Just Thoughts Early Morning
it is another morning
in the cancer of the tropics
the chickens jump from
the trees where they roost
for the night
the cocks faithfully crow
you can hear the cackling
as sounds of the day
later the motorcycles
ramble their engines on the
roads
of this small village
where i live
people dress themselves
for work
children go to school
with their colored bags
and tiny shoes
days are always usual
faithful to their routine
like a clockwork
like a machine
who wants to change it
and create a confusion?
no one dares
even death
takes a pattern
and so the days keep grinding
us with boredom
unless a terrorist comes with
a new bomb
shakes the world
and cause it more shock
so that new questions come
demanding for
more innovative solutions
who likes it that way?
no one.
we are like old rivers
old water taking the same path
to that same ancient sea
when we arrive there
there is no greeting
no welcome at all
just the usual fusion of
anonymity
and exhaustion and
the unburdening of that
load
some prepare for the big storm
and that is
something new
to entertain
this poem begs for meaning
again that is
a routine.
you ask it too
and it does not make any difference at all
you are as ancient in your question
as the snake in that myth
about Eden.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Related quotes
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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The School Days are near!
Same shrieking morning alarms,
Same morning fear!
The school days are near, The school days are near!
Sleeping in the bathroom,
From out, Mom shouts, '' DO YOU EVEN HEAR? ''
The school days are near, The school days are near!
So drowsy I am,
Confused, don't know what to wear!
The school days are near, The school days are near!
And entered into the school,
Murmuring silently, '' Oh dear! Oh dear! ''
The school days are near, the school days are near!
And if the first period is Maths,
Not again those equations linear! !
The school days are near, the school days are near!
A look at the load of books,
From the corner of my eye drops a tear!
The school days are near, the school days are near!
Gosh! When will vacations come?
We'll have to wait an year!
The school days are near, the school days are near!
Hoping when we go,
We'll find joy, sheer!
The school days are near, The school days are near! ! : D
poem by HudaM DeGratePoet
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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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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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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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Hen laid eggs
Hen laid an eggs, between legs two,
No small, no big but not in zoo,
Ran after those who made slight dig,
Dog, cat and crow planned very big,
Hen laid eggs……
Hen becomes heroin when find egg,
With big noise run after with one leg,
Even scare pig and allow near no body,
How to protect eggs that is only worry?
Hen laid eggs……
Make no fun when she may have kitten,
Beautiful scene seen when run in garden,
Children love to see and catch with fun,
Prefer little kitten and make gentle run,
Hen laid eggs……
Small kids ask, what will be her task?
How to protect them, by putting a mask?
Often they look at them and draw on page,
night take them all to stay in simple cage,
hen laid eggs……
Papa and mummy, where from kittens came?
Who laid an eggs and how she played game?
Simply they observe and ask funny questions
Why kitten become cock and not small hen?
Hen laid eggs....
What a lovely fun? I couldn’t answer one?
It was more confusing than work undone?
Answered few more questions but not in full,
Avoided by telling you may get it from school
Hen laid eggs.....
How to answer questions? When faced many?
Simple they may look but nature seems funny,
better not answer question any more,
It may not be ending but more and feel bore,
Hen laid eggs......
It is not the hen but cock steals show,
People get irritation when shouts crow,
Kittens and children happy and steadily grow,
Cock serve as alarm when mighty voice blow
Hen laid eggs......
Cocks find preference and first depart,
When runs after hen even looks smart,
Hen not resist when cock’s teasing start,
But end days near when both ways part,
Hen laid eggs......
Story may be funny and more amusing,
Cock and hen story more interest arousing,
Their fight may be limited only for refusing,
Alas! We could learn more and stop abusing,
Hen laid eggs......
