Making Our Own Space
this morning i wake up late
i see misplaced things
lots of it, like dirty clothes
on the floor
unwashed dishes on the sink
blankets unfolded
pillow cases removed from
their pillows
unzipped pants
missing underwear
tumbled glass
spilled milk on the table
dogs waiting to be bathed and feed
i stand up to get my empty plate
take three spoonfuls of steam rice
and two pieces of fish
a cup of coffee and i go out of the house
sit on a bench under a tree
sunshine above me and air breezing on my chest
i eat alone
and something's good is growing inside me
i love it this way
my own space of peace
amidst disorder
my capacity to choose
what i do
despite the negligence of
others around me
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
A Breakfast That We Cannot Eat Together
this is the breakfast that we cannot eat together a fish fried in an oil
with so much heat, like ' who cares? ' a rice not well cooked which says ' it is the maid again! ' a coffee which has gone cold which says ' you come late again! ' a egg which is not sunny side up a ham that does not roll a dirty table with an unwashed table cloth which says 'change it yourself! '
how can i eat all these?
i am late for the office and i have to go.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Of Cottons And Feathers
cottons are found
on the floor
feathers on the table
from the window
the wind blows and carries them
inside
the bed is well kept
blankets carefully folded
and pillows removed
of creases
something inside me is as light
as cottons and feathers
something inside me is well folded now
like blankets
something in my heart are pillows
removed of
any crease
i triumphed i did it
now i can soundly sleep
as the wind from the window
blows me
into the land of dreams
where i can be
nothing but
just the spectator
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Learning To Love All The Mess
three plates remain unwashed
last night the cockroaches feast on the remains
of pork oil and morsels of rice
and bread
the dining chairs are not in place
looking like twigs in the park
after a storm
the table is littered with spilled sauce
the table cloth is stained
alcoholic
and the spoons and forks are still
having catchup on their tongues
and tails
the floor is foul with your dog's urine
and socks and shoes are roaming on the
living room
you guess it right
the universe is a big chaos
and so is this house
which is out of order
like a sink with leaking faucets
you want all your life to be in order
you wish a smooth and tidy place
vested with its own system
name-tagged and cabinetized
pieces
but it simply is not just
the way things work out
your dreams are silly
chaos and pandemonium are the orders of the
days of our lives
and so here i am with this firm resolve
to the flexibility of adaptability
for my survival
since disorder is the law
so must i obey it
to perfect my life and to put order
to my dreams and
properly accept this world's disposition
so must i
love chaos as well
go with the random flow of pandemonium
enjoy the errors
love the mistakes
and i swear to myself
beginning this ruinous day
that i,
wholeheartedly
must love all these mess
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Upon A Day Of Reckoning
it is always i
who cleans the table from
morsels
who throws away the trash
of what is unconsumed from
the kettle
it is always i
who wipes the spilled milk
on the floor
who takes all the shit
on the sink
who kills all the bedbugs
on the pillow
it is always i
and on the day of reckoning
the table and chairs will be smooth
and glossy
the windows look to the other side without blinking
the door shall be mute forever
the hinges and frames all numb
on the last slamming.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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What Papa Do Not Like To See...
a jar on an edge that with a slight push
falls and breaks into pieces,
a sparrow's egg on its nest between the twigs
of the guava tree
a coke bottle put inside the freezer (for he
knows that it will crack, and he does not like to
see broken glass and spilled colored water
inside the frozen floor)
a watermelon on the table with all the possibilities
that it will roll and crush itself on the kitchen floor
a little boy in the middle of the road's curve and there
is a high speeding bus coming...
