It Is Late
it is late and the sun is setting
the orange and red are diminishing
the blackness spreads like a diffusion
of our sorrow and pain
soon there will be the closing of the windows
of the house
the locking of doors of the ground floors
and some prayers mumbled from lips
to lighted candles on altars of saints
and angels
soon there will be stories
from mother
and songs too
and then in the quiet
of the stars and the moon and the sky
soon there will
be sleep
under white mosquito nets
the light from the lamp
is blown away
and we smell the smoke
coming from the
loved ones
long dead
we end the games that we play
and we are silent
we yawn and close our eyes
and now ready
as we enter the doors of
our dreams
in there
there may be chases and running too
i am sure somehow we just take a look
unspeakably
things are hazy and we do not remember
anymore
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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At Night With The Rain
i have closed the doors
and the windows
and let go the curtains
touching the floors
i close my eyes and listen
to the rain
i dream of stars
i miss the moon
the walls close on in me
beyond the glass windows
to the sea
i hear the sad calls of the
night
outside the trees are blown
the black cat stares at me
and then some tears
begin to fall
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Thinking Of What To Do
Thinking of what to do
Of what to say
Hoping for the best
Feeling hopelessness settling in-
Thinking of where to go-
Of who to go to-
Hoping for help,
Getting none
Running from my fate
Rejecting all, losing nothing
Feeling guilty
Running faster, farther away
Running with eyes closed, -
Sealed shut-
Afraid of the world I'm running from, the world I'm running through-
My eyes hurting- pain reminds to open these doors.-
Opening the doors to the Living
I trip-
On my own heel-
Face meets the ground-
Getting up-
I look back-
Nothing-
I see- only blackness behind me-
Blackness- darkness- following me-
Fairy Stars
My uncle Dan
was a Harlem Man
danced extra light on his feet
smiles like radiant sun
talked up close to ya
comfortable with himself
and you could always
smell his cologne.
The ladies loved him;
loved that laugh of his
he always had flattery for them
often given.
Uptown.
down town
he never came to the house
what without a gift;
loved us 'chilings'
soft candy
and wild stories
which always had a point.
'Time was' he'd say'
'that there was a meadow
over that way
till they paved it over'
'Your grandmother-
why she came from 500 acres
in the deep south-
til they taxed her family out.
Had to leave the land;
she still bitter
and put out.
We all
here
in this family
immigrants
and runaways
most free,
some slaves.
'Now'
he'd say
'don't trade
plantation slave
for city slave
get your own business.
Be an 'enter-pre-newr'
Knew the stars
and summer nights'
would have us all look up:
'Now see that fairy princess there
right there between those five stars
that's God looking over all little girls
and those stars are God's fairy saints.
If ever you need
just look up
and they'll be there watching there;
ready to take care of you.
Each night
go to the window
be sure to say goodnight to 'em'
He died in my sophomore year.
I traveled to Chicago to say goodbye.
He had asked all the women he loved
to leave a white rose on his casket.
And white roses were there
everywhere, everywhere
as far as the eye could see
and that included a long-stemmed white rose
from me;
lovingly placed;
remembering
those fairy saints;
and Uncle Dan
looking up
all bright-eyed
saying;
'Now say goodnight;
they can hear you.
I believe to this day
he was right.
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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To Be Honest With You
the christmas songs are played
and i do not remember anything anymore
these songs come and go and my years are shorter.
last year
is just like today.
there is no meaning anymore.
and i am not giving any chunk of me anymore.
i am sealed. i am a house with doors and windows closed.
i am sleeping inside it.
and it will be years before i wake up.
don't worry. i will not tell them that you are a
part of me.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Deadlock
Mother! Tell me what is behind those doors
Late father averred there is a treasure
A microcosm of whole world’s splendour
An extravagent elegence of nature’s allure
But warned me not to open the doors
Unless and untill I am doubly sure
Mother wept and said, “It is a deadlock
By blunders of your forefathers; did choke”
Mother tell me what is behind those doors
I hear deadly thunders, shrieks and shouts
And plangent whimpers of unseen spirits
I smell something noisome and nausiating
As if coming from a mass burning of pyres
Whenever I look at those queer doors
My heart hammers with unknown terror
Why mother? Why? Tell me! Why?
What is behind those doors?
She sobbed and sobbed with wild shiver
And said, “It is our own Kashmir! ! ! ”
poem by Sathya Narayana
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A Lute By Edward Martin
did i ever see mother
dance like a
little girl
when she was alive?
did i ever see her
laugh like
a lovely little girl
once when she was
alive and was
with us all
in that small house?
did we ever wonder
why we did not see
her at all smile
as though we were friends
and not as her children
all i remember was that
she told us stories
before we sleep and
crowd in that small bed
covered by a white
cloth mosquito net
she was telling us
about some ghosts
who will eat all of us
because we refuse
to sleep early
because she still had
a lot of other things
to do
some lesson plans
to write
some letters for
her mother
some loan applications
to accomplish
some prayers
to recite
while father
waits for her
in another room.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Bench Of Boors
In bed I muse on Tenier's boors,
Embrowned and beery losels all;
A wakeful brain
Elaborates pain:
Within low doors the slugs of boors
Laze and yawn and doze again.
