Just One Of Those Days Really...
yes, there were eternally bleeding palms
Pio, do you remember the name?
astigmatic, and there were those many names
many images, so many mirages and
desert suns, oasis, camels, Bedouins,
scimitars of the past conversations
the origami of storks and ponds
there was this chines frog who made it to the seven rivers
that koi that turned into a dragon guarding the eunuch of the empire
so many words said and you think
those were wastes, they never had any meaning at all
except that gullibility of the gulls
but who knows, you maybe wrong ultimately for dismissing
some facades of poems
people are poets and they cannot tell you the meanings of surfaces
submarines go deeper and will not announce its resurfacing
corals there, colored fish, pearls, sunken treasures of the past
who knows, there may be real stories there
hands that bury metaphors
euphemisms that actually carry truth between the legs
of their syllables
you should have known better and when you believe all these at once
i tell you, you were never wrong.
it is just one of those days, when words are more real.
i never regret having said them, drawn the lines, and fortified my forts.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Related quotes
I read another poet I could not understand
I READ ANOTHER POET I COULD NOT UNDERSTAND
I read another poet I could not understand
The metaphors racing one after the other
The eternal thoughts taking on a new particular dress
Words and more words
Lines and more lines
Rushing toward meaning and beauty.
And in it all my simple not understanding,
My waiting to hear words that would return to me-
My understanding
That only by my own effort
By my reading again and again
By my willing to believe
Could I make another poet real.
But do I want another poet to be real
When I am a question,
And when there are already others real for me also?
Oh selfish little man oh poor poor reader-
Write your poem alone again
As if no one but you will ever be able to write
The poems which are real.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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A New Flame
I was bowled out
I was sold down the river
But her warm heart
Would turn me forever
Shes turned me round
A new flame has come
And nothing she can do can do me wrong
I am stern now
Petty words
Dont believe me
But her warm smile
Is never gonna leave me
Shes turned me round
A new flame has come
And nothing she can do can do me wrong
Wrong oh no
Wrong oh no
Shes made of real glass
She got real real emotion
But my heart laughs
I have that same sweet devotion
Shes turned me round
A new flame has come
And nothing she can do can do me wrong
Wrong oh no
Wrong oh no
Nothing she can do can ever do me wrong
song performed by by Simply Red
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Images of Time
The images in my mind is like my thoughts.
Expressing my thoughts is like expressing my feelings.
Words are spoken.All my images are broken.
Broken down into pieces, which can never be made into new dishes.
Those images of past.It takes time to last.
It will last forever for met to take over.
All those images wore my past life.
But it has nothing to do with my past life.
Those images can be forgotten.But not those people.
Those people who are in your images.Can be in a real image.
When you see those people in front of you.
You like to say 'How are you'?
If they say I am fine.Then you will think of those time.
poem by Yash Pradhan
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My Love Is Not Like A Poem
the years of experience
of being real, concrete as
cemented pavements, real as
these hands that are warm
and callous, love has not become
like a poem
where metaphors are written
for more understanding
pulsating hearts
and other nuances of
sly literature, words, and more words,
and more connotations and denotations
of this image and that image
this scent of roses and colors of sunsets
too beautiful to behold in our mortal
eyes and bleeding hearts
my love is real, it feeds on love and thrives
on your love, my love is real like stones
i hurl and disturbs the calm waves
of the sea,
my love is not like a poem
need i say, it is more than any poem
beyond metaphors
and images, the face that i touch
the lips that i kiss, and the night
cold enough for us to think
that we badly need this hug.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Real Poets
THE REAL POETS
The real poets are few in number and largely known by name
The rest of us are endless frustration in aspiration
Words upon words upon words
Dreams upon dreams upon dreams
Getting and going nowhere forever unheard
The real poets find their anthologized place
And we know them over and over and over again
The rest of us just appear this only once
If we appear at all
And our words and our hearts and our minds
Do not encompass and inspire the endless rereadings
Time and Time’s Wounds make again and again and again
We are once only always forever losts
Nothing will save us
These words too coming in the wake of a long night’s reading
Of the poems of others
Cannot sustain and redeem
Cannot be what they would be
Cannot help and cannot save
Me or you or anyone we love
Even as poetry.
God Who Knows All
And in the End Decides on Everything
Has made us smaller even than the Angels
And our place in the Divine Song
Is not as far as we know
Anywhere heard at all.
Goodbye world
We are going
We have done what we could
We have written and written and written
Oxymandias’ poet will remain
And we will not
The lone and desert sands will stretch away
When we are not even a single grain.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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The Irrelevant Past
Nothing is said,
The question is asked
And the Past
Has a hundred meanings,
None of them lasts
Only until I, the creator,
Become the Past...
What I am told
Has no influence on the truth,
What I believe is the matter
When no fact is plain,
Proving any more or less real,
That it really happened
The way I am always altered
And now the question remains:
What can I say?
