It Is Simple
when you draw a man
on your paper
do not complicate him
let him have hands
a head
a belly
let him have two legs
and two feet
do not try giving him
fingers and toes
and start tracing
the lines of his
palms
and pores of his skin
his hair
and eyebrows and
eyelids
he would not like it
the particulars
are his alone
his secrets
his struggles to define himself
apart from the rest
in doing so
you let him be
a man to complete himself
self-made
with pride to provide the missing parts
his past buried
in his muscles
his hopes intricately woven
in his nerves
it simple enough
let him have too his solitude
a secret cabinet
for his bullets and pistol
and rage
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Related quotes
Wisper Your Secrets
Whisper your secrets into my skin,
Come out clean, I'll hold your sin.
Whisper your secrets to my lone heart,
Before our sin's poison gets a head start.
Whisper your secrets into my hair,
And each strand will hold a care.
Whisper your anger into my pale hands,
Hate in my fists only you you understand.
Whisper your anger in my fragile mind,
Let anger simmer over time.
Whisper your anger into my head,
And I'll repeat every word you said.
Whisper your love into my palms,
And you will feel my calm.
Whisper your love into my lips,
And we'll lose ourselves in ignorance bliss.
Whisper your love into my soul,
And I'll show you something beautiful.
Whisper your secrets into my ear,
And know not a soul will hear.
Muscles
(michael jackson)
She said she wants a man
To always understand
But thats alright for her
Still it aint enough for me
She said she wants a guy
To keep her satisfied
But thats alright for her
But it aint enough for me
Still, I dont care if hes young or old
(just make him beautiful)
I just want someone I can hold on to
I want muscles
All, all over his body
(make him strong enough from his head down to his toes)
I want muscles
All, all over his body
(make him strong enough from his head down to his toes)
They say they have to see
His real personality
But thats alright for them
Still it aint enough for me
I need what the eyes can see, ah
(his anatomy)
If thats alright for them
Still it aint enough for me
I dont care if hes young or old
Just make him beautiful
I just want some strong man to hold on to
I want muscles
All, all over his body
(make him strong enough from his head down to his toes)
I want muscles
All over his body
(make him strong enough from his head down to his toes)
Muscle man, I want to love you
In person, I want your body
Come with me, hiding the cascades
Let this be, weve got this thing made
Lost at sea, hide the desert
Stay with me, you wont regret it
Take this love, so deep to swim in
Come to me, and let the love in
She said she wants a man
To always understand
But thats alright for her
Still it aint enough for me
I dont care if hes young or old
(just make him beautiful)
I just want someone I can hold on to
I want muscles
All, all over his body
(make him strong enough from his head down to his toes)
I want muscles
All over him, all over him
I want muscles
All, all over his body
I want muscles
I want all I can get
All over him, all over him
I want muscles, muscles, muscles
song performed by by Diana Ross
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Your Body Aches
your nerves are too tight
and pain grips your fingers
in between your moans
relax your muscles a bit
the tongue can do its task
pleasing sounds of gasps and groans
the palate knows what the heart misses
take this thing as a piece of cake
sugar coated and brightly colored
pink and red and less of the green
bluish and its smells of orangeness
and then have that dance,
yes, the belly, and why not?
it is just the two of us, why not?
why not try, being not you, for this moment,
this truth, this salvage of lost emotions,
why not? yes why not? just the two of us
and no one is watching
except the stars and the moon
these paper designs, glistening
with artificial pride.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Appendages
How many fingers do I have?
Enough to work to the bone.
How many hands do I have?
The two that I do own.
How many toes do I have?
Enough to fill my shoes.
How many feet do I have?
The two that I do use
to get me where I want to go,
walking a leisurely pace.
It seems to be a lost art anymore.
Most are in a race.
But since I am retired
I don't ever rush around.
My fingers, my toes, my hands, my feet
make me slow right down.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Slow....
slowly
one finds what had long been missing,
it is not seen
it is just felt by the lines of the palms
by the tips of
the fingers
slowly one remembers the scent
it is not seen
it is getting inside the nerves
of the nostrils
and then one begins to remember
and then
the lips begin to part
shaping that
lonesome
smile.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I Thought I Am Complete
i thought i am complete
seeing my fingers
all intact in my hands
seeing my toes
in proper places of
my feet and my eyes
between the bridge
of my nose
and my hair lushing
on my head and my
ears too sensitive
for voices and sounds
and then something
runs in my spine
like a worm
at first then
more like a snake
and i suddenly
shudder
and then it was
that time that i
realize that i am
incomplete
and the thought comes
like a sudden flash of
light
i need you
i may not have learned to love you yet
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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My Obnoxiousness
There is nothing I've done...