In dreams they doze, the drowsy boors,
Their hazy hovel warm and small:
Thought's ampler bound
But chill is found:
Within low doors the basking boors
Snugly hug the ember-mound.
Sleepless, I see the slumberous boors
Their blurred eyes blink, their eyelids fall:
Thought's eager sight
Aches--overbright!
Within low doors the boozy boors
Cat-naps take in pipe-bowl light.
poem by Herman Melville
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Inner Capsule (Element Of The Ensemble Part II)
I just can't take it anymore
Knees and hands bolted to the floor
The smoke is coming down on me
Will I just suffocate or be
The room now empty as I see
Locked doors, no windows, dark to be
Lightning and thunder I do feel
As my worst nightmare becomes real
And now that I've been left alone
I get my chance, enter the zone
In wich my deepest thoughts occur
And where I speak in silent words
Wonder what will become of me
Will I just suffocate or be
Help me!
Wonder what will become of me
Will I just suffocate or be
Silence spreads, I hear my gasp for air
My heart beats faster as seconds, few to spare
I feel the pain, eyes strongly shut together
Last scream comes out, and then I feel the power
Wonder what will become of me
Will I just suffocate or be
A sheet of paper lies in front of me, blank
Emotions trapped insidem infinite rank
Cannot seem to extrivert the feel
Imprisonment of days turns into years
song performed by by Quo Vadis
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Young
A thousand doors ago
when I was a lonely kid
in a big house with four
garages and it was summer
as long as I could remember,
I lay on the lawn at night,
clover wrinkling over me,
the wise stars bedding over me,
my mother's window a funnel
of yellow heat running out,
my father's window, half shut,
an eye where sleepers pass,
and the boards of the house
were smooth and white as wax
and probably a million leaves
sailed on their strange stalks
as the crickets ticked together
and I, in my brand new body,
which was not a woman's yet,
told the stars my questions
and thought God could really see
the heat and the painted light,
elbows, knees, dreams, goodnight.
poem by Anne Sexton
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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Evil Woman
I've seen a look of evil in your eyes
You've been filling me all full of lies
Sorrow will not change your shameful deeds
Do well best, someone else has better seen
Evil woman, don't you play your games with me
Evil woman, don't you play your games with me
Now I know just what you're looking for
You want me to claim that child you bore
Well you know that it must he not be
And you know the way it got to be
Evil woman, don't you play your games with me
Evil woman, don't you play your games with
Evil woman, don't you play your games with me
Evil woman, don't you play your games with me
Wickedness lies in your moisten lips
Your body moves just like the crack of a whip
Blackness sleeps on top of your stray bed
Do you whish that you could see me dead
Evil woman, don't you play your games with me
Evil woman, don't you play your games with me
Evil woman, don't you play your games with me
Evil woman, don't you play your games with me
song performed by by Black Sabbath
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Christmas To Remember
Twinkling lights
A chill is in the air
And carols everywhere
Close your eyes, its almost here
Candles and cards
And favorite movie scenes
The smell of evergreen
As special as its always been
And I have a dream or two
Maybe they will come true
Chorus:
Setting our hopes on a big snow tonight
Well wake up to a world of white
Its gonna be a christmas to remember
Light up the fire, play some nat king cole
Always sentimental and dont you know that
Its gonna be a christmas to remember
I know its true
Time doesnt stand still
Many things can change
But we know some things never will
The memories we share
The songs we always sing
The mystery of life
The hopefulness this season brings
And I have a dream or two
Maybe they will come true
Chorus
song performed by by Amy Grant
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Mother
I
IT was April, blossoming spring,
They buried me, when the birds did sing;
Earth, in clammy wedging earth,
They banked my bed with a black, damp girth.
Under the damp and under the mould,
I kenned my breasts were clammy and cold.
Out from the red beams, slanting and bright,
I kenned my cheeks were sunken and white.
I was a dream, and the world was a dream,
And yet I kenned all things that seem.
I was a dream, and the world was a dream,
But you cannot bury a red sunbeam.
For though in the under-grave's doom-night
I lay all silent and stark and white,
Yet over my head I seemed to know
The murmurous moods of wind and snow,
The snows that wasted, the winds that blew,
The rays that slanted, the clouds that drew
The water-ghosts up from lakes below,
And the little flower-souls in earth that grow.