There is no other to confer! ...
If two people see the same thing,
When one calls it Blue
And the other Yellow,
It could be either one
But who knows,
Who can clearly sees the real color?
Only time will tell
And when the truth is revealed,
It would be too late for you to know
For you have become the Past...
poem by Romeo Della Valle
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A Fate of Top Poems!
Past poets were remarkable by their poems only;
But present poets are made remarkable by others!
Poetry of the past are no doubt top poems ever;
But poetry of the top are not listed in top poems!
Becoming top poets how can theirs have no place
Among the top poems of the poetry list? I wonder!
Touch stone of the top poems depends on merit
But not by the supports of friends for fun ever!
Poems of lasting value only can become classic;
But poems of no merit also have become classic!
Poetry of the past are romantic and also classic
But poetry of the present are neither but modern!
What is the yardstick to select poems as top ones -
Just support of some but not merit and meaning?
poem by Ramesh T A
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The Poems Of The Wild Words And Unexpected Meanings
THE POEMS OF THE WILD WORDS AND UNEXPECTED MEANINGS
The poems of the wild words and the unexpected meanings
Escape me -
The surprises of each new line’s metaphors
Are far from my power-
A plodding literal single- mindedness
Informed by small irony
Is all I have.
Poems distant from mine and greater
Inhabit the dreaming worlds,
And I inferior
With lesser words
Persist in making my Mediocrity up.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Are you like God, breathing life with your words?
welcome ladies and gentlemen
with poems written
in your palms
in our own humble beginnings
we take the mission
of creating and building words
putting up images
of full moons & stars
on dark nights like these,
the images move
like a circle in our lives
glistening
without ends
the words too become
alive
as we breathe them to ordinary
things
insignificantly tasteles
to the tongues of people
with mouths ungaping
that we resuscitate
so they may too live,
there is life in what we breathe
we touch and
motions begin
in a sense,
may God forgive
us
as we imitate Him,
and i know,
God loves poets like us,
we are not just few
we are many
we are holy
and we shall flock like angels
singing by His side
these poems, these songs
of love, of beauty,
of truth in the quest
of holiness.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Who Is Now Reading This?
count yourself blessed
if you are reading this?
you are the rare few
who actually read others' poetry
nobody is serious about other people's life anyway
poetry reading is being noosy
an orphan in an alleyway
tries to look for a
home sweet home
count yourself doubled blessed
if you fully understand any poem
for poets write for themselves
if a poet says he writes for others
he is probably a liar
after money probably
count yourself blessed for having learnt this
for among the millions of poets
there are poets in lost alleys
trying to find a piece of themselves
the lane that runs to treasures of heart and mind
verses springing from the sanctity of the soul
many slip on the make belief lane
throwing words, phrases helter skelter
a child that tries to plant fiction in non fiction
offering honorable readers
a half baked cake nobody would take
the heaven sounds out the genius though
each of his word gets you revved up
each of the words offers a
a spectacle into real sights, sounds, tastes
and smells
the honorable readers know the fakes
from the real - just so instinctively
real words never lie
the diamond detector never fails
inspired by
Who Is Now Reading This?
May-be one is now reading this who knows some wrong-doing of my past
life,
Or may-be a stranger is reading this who has secretly loved me,
Or may-be one who meets all my grand assumptions and egotisms with
derision,
Or may-be one who is puzzled at me.
As if I were not puzzled at myself!
Or as if I never deride myself! (O conscience-struck! O self-
convicted!)
Or as if I do not secretly love strangers! (O tenderly, a long time,
and never avow it ;)
Or as if I did not see, perfectly well, interior in myself, the stuff
of wrong-doing,
Or as if it could cease transpiring from me until it must cease.10
Walt Whitman
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Yes, My Poems Are Imaginary
these poems tell about despair
and who will ever like despair? you grumble
why can't these poems have
happines as its theme
a poem that like a belly dancer must entertain
weary bedouins
oasis to the thirsty camels
cool green palms to travellers whose feet are dusty
and even blistered
grass to some snakes
and trees to black birds
rest for the night
tent and wine and bread and lyre to our passions
but do not worry my friend
these poems are imaginary
like a garden existing only in our minds
we transport some toads and butterflies
and clouds and sun and tonight
let us have the moon and some glasses of strong wine
let us put our bed outside
in this garden where the moon shines
and creates the silver sheen in our happy faces
we love illusions, we can have all the illusions we need
when we are drunk, when we dance when we are finally drunk
when we even want to make love
when we are drunk & when we make love and we do not choose
whom to kiss and caress and touch an unknown body
with our hands and lips and choose
what we remember and what we do not want to remember
now i want to write
about illusory gardens and imagine despair that despair
has no place and must leave right away
let me
do not hinder me write what i want
about what i can disown
but i assure you, whatever that is, these poems
i am talking to you, as a friend, and even be a lover at the end,
even if the rest are imaginary, and fiction and illusory
i am still real amidst this grumble and rubble
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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for J....
