Not A Monotony
the sounds of monotony are
daily and
routinized like the waves of the sea
of the same height
and frequency,
until one day
something unexpected happens
like
many drowned
so many children buried in the mud and
mothers are crying on the streets
not for help anymore but
for a chain of griefs
there is a scream and this is not monotonous
it stabs our hearts
and makes us ponder
deaths can never be monotonous
our own death in the future
unique and unimaginable and we shudder
it is this nerve that has no ending
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Desert Tree
Starving for water,
Shade an unimaginable luxury,
Surviving blistering heat,
The soul quickly perishing.
Infertile soil is my foundation,
Once nature's prosperous womb,
I am her only child now,
Isolated against this monotonous hell.
Starving for attention,
Contact an unimaginable luxury,
Surviving every lonely day,
The soul quickly perishing.
Cold concrete is my foundation,
Once a path to pass,
I sleep upon her now,
Isolated against this monotonous hell.
Wishing And Willing..
When the baby kicks in the womb,
A few parents touch to have the kick,
Most mothers excited, while the fathers too,
A few miss this opportunity as not bothered to,
The crying of the babies never fails to wake up,
The loving hearts of the mother and father,
The crying of the mothers never fails to shaken up,
The young hearts of children, who see the rift,
Hearts of children love their mother,
As it listened to her beats day and night,
Hearts of children are attracted to the mother,
As she is the one, who listens to their blabber,
The crying of babies never fails to wake up the mother,
The crying of mothers never fails to shaken up the children.
poem by Veeraiyah Subbulakshmi
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Monotony
One monotonous day is followed
by another monotonous, identical day. The same
things will happen, they will happen again --
the same moments find us and leave us.
A month passes and ushers in another month.
One easily guesses the coming events;
they are the boring ones of yesterday.
And the morrow ends up not resembling a morrow anymore.
poem by Constantine P. Cavafy
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This Is Only The Beginning
when steps proceed to
another journey making marks on the shore
the sands are not without understanding
what is happening to the waves
and the pebbles
the waves arrive on an infinite
folding and unfolding
on such a monotonous acrobatic
of foam and air
and hush and push
coming back and going away
i have the courage to say
well, what could all these be
but always beginnings...i have not seen
any ending at all, where?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Oasis
God continues to bless me abundantly.
For me to pour salt
On the wounds of those
Still reeling from their misdeeds
Would not be advantageous for me!
Although I am tempted...
Don't get me wrong!
But to sing songs of praises,
Is a lot less stressful,
Than the monotonous blues...
Heard 'crying' from those folks,
On a daily basis!
Maybe that's what they've chosen to do,
To uncover their own oasis?
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Love Sonnets Of Proteus. Part II: To Juliet: XXXIV
THE SAME CONTINUED
Yes, Spring is come, but joy alas is gone,--
Gone ere we knew it, while our foolish eyes,
Which should have watched its motions every one
Were looking elsewhere, at the hills, the skies,
Chasing vain thoughts, as children butterflies,
Until the hour struck and the day was done,
And we looked up in passionate surprise
To find that clouds had blotted out our sun.
Our joys are gone. And what is left to us,
Who loved not even love when it was here?
What but a voice which sobs monotonous
As these sad waves upon the rocks, the dear
Fond voice which once made music with our own,
And which our hearts now ache to think upon.
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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I liked New York when it was an up-and-down city for me, low streets and high buildings. But then, for me, it grew horizontal-monotonous.
Jasper Johns in Newsweek (24 October 1977)
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Children Of The Street
Children of the streets
If I could put into words what I think and feel
It would be a never ending story, and I would not heal.
So I will write just what’s on my mind today.
For that won’t take too much away.
I’m thinking of all the children of the world
Who don’t have a roof above their head
Not even a soft tender bed.
Their beds are just papers thrown on the ground
They cry to themselves without making a sound.
The pain in their hearts no one can feel
They survive in the streets and learn how to steal.
Abandoned by the ones who brought them into this world
Is this the life for any boy or girl.
No food for them to eat, a candy bar is a treat.
No clean water for which to bathe
Now that is a crying shame.
These abandoned children, create abandoned children
for they know no other way.