Under earth, in the grave's stark night,
I felt the stars and the moon's pale light.
I felt the winds of ocean and land
That whispered the blossoms soft and bland.
Though they had buried me dark and low,
My soul with the season's seemed to grow.
II
From throes of pain they buried me low,
For death had finished a mother's woe.
But under the sod, in the grave's dread doom,
I dreamed of my baby in glimmer and gloom.
I dreamed of my babe, and I kenned that his rest
Was broken in wailings on my dead breast.
I dreamed that a rose-leaf hand did cling;
Oh, you cannot bury a mother in spring!
When the winds are soft and the blossoms are red
She could not sleep in her cold earth-bed.
I dreamed of my babe for a day and a night,
And then I rose in my grave-clothes white.
I rose like a flower from my damp earth-bed
To the world of sorrowing overhead.
Men would have called me a thing of harm,
But dreams of my babe made me rosy and warm.
I felt my breasts swell under my shroud;
No star shone white, no winds were loud;
But I stole me past the graveyard wall,
For the voice of my baby seemed to call;
And I kenned me a voice, though my lips were dumb:
Hush, baby, hush! for mother is come.
I passed the streets to my husband's home;
The chamber stairs in a dream I clomb;
I heard the sound of each sleeper's breath,
Light waves that break on the shores of death.
I listened a space at my chamber door,
Then stole like a moon-ray over its floor.
My babe was asleep on a stranger's arm,
'O baby, my baby, the grave is so warm,
'Though dark and so deep, for mother is there!
O come with me from the pain and care!
'O come with me from the anguish of earth,
Where the bed is banked with a blossoming girth,
'Where the pillow is soft and the rest is long,
And mother will croon you a slumber-song–
'A slumber-song that will charm your eyes
To a sleep that never in earth-song lies!
'The loves of earth your being can spare,
But never the grave, for mother is there.'
I nestled him soft to my throbbing breast,
And stole me back to my long, long rest.
And here I lie with him under the stars,
Dead to earth, its peace and its wars;
Dead to its hates, its hopes, and its harms,
So long as he cradles up soft in my arms.
And heaven may open its shimmering doors,
And saints make music on pearly floors,
And hell may yawn to its infinite sea,
But they never can take my baby from me.
For so much a part of my soul he hath grown
That God doth know of it high on His throne.
And here I lie with him under the flowers
That sun-winds rock through the billowy hours,
With the night-airs that steal from the murmuring sea,
Bringing sweet peace to my baby and me.
poem by William Wilfred Campbell
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Meditations Upon A Candle
Man's like a candle in a candlestick,
Made up of tallow and a little wick;
And as the candle when it is not lighted,
So is he who is in his sins benighted.
Nor can a man his soul with grace inspire,
More than can candles set themselves on fire.
Candles receive their light from what they are not;
Men grace from Him for whom at first they care not.
We manage candles when they take the fire;
God men, when he with grace doth them inspire.
And biggest candles give the better light,
As grace on biggest sinners shines most bright.
The candle shines to make another see,
A saint unto his neighbour light should be.
The blinking candle we do much despise,
Saints dim of light are high in no man's eyes.
Again, though it may seem to some a riddle,
We use to light our candles at the middle.
True light doth at the candle's end appear,
And grace the heart first reaches by the ear.
But 'tis the wick the fire doth kindle on,
As 'tis the heart that grace first works upon.
Thus both do fasten upon what's the main,
And so their life and vigour do maintain.
The tallow makes the wick yield to the fire,
And sinful flesh doth make the soul desire
That grace may kindle on it, in it burn;
So evil makes the soul from evil turn.
But candles in the wind are apt to flare,
And Christians, in a tempest, to despair.
The flame also with smoke attended is,
And in our holy lives there's much amiss.
Sometimes a thief will candle-light annoy,
And lusts do seek our graces to destroy.
What brackish is will make a candle sputter;
'Twixt sin and grace there's oft' a heavy clutter.
Sometimes the light burns dim, 'cause of the snuff,
Sometimes it is blown quite out with a puff;
But watchfulness preventeth both these evils,
Keeps candles light, and grace in spite of devils.
Nor let not snuffs nor puffs make us to doubt,
Our candles may be lighted, though puffed out.
The candle in the night doth all excel,
Nor sun, nor moon, nor stars, then shine so well.
So is the Christian in our hemisphere,
Whose light shows others how their course to steer.
When candles are put out, all's in confusion;
Where Christians are not, devils make intrusion.
Then happy are they who such candles have,
All others dwell in darkness and the grave.
But candles that do blink within the socket,
And saints, whose eyes are always in their pocket,
Are much alike; such candles make us fumble,
And at such saints good men and bad do stumble.
Good candles don't offend, except sore eyes,
Nor hurt, unless it be the silly flies.