I am glad
having said
i could have loved you more...
it is sad
when love withers
due to your suns
when the desert bears more sands
because you hated more
about dreams of waters
rains are strangers
and the caravan of camels
are trains of thoughts
traveling at night
and not knowing what days are...
i am an oasis
and i have no place for you anymore
the leaves of my date palms
do not recognize your songs
anymore.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I Have Read Many Poems I Know I Never Could Have Written
I have read many poems I know I never could have written
Poems whose language was far richer and more remarkable than mine
Poems that saw as I cannot see and sounded as I cannot sound
Poems of magnificent music and many hidden meanings
I have read many poems greater than those I could ever write
And have been humbled and saddened and inspired by them
Out there somewhere else
There have been real poets
And I in my own little lines
Love and respect them.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Amplify Inner Visions
Finished reading true private eye stories searching
for missing persons, so many people romantisize the
past and early experience; we should enjoy our visions,
not try to find them manifested in real events, it is better
to fail in tracing old flames or abusive parents
Imagination enables us to improve on reality and create a
better world - the fact that the past proves their memories
of young love wrong, teaches us to look ahead to create the
best future we can, instead of trying to find idealized images
in real life – we should project these dreams
Into the future, striving to amplify our inner visions…
poem by Margaret Alice Second
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The First Poets
The First Poets hunted game in the forest and on the plains-
inventing signs and gestures; guttural sounds and mime-
and ultimately Words.
The First Poets wrote words and drew pictures
on the walls of caves
stamping their feet to drum-beats;
learning to dance.
The First Poets invented music for their words
religion, books and counting-conjuring up
in each instance-new things.
The First Poets imagined names for plants,
animals, birds and creatures of the sea;
sang songs about them-wrote poems and hymns.
creating sentiment, vows and promises-
marriage ceremonies.
Poets invented the idea of the Idea, of kindness, and visions.
Poets invented hope and the future, love of the past, community.
Poets invented the rhythm of our lives.
Poets re-invent themselves and civilization each generation.
They peer into the gauzy dream and dream what is not yet;
they peer inside themselves
reaching in
with-drawing something new
from that which had not been
there
before.
The First Poets invent and re-invent civilization each generation.
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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What Her Crystal Ball Says
dark clouds hovering
on the hills of mid-March
and murky waters on the
rivers of the last days
of April,
a platoon of people
comes to your house
asking for rice and
fish bringing with
them their empty
bowls
five cows are thin
seven piglets die
and emaciated
black horses drink
on empty ponds
moses wearing his
rainbow colored coat
perspires under the
sun on a very windy
portion of the dessert
alone and still looking
where the oasis are.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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About The Winner
he was once the winner
and they listened to him
every word he says becomes
their new laws and he amazed
them with all his wits
and they all liked him
he made a name for himself
and for this
he forgot his real name
the one given by this mother
when he was born
and for that new name
he invented
all the stories about himself
how he was as a warrior who slayed
the dragon in their heads
how he saved the princess from the
clutches of the beast
how he built his castle in the clouds
where they can all be happy
and all his stories were recorded
as truths and
they all believed them
until finally
he lost his face
and hands and
he kept on looking
for all of these
in the sands of the desert
under the orange moon
and then one day he found
his pair of eyes
and opened it before all of them
he told the truth
that all his stories are lies
that he who is now making a speech before them
is no longer himself
he is a lie. and that is the truth.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Desert Poem
we should have
asked
how the cactus decided
to grow
all the thorns around its
body
its long term
relationship with the desert
and the sun
its covenant with
the moon and stars
and the oasis
its kindness with
the camels and secrets
with Bedouins
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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And What About Us Who Write Poems Every Minute Of The Day?
what words can we take pride in
these poems like our daily breaths
ordinary words we utter in ordinary
conversations we have
come breakfast come snack time
come lunch come dinner
the talks we have on the park
in the marketplaces of our ordinary days
unplanned, unscreened, unedited
ordinary words to ordinary occasions
an embarrassment, can these words be?
unscheming and devoid of meaning
the lines of the common places?
the dialogues of the fool and the unwise?
you do not have to mind
this is my journal, a record of nothing
but ramblings of my mind and there you are
carefully reading putting meaning where there was
really none
this poem of day to day, unwavering
trying to be but nothing, a mode of nothing but just
plain thinking
do you too have this kind of breathing?
tell me why you breathe, then?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Let's Leave The 'Poems' Without Metaphors
LET’S LEAVE THE ‘POEMS’ WITHOUT METAPHORS
Let’s leave the ‘poems’ without metaphors
Bare and stark and original
Quiet and sleeping and still
The soothing poems the calming poems
The poems that even in the middle of the night
Let us sleep.
Let’s leave the poems without metaphors
And go back to the simple words
And let them say all they can by themselves
Until they become metaphors too.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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