My Life
well folded clothes
in the closet
half-opening to
the marital bed
it is more of the
window not the door
more of the wing
not the claws
it is the bird
beside a pane
looking forward to
the best journey
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Rain Keeps Fallin
I remember the night so well.
The rain was fallin but I just couldnt tell,
If it was you that was callin to my love-sick brain.
But the rain kept fallin on my window pane.
Out of the night the thunder rang in my ear.
I cant fight the feelin, lord, that brings forth my fears.
I wish it was over, lord, please stop the rain.
The rain thats fallin on my window pane.
The rain thats fallin on my window pane.
Every night the rains on time, I can feel it in this heart of mine.
But I dont know what to do.
Well, I guess I could go back home, cause you know back home is where I belong.
But it just aint home without you.
And I dont know what to do, baby.
Well, I guess Im a looser but it just dont seem fair.
I lost all my life so tell me, why should I care?
The night that you left me is the night that it came.
And the rains still fallin on my window pane.
The rain keeps fallin on my window pane.
The rain keeps fallin on my window pane.
You know the rain.
The rain keeps fallin on my window pane.
I said the rain.
The rain keeps fallin on my window pane.
You know the rain.
The rain keeps fallin on my window pane.
I said the rain.
The rain keeps fallin on my window pane.
You know the rain ...
The rain keeps fallin on my window pane.
... keeps right on fallin.
The rain keeps fallin on my window pane.
I said, the rain keeps fallin ...
song performed by by Grand Funk Railroad
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Left After The Storm
love is the scar
left after the storm....
the light in the window
the falling branch broke,
the ashes drowned by rain
after the fire....
my hand on your breast,
the moment without words,
that hangs on the clock
like the hour never struck.
the sweet whiskey of your lips,
pressed tight, then yielding....
the leaves on the porch,
blown like a stranger to the door....
the box of pictures,
buried in the closet, .....
'neath old coats and goodwill
clothes, folded and wrinkled....
your legs wrapped around
a sudden strike of lightning....
the way you smell....
dressed in sleep!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Buddhist Lesson # 2
enlightment,
the act of opening,
like a rosebud,
like a mother,
opening the door...
like a child
opening a present,
like a woman
opening to a man....
opening...
all the hidden chambers,
every door to every
secret kingdom of the soul.....
opening the box that holds
your secret thoughts, desires....
opening...
the door of the cage,
letting the winged breath fly....
opening....
your heart to itself,
and to all hearts beating....
opening....
the vault of conceptions,
the entrance to the tomb
of past lives and memories....
opening...
your hands to the world
as if it were your neighbor,
and you, it's home!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Travelling
a travel is a metaphor of a journey
and a journey is always
what life is all about
arrivals and departures and i see it well
at airports
and well, so well, at pre-departures
then we move inside the plane and
the doors close and we are lifted to the skies
for hours you are beside the clouds
but you never have the courage to open the window
and touch each fine cotton beside you
crazy but sometimes i think that way
opening closed windows and think not of the
prohibitions and the consequencies,
there is so much silence up there and it is the mind
that does much of the talking and you listen
always for the reminders of the stewardess
and the captain telling you that
we are 30,000 feet above sea level and out there
you see Panay Island
we will be flying for one hour and a half
it is a fine day
and then the seat belt sign is on for the
turbulence but you do not mind
you look forward to an arrival and the another
opening of a door to a destination
touchdown, the plane lands perfectly as always
no plane crash, no headlines for the daily news
but i do not really think about these matters anymore
i am thinking of the silence. I am thinking about the mind that
keeps on talking. Data. Ideas. Sad memories.
Dead parents. Sick sibling. Flowers. Trees.
The sun brightly shining behind a
Thick Cumulus cloud.
the stewardess announces an arrival, fifteen minutes
earlier than scheduled. Fast plane. My thoughts unconsumed.
we step down. we take our bags. this journey never stops.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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About The Boy
the door was locked
and the boy has nowhere to go
except the closet filled with
clothes
the tongue of the devil came
and devoured them all
clothes and all
his screams faded like
sunset
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Bluejay Greeting and Old Cat Laughing
I. In the gray of the morning the bluejay is spring up and down on the branch of the old tree. Suddenly the bird dives towards the ground over and over. Startling my breakfast and making me wonder what’s happening under the window pane.
II. In the gloom I sit lonely with my love gone and the old cat off somewhere. Curiosity accompanies me out the door where I find a baby bluejay in the grass. The mother bird is screaming and diving towards the old cat keeping him at bay.
III. I grin with the old cat and laugh. The bluejay takes notice and comes at me. I quickly scoop up the old cat and retreat behind the door where the old cat and I grin at each other, then go about our day.