my papa is not weird after all.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Sunday Morning
Sunday morning silence, curtain stay closed late
No one thinks of kitchens mornings in a filthy state
Dishes cups and beer stains, ashtrays on the floor
Sunday morning papers are left outside the front door
Sunday school and sunday roast
Sunday papers sunday post
Sunday morning sunday rest
Sunday sermon sunday best
(sunday, bloody sunday rest)
Glass of fizzy water helps to start the day
Sit and listen to sunday silence, problems fade away
Sunday cars and drivers break the morning air
Uncollected milk outside reveals theres no one there
Sunday school and sunday roast
Sunday papers sunday post
Sunday morning sunday rest
Sunday sermon sunday best
Sunday school and sunday roast
Sunday papers sunday post
Sunday morning sunday rest
Sunday sermon sunday best
Bathrobes hang in waiting, windows steaming up
Somewhere in the sink downstairs lies an unwashed cup
Tea and toast for breakfast clear away the plates
Wash-up prepare for cooking sunday lunch awaits
Sunday lunch awaits
Sunday lunch awaits
song performed by by Madness
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Lucky Me
(toby keith/ron reynolds)
I can leave my dirty laundry lyin anywhere
If I dont make my bed its alright, no one ever goes in there
I can fall asleep on the couch and leave the tv on
cause Ive got the whole place to myself
Now that all her things are gone
Lucky me, Ive got room to breathe
With her out of my way, Im not crowded anymore
And finally, Ive got all the space I need to walk the floor
Lucky me
Now Ive got last weeks dishes still piled up in the sink
And lots of time here on my hands to sit around and think
Im better off in this house alone, its a blessing in disguise
And her leavin came along, I know
Right at the perfect time
Lucky me, Ive got room to breathe
With her out of my way, Im not crowded anymore
And finally, Ive got all the space I need to walk the floor
Lucky me
That sure was a close call, someone could have been hurt
Yeah, she could be missin me but thats not what Ive heard and
Lucky me, Ive got room to breathe
With her out of my way, Im not crowded anymore
And finally, Ive got all the space I need to walk the floor
Lucky me
Lucky me, Ive got all the space I need
Lucky me, Ive got room to breathe
Lucky me
song performed by by Toby Keith
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Symptoms Of A Loser
blurring visions
that see tired tigers
retreating inside a cave
away from humanity,
cracking bones
shouting for repair,
falling hair
lots of locks on the
pillow that early morning
when there is no feeling
of waking up,
a mouth that is shut
munching words
and swallowing pride,
a heart that no longer
weeps,
hands that reside
inside the pocket,
feet that refuse to
take another mile
of tolerance,
poems growing
like molds on
left-over bread
a cockroach proclaiming
victory over
unwashed coffee mugs.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Dinner In The House....
a plate falls from the table
hits the tiled floor and breaks into pieces
a woman is caught in utter surprise
and breaks into a hysterical
line but soon
realizes that this is nothing but an
accident of its
kind
about an ordinary plate
on the dining table
she regains her poise
keeps her composure and
retains her
feminine reservation,
'it is just a plate',
(it is not
a relationship)
i assure the guests of the house
and then all begins again
upon a witty conversation,
an exchange of
state-of-affairs
some on a cheek to cheek basis
a tee-a-tee
a peek-a-boo
a little laughter here and
another one dashing
over there
the children are out of the house
playing
some men are smoking
to the moon
it is not just a plate,
there is more to this
breaking
it is a symbol of something greater than those
broken pieces
if they only know
someone is talking to oneself.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Voices Within
the voices within
are artful
they do not just come out
in any microphones
they are choosy
they look for one as
sensitive as you
as careful
as gentle
as crafty,
they ask if you have a
menagerie of words
a place where they can be filtered
into stanzas of beauty
and you assure them
you are a studious man
learned of the art of
expression and that you will not fail them
of their message
you tell them you are not color blind
that your sense of smell is
not destroyed by
the foul smells of this nook
your room that
becomes the stock of dirty clothes
and underwear
unwashed for weeks
your empty coffee mugs
your dirty linens spread on the
dusty floors
your twisted window frames
your urine persistent
you smile at them that all things
are simply manageable
and that they will not regret the
consistent efforts of a man
worshiping
transshipping extrapolating
tons of words
into another understandable
language of the
island
they smile
and then you are taken.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Let Them Be
let the shoes come and accommodate your feet
and the gloves your hands
and your shirt and pants let them all come near you
and wear your body
let all of them come
let them be let them be
let them have you
the shoes will take you to the door of the house
the home you are longing
the stairs meet you
and the windows open like eyes looking out to another face
the floors and ceiling give you a space
where you can sit with the chair
that opens its arms
a glass serves you milk
or orange juice, tell it what you want
to quench your thirst
a saucer, a plate, a spoon and fork
they all come before your hands
some muffins and jelly
they all come before your mouth
they all come to feed your hunger
this is your home now.
Destiny is waiting.
You do not do a thing.
They all do it for you.
There is no worry.