Thus none like burning candles in the night,
Nor ought to holy living for delight.
But let us draw towards the candle's end:
The fire, you see, doth wick and tallow spend,
As grace man's life until his glass is run,
And so the candle and the man is done.
The man now lays him down upon his bed,
The wick yields up its fire, and so is dead.
The candle now extinct is, but the man
By grace mounts up to glory, there to stand.
poem by John Bunyan
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We Like To Be Reminded Of Our Presence
we get tired and try to take a nap
on a soft sofa in our sala
we lay there in silence
we do not want to talk
we simply want to close our eyes
and see things inside us
we remember a lot of things
a cup of coffee that we sip together
on a roadside cafe somewhere in france
we remember little things
like a pin, a ring, a handkerchief
then we move on to something
that knows what rotting means
a dry leaf, a mossy side of the pool
a dead tree, a rolling log, a cabin
then we get too engrossed in silence
and hazy places, a room dimly lit
by this halogen lamp creating a certain
warmth that we remember
some arms and hands and lips
we want something delightful
we begin to speak to someone beside us
how was your day? have you eaten your dinner?
then you transfer to your bed and then
you sleep and dream
with her beside you. You turn off the light.
Outside, it is dark like the color
of a woman's hair.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Running For My Life
Running
Down the hall
The bell is ringing
I’m late for class
I’m late for life
Running
From this thing
This big, black, ugly
Swirling, shifting, changing thing
This thing that is everything
But is thin as air
Is really nothing at all
Running
From this thing
This thing I call “The Black”
That chases me
Seemingly
For all eternity
Running
From my past
Passing right by the present
Into my future
Into one of these doors
The doors that line the hall
The hall of life I’m running down
Running because I’m late
Running for my life
Running
Past these doors
One of them is the right door
The door through which I must go
Oh, how do I know
Which key on the jingling ring in my hand
Opens the door to my future?
The door to everything
I’ve ever wanted to do
Or be
The one door through which
That thing
The Black
Cannot follow me
Oh, look
Up ahead
That might be it
That door just screams my name
(But they won’t like that door –
It doesn’t fit their mold)
So what?
Who cares?
It’s my life
It’s my future
That door is me!
Now I’m
Searching
For the key.
Spring
I remember Spring
The flora and the smell
Scents the breeze would bring
And fun stories to tell
The tunes songbirds sing
Of brawls and cowhand's yell
Pain as bee would sting
Prayers called by the bell
But crops have ripened
And ladies looked so well
Newer doors opened
Spring must have cast a spell
When I recall Spring
On things my mind would dwell
Songs my heart would sing
And joys it cannot tell
poem by Reyvrex Questor Reyes
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Hello, How Are You?
this fear of being what they are:
dead.
at least they are not out on the street, they
are careful to stay indoors, those
pasty mad who sit alone before their tv sets,
their lives full of canned, mutilated laughter.
their ideal neighborhood
of parked cars
of little green lawns
of little homes
the little doors that open and close
as their relatives visit
throughout the holidays
the doors closing
behind the dying who die so slowly
behind the dead who are still alive
in your quiet average neighborhood
of winding streets
of agony
of confusion
of horror
of fear
of ignorance.
a dog standing behind a fence.
a man silent at the window.
poem by Charles Bukowski
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440
Accept the fact
The fear that you have nothing to tell anymore
To amuse yourself
writers' block, shutting up, windows closing,
doors locked, mind shrinking,
like the fish vendor who sells rumors & rotten stories
To the streets
You go to the fish market today
Not buying any fish or selling any or even touching gills
so you can breathe
You’re looking for some
Salt
Taking notes of the fish scales discarded
Trashed
Some fish bones & broken fins
some fishermen catching
Broken hearts on their small eyed nets
You go back with fish fins
And fish tails, thick lips and round moving eyes
You will start with a mermaid story today.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Star's Destiny
Star's Destiny
Misty night black white cats outside
Hazy on a dead chimney
Dead stove only smokes rising
Hazy singing stars songs
His eyes snowing
Bright small beautiful I am
All wants be like me
Alone alone only darkness inside
Far far from all
Lights only at night
Comes as dreams
Never ever at day
Because love works
In dreams and night's silence
Morning to see
But not stars
Anyhow stars fall in love
With Earth
Whatever the destiny be
poem by Parwin Jadan
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Let The Nights
let the nights
sing for us our love songs
if it be
let it be some birds' calls for love
let the nights
when we are too weary
be a very restful sleep
taking us to dreams of more love
let the nights be not a recalling
of our mistakes
let there be no stories
about our shortcomings
let the night be like
a shadow of a house on top of its roof the full bright moon sitting
the lamp slowly dying to rest and sleep
in a little cozy room the windows still open
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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