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Habit
this is by force of habit
that my fingers
caress the keys
to make
another poem
for the day,
nothing is really
significant,
nothing to give
us power,
it is like
brushing my teeth,
washing my hands,
gargling vinegar with salt,
defecating,
putting my brief
and shorts,
straightening my collar,
inserting my shirt
locking my belt,
combing my hair,
going to the office,
you try going further
than all these,
sorry, there is nothing here
but just routine,
plain typing, and reporting,
stating
and even
by force of habit
without thinking
i said, keep doing
what you do with your life,
do not follow me,
there is nothing
important about this,
this is routine,
the usual path,
where everyone passes
and goes and enters
and exits and
exits and enters
all over again
until death surprises
you no more,
comes like
plain closing and opening
of the office door.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Thoughts After Sex
after sex
people sleep
that is the
usual exit that
people who want
to escape seem
to know and do
they sleep
the routine keeps
going like
house, office,
office, house
roads, doors
doors, road
after sex
the usual exit
is closed
you look at the
ceiling trying to
open another
door
but there isn't
any.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Technocratic Manipulators
I've passed the entry of the system
They taught me with an anthem
It seems like I'm one of them
A kind of people I can't describe
They got a number between their eyes
Identity has been commanded
Subconscious has recorded
The orders from the big head
I'm now a part of this machine
Supervised by the telescreen
That's not for me, too much for me
That's all for me
And they're going nowhere
To find better somewhere
But can't get out of there
During the night my soul is hearing
Usual advertising
Message that I'm still learning
One thousand times it's a routine
Should be enough to fall asleep
That's not for me, too much for me
That's all for me
And they're going nowhere
To find better somewhere
But can't get out of there
Is it the same message
For the preconceived children ?
Let me know, before I go...
Death of their liberty
Feeds the supremacy
Under hypnosis I take a walk
Controlled people have to stop
Robotic voice starts to talk
Why we must be listening
I think we all had the same dreams
And they're going nowhere
To find better somewhere
But can't get out of there
I'd rather think
But there's something strong
I'd rather think
But there's something wrong
I'd rather think (6)
I'd rather think
Coz my mind despairs
I'd rather think
Coz I can't live there
I'd rather think...think
song performed by by Voivod
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Tower
I've passed the entry of the system
They taught me with an anthem
It seems like I'm one of them
A kind of people I can't describe
They got a number between their eyes
Identity has been commanded
Subconscious has recorded
The orders from the big head
I'm now a part of this machine
Supervised by the telescreen
That's not for me, too much for me
That's all for me
And they're going nowhere
To find better somewhere
But can't get out of there
During the night my soul is hearing
Usual advertising
Message that I'm still learning
One thousand times it's a routine
Should be enough to fall asleep
That's not for me, too much for me
That's all for me
And they're going nowhere
To find better somewhere
But can't get out of there
Is it the same message
For the preconceived children ?
Let me know, before I go...
Death of their liberty
Feeds the supremacy
Under hypnosis I take a walk
Controlled people have to stop
Robotic voice starts to talk
Why we must be listening
I think we all had the same dreams
And they're going nowhere
To find better somewhere
But can't get out of there
I'd rather think
But there's something strong
I'd rather think
But there's something wrong
I'd rather think (6)
I'd rather think
Coz my mind despairs
I'd rather think
Coz I can't live there
I'd rather think...think !
song performed by by Voivod
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Waking Up Too Early One Morning
when i wake up today
too early this morning
when the cocks still crow
and the lizards still make the usual sound
as though saying
this world is okay yet my heart still
beats this ticking clock of
pain longing for love this thing that until now
i do not really understand
we had sex last night and we slept
and had our own sweet dreams
in fantasy land
there is still this emptiness that carries me back to you
and i ask: Who are you? Are you God?
Is it you?
There is this loneliness despite
the sunshine and the little rain of hope
that trickles like a caress of thin air
so cool in the garden out there
There is this doubt about the source of the voices
from within
this conscience which has a mouth and knows
how to speak the language
of truth
Have i forgotten you? Have you forgotten me?
Such questions
shall be my breakfast for this morning.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Facebooking
had the chance of meeting Kaye
still at the agriculture department
no promotion yet happy
nothing new really except
this meeting
me too, nothing new, except
this conversation
of who what where when
then we stop
as it is time to go
the office closes at five pm
and we have to find
our way home
it will be dark
and there will be dinner with the family
then we watch tv
after being tired we turn it off
sleep
then dream and then we wake up
early the next morning
back to work
such routine such boredom
yet we still like to live more days
this is life perhaps
nothing new except
the meetings of old friends
then back to work again
i know you are bored reading this
precisely, precisely, now you must feel the same too
at least
in this boring poem
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Old Couple
old couple taking a walk
around an oval
slow steps
story filled
post retirement commitment
to be with each other
rain or shine
they hold hands
with the sunrise as their witness
a middle aged woman with
sagging breast
jogs past them taking the speed
of the morning rush
the wind here is not really cold
soon it will be dusty as usual in the tropics of Cancer
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Don't Ever Think That I Write Good Poems For You
all these
are but exercises
like a morning walk
at the oval
of the university
i am a man with
no ambition for the
nobel prize in
literature
you're funny
come to think of it
what i write
are not poems
not pieces
for a poetry contest
these are
scribblings of
a trying-hard
expressions of my
day
away from the usual
routine of the
hammering days
black robes
and frozen faces
do not be
offended if i
misspell some
words
no harm intended
i do not edit
my work neither will
i ask your kindness
to do it for me
it is like this:
i put on some notes
for the day
random thoughts
nothing schemed
no arrangements
nothing planned
pure streams of
consciousness
my fingers follow
and press the
letters on this
screen
and some by
their misjudgments
say: what a poem!
