
down shadowed halls
Windows of ebon black…
and cold Crystal light
Transparently solid through
Both dark and night
Seemingly liquid… in rivulets
Of slithers of rains
Silver sheet of mercury
Over fevered panes
Half seen reflections
enshroud the palpable dark
And imagined…(or real) things
Seem to quiver, dance and spark
Leaves strike... then flee
Tossed by cold fingers of wind
Tree branches rap upon the glass
as if wanting to come in
Pull covers o’er your head
Scrinch closed your eyes e’er so tight
Tis only windows they are…
So no real reason for fright
But… for what looks back in…
Through your windows tonight
poem by David Whalen
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Soon, Sometime
soon, is mother's
usual word for hope
so i may not retreat
and lurk by the dark
corner and weep.
soon when your
papa comes soon
when he is finally
forgiven, soon
when the storm
is over soon when
the house is
again strenthened
by its walls and
scaffolds
soon when you grow
up to be a man soon
when you are big
enough to understand
what really is the matter
why the roof leaks why
the door is always closed
why the glass windows
are misty
soon my son she says
soon you will have stronger
hands to hold on to a
pillar soon my son you
will have a brain that
travels beyond this
trifles soon my son you
will have wings to fly
and soon you will know
that this life is our journey
towards an uncertain
destination soon my son
you will know that you will
always be going and going
and goind soon you will
know my son, that there
is no stopping that there
is only an overlapping
of waves and shore and
waves and shore in the
never ending ebb and
rise of life and death.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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As Usual
The sun was shining…
The breeze was blowing
As usual
The day was dawning
The dusk was falling…
As usual
The people were brisking
The people were frisking
As usual
You died.
My heart was grieving.
It was Durga Puja.
They were celebrating
As usual
(Dedicated to Steve Jobs. I miss him…)
poem by Aparna Chatterjee
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Outside The Rain Begins To Fall
do you remember it?
the rain, it was outside us when we parted
the boat left a furrow on the sea
and the waves ran until everything was calm
and then i went inside a room
the windows all glass
the drapes dusty
and the tables and chairs so cold
like our feelings
and then outside the rain began to fall
when you left
i just watched the dissipation
just that
things happened and we let them be
we were not the masters of our fate
the stars write their lines
and they take the course
of the journey
we followed suit without a single question
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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What To Say To The Early Day...
four in the morning is usual
it is still dark in fact
and what surprises is that usual darkness has to offer?
the chickens are not making sounds
the pavements are empty of strangers
the road is wet with the whole night raining
there is this newness
of what to do for another day
and i say to myself, with all courtesy: good morning.
have i said it before? i must, but always to someone other than myself.
it is unjustified.
at this early hour i have no one to talk to.
darkness is always silent. Twilight is still far.
the morning is not saying anything.
but always time moves, darkness fades away
and so
we always welcome the light
it happens.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Life Is As Simple And Enjoyable As Sipping Coffee Early Morning And Enjoying The Scenery Of A Rustic Place
alright,
we simplify this
it is early morning
they have not awakened yet
the house is very peaceful
the windows are closed still
and the doors too
alright
stand, walk towards the window
open all of them
let the cold air come in
then walk towards the door
unlock it
and open it too and then
let the cold air
come in
you want coffee?
go to the kitchen
take a spoon a cup and saucer and
take sugar and coffee and
hot water
you know what to do, right?
feel at home
this is your home
now take your time
sit on a chair
face the trees
stir your coffee
feel it hot
and then sip
enjoy, savor the scenery of
this rustic place
feel the wind on your cheeks
take the warm side of the cup
alright,
is not life as simple as this?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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It Is Another Long Walk To Life
do not mismate
your shoes. try fitting
in what fits you.
tie the lace.
stamp your feet.
tighten your belt.
stand up.
comb your hair.
wear the warmer shirt.
take the cap
and put it on your head.
smile in the mirror.
take the watch.
wear the white socks.
eat the banana.
and wear the Ipod.
sounds of chappel
in your ears.
it is 6: 05, now
you are ready for
the usual walk
at the oval this
morning. The leaves
of the trees and
grasses are still
rich with their
dews. The sunrays
are slowly coming.
the air is fresh
scented with
the smell of the
rice paddies.
good morning.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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