You are now discovering,
I had not already known.
With a clarity and understanding.
It was implemented,
With a consciousness involved.
Tested for effect,
And perfected to heighten controversy.
That was a must.
An ingredient involved.
Did you think I would do anything,
Without prior testing?
How do you think I can become this obnoxious?
This is 'my' obnoxiousness,
I wish to sit and settle within your mind!
Do you find it needs to be a little more tweaked?
My dear,
Come here and let me make this clear!
Come sit.
This is no accident or secret kept.
I've spent time doing my best,
To attract your disgust!
And to shake you into a sweat...
That leaves your eyebrows arched.
If they are not,
I get upset.
I want you so sick of me...
Until you are addicted!
And your addiction to my obnoxiousness,
Has got to be the only obnoxiousness you expect...
With a rage you accept and enjoy!
That is my goal I've produced to employ!
Don't tell me now it is 'not' unique.
Don't tell me now your toes don't curl on your feet.
And every hair on your head does not stand on edge?
Until you steam and make this pledge...
'I can't 'stand' what he says! '
I want that as your motto.
I want that in your head!
What more can I say that I have not already said?
Now go...
And bring me more clients!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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A Hindu woman beauty
Translucent neck, crescent forehead,
Bow like eyebrow, doe’s eyes,
Hilly cheeks, cherry lips,
Beaky nose, milky teeth,
With back dropp of cloudy hair
Provide a countenance. It strikes.
Snake-gourd arms, tulip palm,
Snaky fingers, eggi nails,
Dicot branching breasts
Decking out like cashew apples,
Banyan leaf like belly
Provide a profile. It hooks.
Boat like beam, banana stem thighs,
Pomegranate open fruit in between,
Crane legs and the feet
As tapering as the bud of banana
Inflorescence,
Provide a receptacle. It arreats.
Then a woman has no need
To be adorned and ornamented,
To catch hold of a king.
24.12.2000, Pmdi
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Occupational Therapy
Find me a scissors and some paper,
So I can start to shape her.
First the feet and legs, all two;
Up to the knees then a skirt will do.
Then to the middle to angle at the arms,
Down to the fingers (this is where it gets hard) .
Then once they look presentable,
Off up to the shoulders, curving up at the neck
To a face well rounded.
All done now, our paper cut out of you.
Ready for colouring,
You can begin with the blue :)
poem by Harriet James
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No Secret Friend
I have a secret friend
No it's not what you think
My friend's not a secret
Nor is the secrets he keeps
You see he keeps his heart
On the table with me
But the rest of the world
It's secrets they see
My no secret friend
wears a joker's mask
But I can see the truth
the real, the past
My no secret friend says
his intentions are true
My no secret friend says
he has feelings for me
Does my no secret friend
have secret desires
Time will tell but till then
this moment is ours
poem by Patti Wilburn
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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And then the paper is dirty
You start with a clean sheet of paper
Write some words, scribble, draw some lines
Some curves, sharp lines, tangent to bold
Lines, and rough sketches of faces and
Bodies, thin lines that get crooked from
End to end of this limited space,
You doodle, you get wild with so
Many lines unimaginable, senseless,
The paper finally looks dirty,
And you do not like it, you crumple
It and throw it in a waste basket,
You get another clean sheet,
And this time, you think what is
It really that you want to make
Out of this new clean sheet of paper.
You think, you ponder, and you need
More time this time not to waste
This clean, glossy sheet of paper.
I think you are doing well with your life.
You see you are supposed to be careful
Every word is delicate and every paper
Is actually accounted.
Never mind guilt, set it aside for a while.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Sapphire Bullets Of Pure Love
Pistol shots
Gun shots
Pistol shots
Gun shots
Bullets from a revolver
Bullets from a gun
Bullets through the atmosphere
Here they come
John, Ive been bad
And theyre coming after me
Done someone wrong
And I fear that it was me
Sapphire bullets
Bullets of pure love
Sapphire bullets
Bullets of pure love
song performed by by They Might Be Giants
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Early Works - The Naked Body
The structure of the naked body when it shows
is filled with a selected aura that glows
with skin like satin
that flows in constructive curves
around our muscles
and invisible nerves
with beauty no artist could define.
Date Unknown
poem by David Harris
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The Chameleon Crawl.
The baby, palms planted,
arms straight and stomach grounded,
moves with........not a crawl,
more of a mudskipper wriggle.