i don't even know
what they mean.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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For The Rest Of My Life
for the rest of my life
i will take the same routine
home, office, school,
home office, school,
a straight life confined
in a certain space
too confined and too
tight for my soul
and too boring
for my body
home, office, school,
school, home, office,
you ask me if there is
something wrong with
my life? there is nothing
right in it, everything has
always been wrong
and everyday has always
been an attempt to correct
it, but nothing
nothing has fit into it
to cut the routine to
break me from the
chains of everyday
nothing comes and nothing
goes, i think, that is how
it is meant to be,
i think, i simply have
to imagine, make some
figments of stars, and moon
and sun and mountains
and seas and valleys
and castles and princesses
and kings and queens
and too they become routine
too, some poems and stories
some people that do not
actually exist, some imaginary
earth, imaginary creatures
they are all here, in this routine
of imaginations, of poetics
of illusions and allusions,
these lines, my life, these routine
and all my excuses, you and I.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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What Today Brings
In the dawning of the day
With my coffee in hand and
My son at play
I glance at the neatly laid trees
Still after mornings breeze
What will my day be like
After rains jar my senses and
The lightning strikes
Calm laying down the puddles
And child climbing up to cuddle
Dishes washed brings hope
Same with an early stable routine
For me to cope
Steps begin with our usual waking
Java lightens chaos in the making
Still stands my question
What will the day have in store
During its session
Each turn keeps shifting forward
All the answers that I move toward
By Ruth L. Rivers
July 23,2009
poem by Ruth L. Rivers
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Same Ending...
stories about the lives
of people
i've read them
throughout the night
after work
i hear no footsteps now
on the road
where this window
faces
the trees are as still
as a picture
of trees in colored
books
it is still the usual
sameness of
things arranged
every day and
night
a dog sits
beside my feet with
my brown socks still on
fitting themselves
on yellow
rubber slippers
it is the same ending
composing a
poem like this one
that you are reading
there is no option to
be unique
or different or
outstanding
so you can notice
what i am
not or what can i
be in the
next few minutes
i have no other ambition
but to take another
sound sleep
tonight and so
we have to part ways
again
it is my night now
as another morning in
you begins
to unfold like an umbrella
that you have to take
because you have
conceived another
rain...
well, rain is a good
beginning
as a sound sleep that
visits a very tired man
makes a good
same ending.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Ancient Of Days
Saw you shining in the sun this morning
Saw you shining in the moon at night
Saw you shining in the sun this morning
Saw vou shining in the moon at night
Ancient of days, ancient of days, ancient of day a a a ays.
Saw you standing by the winding river
Saw you standing by the shining stream
Saw you standing by the winding river
Saw you standing bv the shining stream
Ancient of days, ancient of days, ancient of day a a a ays
Felt you stirring in my heart this morning
Felt you moving in my heart at night
Felt you stirring in my heart this morning
Felt you moving in my heart at night
Ancient of days, ancient of days, ancient of day a a a ays
Saw you shining in the sun this morning
Saw you shining in the starry night
Saw you shining in the sun this morning
Saw you shining in the starry night
Ancient of days, ancient of days, ancient of day a a a ays
song performed by by Van Morrison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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There Lies The Difference
there is no difference
between us
when we went down
the stairs
of the night flight
our bags are black
eyes sleepy on that
unholy hour
the difference lies
at the meeting area
he is met with his
wife carrying a baby girl
soundly asleep
i hurried myself
to the yellow cab
the driver is asking
me the usual question
where to, sir?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Poem from Deserted Land
Same usual young morning
Same usual old winter’s step
As I hope, let the dark night moon
Left on the sky dying
Looking back I have walked
There’s uncountable footprint
Don’t know what I should
I look to the right, to the left, and to the front
Then I watch the feet, snow melted on my heel
On the sky gray snow cloud flying by,
between spring fog and storm
Seeing that sparkling crystal you hear, don't you?
My poem from deserted place
poem by Maria Sudibyo
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