Destiny does it for you.You see.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Window Left Open...
the vase fell to the floor,
and shattered into tiny pieces.
the broom in the corner wept.
the box in the closet drew breath sharply,
the book on the shelf turned away.
the bulb in the lamp burned out.
the spider packed up its web and left.
the empty nest fell from the tree.
rainwater gushed from the gutters.
the young boy locked in his room
crawled out the window.
the neighbor's dog barked...
god gathered her clothes,
and put on her shoes.
while warships sailed for another land.
drones killed three women on the way to market,
another baby died without having lived.
another factory shut down,
another church burned to the ground,
so many things said and unsaid.
another chapter, another book unread.
things are not what they seem.
another war on pillows fought by silence,
another day in a land untouched.
old trees pray for lightning,
old dogs wait without fear.
old photographs turn yellow and fade.
old men empty their pockets and die.
even Jesus couldnt wait this long....
they say the good die young.
the thief in the garden steals roses,
that he gives to a girl wearing glasses.
while passion weeps waiting for snow.
and leaves prepare to fall...
the vase fell to the floor,
and shattered into tiny pieces...
the moth flew through a window left open!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Housework
Wave goodbye from out of the window
Good-no trouble starting the car
Time for just one more cup of coffee
You know the housework won't wait
Where to start now? - time to get going
The housework keeps you feeling alive
Clear the plates and wash up the dishes
RRR! - Let's go - now the bedroom
Make the bed and fluff up the pillows
The housework makes you happy
Shake the rug and open the windows
The housework keeps you feeling alive
Close the drawers and tidy the closet
The housework keeps you going
Throw the dirty clothes in the hamper
RRR! - Let's go - looking better
RRR! - Let's go - get the vacuum
Round the carpets under the table
The housework makes you happy
Dust the shelves and polish the glass-ware
The housework keeps you feeling alive
Make some lunch and take out the garbage
The housework keeps you going
Pay the bills and get the dry-cleaning
RRR! - Let's go - time for shopping
Bread and milk and plenty of groceries
The housework makes you happy
Get some cash out of the dispenser
The housework keeps you feeling alive
Don't forget to stock up the freezer
The housework keeps you going
Get some wine for later this evening
Home by five! - how the kitchen
RRR! - Let's go - make the dinner
Get the roast into the oven
The housework makes you happy
Peel the veg and then set the table
The housework keeps you feeling alive
Freshen up and put on some music
The housework got your dancing
Light the candles - there goes the doorbell
RRR! - she's home - perfect timing!
Welcome back, dear - how did your day go?
The housework's nearly over
How about
song performed by by Robert Palmer
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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In Times Of Depression
failure. defeat. setting sun.
dark nights. Bar escapades.
lost hopes. Excitements gone.
feeling like a dead log floating on the river.
silence. Conversations that do not mean anything at all.
dogs howling. Cat naps.
furs left on the sofa. Carpets and dusts
and some bites from mosquitoes
that find themselves
whisking inside this room.
ticks and tic tac toes of boredom.
book waiting to be read. Bookmarks and ears.
sitting on a bench. Sunshine falling on your hair.
warmth spreading inside your armpits.
lips wetting. Saliva on the tongue.
Air getting inside your nostrils.
a bubble of air inside your lungs.
a word shaping inside your mouth. You want to speak.
you choose the mute mode of your life.
You switch on to hibernation.
some leaves fall. The wind arrives. Some flowers
bloom. The bees beginning busy.
Some butterflies. Blue and Yellow lights.
Grass as green as ever with dew on their tips.
There is no depression. There may be denial.
When pain is so much. Try these little things.
inside your mind, there is fullness of thoughts.
Tiny butterfly wings. Shiny wings of beetles.
Aroma of coffee. Scents of roses. Red roses.
Beach bench. Under a tree. Time stops to run here.
You are here. You are not waiting for anybody.
Time runs. But there is no watch to tell you about anything.
Then you think you have something to write about.