And for their safety to the LORD I do pray
poem by Louis Rams
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When I Fly
I really feel it’s a pity
I have to live in a city.
I feel a sense of unrest
And discontent.
The sensory distractions,
So called attractions
Cause a feeling of fatigue
And a sense of ennui.
When I fly so high
I hear myself sigh,
And the white clouds drifting by
In the azure sky
Fill me with peace.
And put my frayed nerves at ease.
With my eyes glued to the outside view,
And distractions a few,
I forget I am in a plane.
After long i feel sane.
The clear blue and white
At 38000ft height,
Away from the monotonous daily grind
Is just what I needed to declutter my mind.
Though there are people around
But i am blissfully unaware of all the sounds.
I wish I could alight
And join the clouds in their flight.
poem by Mamta Agarwal
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You are what you do. If you do boring, stupid monotonous work, chances are you'll end up boring, stupid and monotonous. Work is a much better explanation for the creeping cretinization all around us than even such significant moronizing mechanisms as television and education. People who are regimented all their lives, handed off to work from school and bracketed by the family in the beginning and the nursing home at the end, are habituated to hierarchy and psychologically enslaved. Their aptitude for autonomy is so atrophied that their fear of freedom is among their few rationally grounded phobias.
quote by Bob Black
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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To Speak of Woe That Is in Marriage
"It is the future generation that presses into being by means of
these exuberant feelings and supersensible soap bubbles of ours."
- Schopenhauer
"The hot night makes us keep our bedroom windows open.
Our magnolia blossoms. Life begins to happen.
My hopped up husband drops his home disputes,
and hits the streets to cruise for prostitutes,
free-lancing out along the razor's edge.
This screwball might kill his wife, then take the pledge.
Oh the monotonous meanness of his lust. . .
It's the injustice . . . he is so unjust--
whiskey-blind, swaggering home at five.
My only thought is how to keep alive.
What makes him tick? Each night now I tie
ten dollars and his car key to my thigh. . . .
Gored by the climacteric of his want,
he stalls above me like an elephant."
poem by Robert Lowell
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Feigned Passion (in A Pornographic Movie For Pay)
passion is
feigned and when it
is
done so
the sounds of moaning
in monotonous
dishonesty
it is
a repetition of
two same syllables
all likened
to the rubbing of
two dry leaves
on a very dry
summer
i listen carefully
no vowel is
truthfully spoken
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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In The Midst Of War
in the midst of war with bodies lying on the ground
walks a band of children-their families can't be found
searching through the rubble of homes that used to be
looking for food and clothes just to survive
because of their elders who choose to live a lie.
as i look through their eyes-all i can see
is death and destruction staring at me.
these children are not to blame for what is all around
but! if its not stopped they'll be laying on the ground.
they search thru this destruction in hopes that
they'll find-others to join them.
as they walk down the streets-the elders stop their fighting
to let them pass.
but this is just temporary- they know it will not last.
other children see them marching down the streets
they dropp what they are doing to join this band
knowing in their hearts it's time to take a stand.
this band is getting larger and the children start to shout..
what is this war? whats it all about?
can't you see the lives that have been taken?
because of this war the ground is still shaking.
the elders stop their fighting as the children all sit down.
they scream'we are not moving until this fight is through.
if this is what you want we will die with you.
you think only of yourselves and not what we're going through.
and when we die-what are you going to do.
there will be no one to carry on your name
there will be no heritage to be found
it will be burned to the ground.
look at our faces and you know what you will see
death and destruction surrounding me.
so we ask you from our hearts-it's time to change.
it is not something which is hard to do
it's all up to every one of you.
poem by Louis Rams
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3 O'clock In The Morning
the rain stopped
and i have just awakened from a deep sleep
it was earlier than usual
and what i heard are the raindrops leaving the last words of their lives
a tapping of the roof
a heave of a sigh
some monotonous sounds of the waves of the shore
not far from where i am writing
the last whispers of the winds from the trees about to shed their last leaves
the sounds of wild ducks leaving knowing that another storm is coming
i think of you
i think of your search of yourself
i think of myself
how i was once broken and destroyed by the changes of the winds
how i picked up the pieces like some leaves scattered in the forest
beyond repair, i write some memories.