Next day, same stance,
gingerly brings both knees forward,
belly and pelvis now precariously hoisted
ten centimetres up;
the body plane tracing
a slight asymmetrical figure of eight
on four unsteady limbs,
like a table top with loose pinned legs.
Tiny hip and shoulder joints;
slippery as beginners on skates.
Tender muscles twitching.
Brain and nerves fully engaged;
sensory input, predictions, transmissions,
feedbacks and adjustments,
all faster than conscious thought.
The newly raised bottom has tilted
the angle of his disproportionately large head
a few degrees towards the horizontal,
suggestive of an imminent forward topple.
He slants limbs aft, to compensate.
Then, one hand is lifted, replaced, lifted again
and precisely placed, just ahead of the other.
A cautious knee follows suit;
miniscule progression.
He surveys his world, swaying back and forth.
The baby, just seven months old,
is presenting his impression of
the chameleon's particular
and delicately hesitant gait.
This enchanting stage will be fleeting.
Presently, he will be demonstrating-
the determined wombat's stomp.
poem by Diane Hine
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Leg
I know your legs are
On the legs of Baali the demon king
I know your legs are
On the head of Bharata your brother
I know your legs are on the
Head of Uddhaba your follower.
You have no leg I heard.
I Know you are present everywhere
Everytime and in everybody.
I do not know what a leg is.
I know the insect has six legs
I know the animal has four legs
I know the bird has two legs.
Your leg is my project paper
I do not know howmany legs you have
I do not know I a leg is.
poem by Gajanan Mishra
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You in your closed bleeding hands
The palm that closes
Cannot hold anything
Just like this narrow mind
Unable to grapple with
What is newly given
I see your fingers are closed
I tried to tickle you so they may open
I tried to tell you something puzzling
You closed your fingers some more
What is it that you are hiding there?
It is causing you so much pain
Your hands bleed, please open them
Is it the nail? Is it a broken glass?
You are not nodding still
Is it something so important?
That even with death you still refuse?
You are not nodding still
You shake your head, you keep mum
And numb to what I am asking
So be it, close your fingers
Hide the lines in your palms
Let your hands bleed some more
We shall wait what happens next
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Me the instrument
Music is in my mind
Iam full of glee
My fingers tapping the table
While my palms beat as a drum
My lips pucker and being to whistle
Iam really feeling this souful strum
My feet tapping the floor
It is really fun
Allowing my body to be an instrument
As I gaze at sun
For there is music on the inside
A harmonic hum
If I gave this instrument a name
Iam not quiet sure what it would be
Therefore to keep things simple and
From becoming complicate
I shall simply term this authentic instrument as Me
poem by Angel A. Lockwood
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No Missing Parts (Love Poem)
You my love,
Are my other half,
I need to tell you, that
I love your hands and feet,
I still melt when you look at me.
I thank the skies, the seas and roads,
Because they bring us together,
From round the world. I know
That you are mine and I am
Complete again, with
No missing parts.
poem by Ian Beckett
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A Flashback Reaction
When father and daughter had words
contracting muscles in my face
felt like worms crawling
under my skin
Daughter conceded, father was right,
muscles relaxed, back to normal,
a flashback reaction
to early youth
When I held my fingers in my ears
as mother and father conversed
in angry words, grating
on my nerves…
poem by Margaret Alice
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Biology
Lizards
are
cold-
blooded
and conditioned to move
sleek
through
your
fingers.
He opened
two
yellow
disconcerting
eyes:
lips, fists, skin, palms, elements, toes, mountain tops, lips
strings, teeth, voice, muscles, corals, a couple in a boat lost, sea surface, someone's grandmother's tattoo, a child's back, or a nose of a rabbit or a twenty-footed starfish,
eyes:
tightened.
lips, fists, skin, palms, elements, toes, mountain tops, lips
strings, teeth, voice, muscles, corals, a couple in a boat lost, sea surface, someone's grandmother's tattoo, a child's back, or a nose of a rabbit or a twenty-footed starfish,
eyes:
tightened.
Tightened
My lizard understands
Swahilli
is
warm
and tells
me
that:
if
eyelashes of
2 million people
in a small country
were
green
grass
on home
walls
they
would
see:
my lizard
understands-
is
warm.
I look
back into
my son's
eyes-
and remember
clearly
the warbling&sleek
warm
feeling
in
my
womb
and stomach
for nine
months.
And
a
glance
of
the
brittle
coarse
little
dotty,
pinky-
yellow
palm
on mine,
in the hospital bed.
poem by Afrodita Nikolova
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