It is about this. Welcome.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Eternity, And Such...
eternity, and such...
the stain in the coffee cup,
the holes in the old man's underwear.
the rough tongue of a stray cat,
the shadow moving in the alley.
the trail left by the snail,
paper cups blown by the wind.
the blood left on the highway,
the dog dead in the ditch.
the glass shattered on the floor,
the stink of the body
three days after...
the limb torn from the tree
by the memory of storm.
your pillow, my hat,
a shot of brandy in an empty room.
the sound the heart makes...
when no one can hear!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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We Are Afraid To Ever Tell This Story
we are here upon a page of a book
like ears, marking a restful minute since the eyes are aching,
we are in this room of a space filled in the order of words
systematically placed by a careful writer whose reputation is respected by all
his colleagues at the university,
we are wary, aching ears, rough skinned faces,
drooping eyes, lousy hands, hanging feet,
the chairs at the other northeastern part of this room are restless
but cannot speak what they feel
and they cannot be stopped
as they start running towards the balcony jumping into the ground floor
of this very silent nook
the table starts an exhibition of a circus act
tumbles like an acrobat and shouts to the wall and the ceiling that it can fly
like a winged fish that no one has ever seen
the ceiling fan loosens its neck and falls to the ground screaming
the pillow cases escape from their pillows saying it is all over now
the carpet rolls upon itself like a man rolling its sleeves now ready for a fistful of bouts
it is midnight and the light bulbs are blinking like an ambulance
there is an emergency but everyone in the house is asleep
and must not be disturbed
we are afraid we are witness to this unruly behavior of things that should not
move or scream or tumble or run or jump or brag about some imagined wings
we are very silent and the following morning when they all wake up
we keep our mouth shut afraid that they will call us crazy
or if not, paranoid because the whole night we guarded the house
and never for once close our eyes and taste the sweetness of sound sleep
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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More Time Baby
As I put you in ur cot
please go to sleep if you are not
to hours sleep is all I need
to do some housework & have a feed.
Washing on & dishes done,
Enjoy your sleep little one
I’ll vacuum now & do some dusting
This house is really quite disgusting
If you’ll sleep a little more I should be able to mop the floor.
Now the house is clean & tidy It’s... time to get some food inside me
It is now that you awake I guess that sandwich can stay on the plate
poem by Karen Heeney
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Youre Missing
Shirts in the closet, shoes in the hall
Mamas in the kitchen, baby and all
Everything is everything
Everything is everything
But youre missing
Coffee cups on the counter, jackets on the chair
Papers on the doorstep, but youre not there
Everything is everything
Everything is everything
But youre missing
Pictures on the nightstand, tvs on in the den
Your house is waiting, your house is waiting
For you to walk in, for you to walk in
But youre missing, when I shut out the lights
Youre missing, when I close my eyes
Youre missing, when I see the sun rise
Youre missing
Children are asking if its alright
Will you be in our arms tonight?
Morning is morning, the evening falls I got
Too much room in my bed, to many phone calls
Hows everything, everything?
Everything, everything
Youre missing, youre missing
Gods drifting in heaven, devils in the mailbox
I got dust on my shoes, nothing but teardrops
song performed by by Bruce Springsteen
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Artists.....
the role of a true artist
is to put order to the messy state of things
chopped lines are interconnected again
colors are categorized to a harmonious blending
a room of scattered old and dirty clothes
bedsheets in disarray
pillows on the floor
paper scratches and pens and ink spilled
the artist picks them all up
and puts them properly back to the places
where they must be
for at the beginning there was an order of perfection
but then this universe bangs itself against a black space of a wall
and goes into an accelerated entropy
a scattering, a chaos pursuing upon another chaos
expanding litters of planets and stars
and God the Artist gathers them all into One
Harmony, the Silenced Storm, the Wellness and Wholeness
of These All
We are all these Artists, God's Children looking for Peace.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Some Lives Are Destined To Be Wasted
it has become my habit lately
to sleep late at night
and wake up late
breakfast is forgotten
and lunch sometimes is set aside
lack of appetite
the absence of life
the blankets unfolded
the windows unopened
the darkness kept like a cold that does not leave me
like a flu
this fever that makes living inconvenient
yet providing all the reasons
for not being part of everything in the family
that i hate to relate with
i have broken drinking glasses
on clumsy hands
sleepy moods
ups and downs of my life
downs mostly
this desperation that keeps on staying
in my room
i turn off everything
i want mostly those associated with endings
a glass of milk
that my puppy drinks
hotdogs cold and greasy
i cannot eat them today
my polo shirt is ready
my pants well ironed
some calls from the office
on an emergency conference
i am sick i have aches all over my body
they say i need a doctor
or i need love i must have a lover
and change them as often as i change
the cover on the chair
you guess it right
some lives are destined to be wasted
i am having mine
and i am ready with this garbage can
in a minute
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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