Life And Time
if life is a book, then time is pen--writing pages of life journey;
if life is a piece of white paper, then time is color--painting more colorful life journey;
if life is a long river, then time is surging waves--pushing forward of life journey;
if life is a tree, then time is pieces of green leaves--enriching life journey;
if life is a door, then time is just the key--opening new start of life journey;
if life is a cup of coffee, then time is a bag of condiments--flavoring into life journey;
if life is a scene of tv play, then time is nameless leading role in it--performing its own speical and unique life journey;
if life is a oil painting, then time is its palette--rendering life journey;
if life is a fast horse, then time is its running greenland--carrying load of life journey;
if life is a greenland, then time is spring rain--moisturing nutrition of life journey
...........
this is ur own life, a life which only belong to ur own, ur sepcial and unique one.......
poem by Flying Heart
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I Feel So Light Like A Fur, Like A Feather
i finish some things today. Missions ending in
like a report rated excellent. Self-steem. Steaming
self-worth because i am doing things right.
The vigor of vanity subsumed like a folded
cloth in the cabinet. White, so white like light
from the window pane. No chirping bird. No
banging of the door. No closed window.
Plain sky. Plain sun. Plain day.
My heart listens. My arms fold. My hands clasp.
I breathe a breastful of air from your scented body.
I love this way of finishing a relationship.
We make love and then without saying any word
We part ways.
No sadness. Just a relish of memories.
No regrets. Just a body of memories. Streams of thoughts.
Unbounded. Unblocked by what they want to say.
Who cares? We had it, and that was enough fuel to make us
Move to another direction. To propel us to heights beyond our control.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Dark
What will I do with a fountain
of time
my silence
is a well without a dropp of water
I can weep in the dark
weep and its silence will hear me
but it will close its eyes
it will not speak
the evening will tread on
quietly an old man
it will walk on without looking back
without seeing where its shadow
sleeps
and I can say wait where
are you going
and I can think of all the places I can think of
I can think of walls walls walls
of walls behind which anything lurks
I can lock myself
in a closet full of clothes not my size
fill my pockets with dust
or take off my clothes and imagine
my skin is ice
and I will be standing here
where I am standing stepping on moments
that sharpen into hours like thorns
into my feet
the wound in my heart is deep
the pain does not answer to any name
where is the door
the window the door
*reprinted from a friend
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Making Lvoe With Her Own Bed
you are just near me
but between us is a door
and between that door
is another door, and so
when you say a word
i have to figure out what
you really mean,
when i open the door
there is a glass wall and
i thought it was you
humming,
it is cold tonight
i am closing a window
out there
i see a black bird perched
upon a branch,
it is cold and i am shutting
myself for any
kind of significance like
what if the bird dies?
what if the bird is you
disguised as a bird?
tonight i cannot sleep
something bothers me
all these thoughts bother me
there is no note
that you are coming back
from that long trip
away from home
was it Sarah who said
that she is making love with her bed?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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When The Sun Comes Out
When the sun comes out
And that rain stops beatin on my window pane
When the sun comes out
Therell be bluebirds round my door, singin like they did before
That ol storm broke out
And my man/gal walked off and left me in the rain
Though hes/shes gone I doubt
If hell/shell stay away for good,Id stop livin if he/she should
Love is funny, its not always peaches, cream and honey
Just when everything looked bright and sunny
Suddenly the cyclone came, Ill never be the same
Til that sun comes out
And the rain stops beatin on my window pane
If my heart holds out
Let it rain and let it pour, it may not be long before
Theres a knockin at my door
Then youll know the one I love walked in
When the sun comes out
song performed by by Ella Fitzgerald
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Encounter
Stretched
on sun-warm carpet,
gazing out on fenced wilderness, she draws furred legs
to furthest extremity; claws extend and retract
as she clenches her
padded fist.
Then
in an instant she's on all fours,
back arched, whiskered mouth grimaced to
horrible grin as she growls and spits
into the gleaming window.
Looking back,
assured by double-pane,
the bird, all feather and fearless eye,
wonders at this new, strange
creature glaring inside.
poem by Steven Federle
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Window
I was staring out the window
The whole time he was talking to me
It was a filthy pane of glass
I couldn't get a clear view
As he went on and on
It wasn't the outside world I could see
Just the filthy pane that I was looking through
So I had to break the window
It just had to be
Better that I break the window
Than him or her or me
I was never focused on just one thing
My eyes got fixed when my mind got soft
It may looked like I'm concentrated on a very clear view
But I'm as good as asleep
I bet you didn't know
It takes a lot of it away if you do
So I had to break the window
It just had to be
Better that I break the window
Than him or her or me
So I had to break the window
It just had to be
Better that I break the window
Than him or her or me
Because the fact in fact
Whatevers in front of me is covering my view
So I can't see what I'm seeing in fact
I only see what I'm looking through
I had to break the window
It just had to be it was in my way
Better that I break the window
Then forget what I had to say
So again I've done the right thing
I was never worried about that
The answer's always been in clear view
But even when the window's clean
I still can't see for the fact
That when it's clean it's so clear
I cant tell what I'm looking through
So I had to break the window
It just had to be
Better that I break the window
Than him or her or me
I had to break the window
It just had to be it was in my way
Better that I break the window
Then forget what I had to say
I had to break the window
It was in my way
Better that I break a window
Then forget what I had to say
Or miss what I should see
Or breaking him or her or me
song performed by by Fiona Apple
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Closet
In the closet hung her dresses
and her shoes were on the floor.