weary, i imagine some moments that i may have been at rest with myself.
i think of you. I think about when the rain shall stop forever.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Sonnet XII
I STAND beside the waves,--the mournful waves,--
Where thou didst stand in silence and in fear,
For thou wert train'd by custom's haughty slaves,
And love, from such as I, disdain'd to hear;
Yet, with the murmur of the echoing sea,
And the monotonous billows, rolling on,
Were mingled sounds of weeping,--for in thee
All nature was not harden'd into stone:
And from the shore there came a distant chime
From the old village-clock;--ah! since that day,
Like a dull passing-bell each stroke of time
Falls on my heart; and in the ocean spray
A voice of lamentation seems to dwell,
As in that bitter hour of agonised farewell!
poem by Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton
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Fear No, Respect Yes.
Fear no, respect yes.
For no one has the power over death.
For no one has the power change it all.
Even if you answer a million phone calls.
So to ignoring it is not to explore,
the unknown wilderness we both live in.
Even though it seems tedious and monotonous
Greatness can found in the mediocrity of all opinions and beliefs.
I'm tugging my boat along like a little chief.
I only hope I can bring some relief.
poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
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And Then
Outside I hear the sounds of children,
the sounds do not get louder or softer,
just a small stone in the hand of a morning,
legs splayed and weak obscurely in cotton,
falling asleep again I scramble up a nightslope,
dirt and gravel shoot from underneath my bare feet
and then
I dream of my first day at school, the smell of
stale milk and wet raincoats, the crying of lost children.
This is an unexpected return, as if I will never wake again
to the sound of the paperboy opening the creaky gate.
poem by Leslie Philibert
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There Are No Children Here
The untrained eye
Walks down the street
And sees children
But they're not children
There are no children here
Adults look back
With hungry eyes
And someone thinks
''They're just children
With a mother and a father
Never any fear''
And they kid themselves
As there are no mothers
No fathers
Because there are no children here
Terror doesn't care
As they cry over there
It lets someone stare
Through the sight of a gun
Seeing everyone
And just for fun
Shoot them
People rush around crying
''But they were just children!
They were just children! ''
A man with a gun
Turns and runs
But as he does they hear
''They aren't children''
And
''They weren't children''
And
''You need to know:
There are no children here''
No one makes a sound
Listening to the truth he's found
And they know:
It's our fault
We didn't save them
We could have saved them
If we cared
There would be children here
poem by Violet Llewellyn
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In daily dying to ourselves
In daily dying to ourselves
As we pain
Each day, each minute,
We get used to dying
And every death that comes
Close to our skins
Whichever is it
As there are many of them
At the end
Not a death that comes
Really matters.
And so the stress is gone
In fact, we start to welcome
It like a guest,
The invited one, we even
Ask it to stay
And be home with us.
Little deaths here and there
Each is real, nothing frightens anymore.
And death becomes
So boring so common so tiny to tinker
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Watch Me Sleep, Will You?
My father resigned to his bed
And you know how I knew?
He left the television vulnerable
And what disturbed me was
The television’s monotonously
Eerie sound.
A screeching horror.
A flat, blunted line of terror.
My father was unshaken.
He was peculiarly idle on his bed
And he looked like he was
Having the best of the heavens
In his slumber
And how I envied him.
Sometimes, I wonder
Will someone ever watch me sleep?
Will someone tell me
That I am having
The best of the heavens
In my slumber?
I do not know
Because people are either
Too uninterested
Or too sedentary
To saunter past the hollow halls
Of a home
Straight into my room of pungent dreams
And look at me as I lay there,
On my bed
And think to himself or herself,
“My, he’s having the best of the heavens
In his sleep.”
But then, they would not
Look for me
Nor at least take an abrupt photograph
Of me in my slumber.
You know why?
Because I always leave the television too,
Making those horrendous sounds
Of monotonous deaths
Over a bed of midnight senility.
They weren’t sedentary
Nor uninterested.
They were very
Afraid of the sheer beauty
Of a man who sleeps whilst
Having the best of death,
And not of heaven.
poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr
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