She would not wear the dresses now
nor the shoes anymore.
He could not give her clothes away.
He smelled them everyday.
In the closet hung her robes
and nightgowns that were sheer.
She would not wear them in the nights,
her nights no longer here.
He could not give them all away.
He fingered them every day.
In the closet he felt close to her
and spoke in whispered word.
'I remember how you looked in these.'
He spoke as if she heard.
'I cannot give your clothes away.
They're all I have of you today.'
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Until You Come Back To Me
Though you don't call anymore
I sit and wait in vain
I guess I'll rap on your door
Tap on your window pane
I want to tell you baby
The changes I've been going through
Missing you, listen you
'till you come back to me
That's what I'm gonna do
Why did you have to decide
You had to set me free
I'm gonna swallow my pride
I'm gonna beg you to (please baby please) see me
I'm gonna walk by myself
Just to prove that my love is true
Oh, for you baby
'till you come back to me
That's what I'm gonna do
Living for you my dear
Is like living in a world of constant fear
In my plea, I've got to make you see
That our love is dying
Although your phone you ignore
Somehow I must explain
I'm gonna rap on your door
Tap on your window pane
I'm gonna camp on your step
Until I get through to you
I've got to change your view baby
'till you come back to me
That's what I'm gonna do
song performed by by Cyndi Lauper
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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L’Inconnue
Is thy name Mary, maiden fair?
Such should, methinks, its music be;
The sweetest name that mortals bear
Were best befitting thee;
And she to whom it once was given,
Was half of earth and half of heaven.
I hear thy voice, I see thy smile,
I look upon thy folded hair;
Ah! while we dream not they beguile,
Our hearts are in the snare;
And she who chains a wild bird's wing
Must start not if her captive sing.
So, lady, take the leaf that falls,
To all but thee unseen, unknown;
When evening shades thy silent walls,
Then read it all alone;
In stillness read, in darkness seal,
Forget, despise, but not reveal!
poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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Until You Come Back To Me
Though you don't call anymore
I sit and wait in vain
I guess I'll rap on your door
Tap on your window pane
I want to tell you Baby
The changes I've been going through
Missing you.
Listen you
'till you come back to me
That's what I'm gonna do
Why did you have to decide
You had to set me free
I'm gonna swallow my pride
I'm gonna beg you to (please baby please) see me
I'm gonna walk by meself
Just to prove that my love is true
Oh, for you baby
'till you come back to me
That's what I'm gonna do
Living for you my dear
Is like living in a world of constant fear
In my plea, I've got to make you see
That our love is dying
Although your phone you ignore
Somehow I must explain
I'm gonna rap on your door
Tap on your window pane
I'm gonna camp on your step
Until I get through to you
I've got to change your view baby
'till you come back to me
That's what I'm gonna do
song performed by by Stevie Wonder
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Sea-Bird's Song
On the deep is the mariner's danger,
On the deep is the mariner's death;
Who, to fear of the tempest a stranger,
Sees the last bubble burst of his breath?
'T is the sea-bird, sea-bird, sea-bird,
Lone looker on despair;
The sea-bird, sea-bird, sea-bird,
The only witness there.
Who watches their course, who so mildly
Careen to the kiss of the breeze?
Who lists to their shrieks, who so wildly
Are clasped in the arms of the seas?
'T is the sea-bird, &c.
Who hovers on high o'er the lover,
And her who has clung to his neck?
Whose wing is the wing that can cover,
With its shadow, the foundering wreck?
'T is the sea-bird, &c.
My eye in the light of the billow,
My wing on the wake of the wave;
I shall take to my breast for a pillow,
The shroud of the fair and the brave.
I'm a sea-bird, &c.
My foot on the iceberg has lighted,
When hoarse the wild winds veer about;
My eye, when the bark is benighted,
Sees the lamp of the Light-House go out.
I'm the sea-bird, sea-bird, sea-bird,
Lone looker on despair;
The sea-bird, sea-bird, sea-bird,
The only witness there.
poem by John Gardiner Calkins Brainard
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Wind And Window Flower
Lovers, forget your love,
And list to the love of these,
She a window flower,
And he a winter breeze.
When the frosty window veil
Was melted down at noon,
And the cagèd yellow bird
Hung over her in tune,
He marked her through the pane,
He could not help but mark,
And only passed her by,
To come again at dark.
He was a winter wind,
Concerned with ice and snow,
Dead weeds and unmated birds,
And little of love could know.
But he sighed upon the sill,
He gave the sash a shake,
As witness all within
Who lay that night awake.
Perchance he half prevailed
To win her for the flight
From the firelit looking-glass
And warm stove-window light.
But the flower leaned aside
And thought of naught to say,
And morning found the breeze
A hundred miles away.
poem by Robert Frost
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To a Young Poet
Time cannot break the bird's wing from the bird.
Bird and wing together
Go down, one feather.
No thing that ever flew,
Not the lark, not you,
Can die as others do.
poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay
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