Now That I Write With Windows Closed
and thick curtains
hang
morning
and here i am
in
a dark room
still writing
lines that do not tease
and inspire
unwashed face
and sounds of brooms
sweeping outside
and motors shouting
and people's feet
on a sunday
in a market
breakfast
served and waiting
by the housemaid
unspeaking
you write the last line
it is enough
things are meant
to begin again
this day, remove
the curtains
open the windows
take a walk
and think of some reasons
why you must go
why she is gone
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Related quotes
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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Night Walk
a full moon
overlooks streets
and alleys
its cold, quiet
footsteps echo
and yet not
street lights comfort
wind rolls along
against my face
almost numb
windows are lit
through curtains
people sat warm
here I walk
thoughts as company
in the dark of night
my nerves on edge
waiting, waiting
then nothing
I walk
watch the moon
quietly alone
and yet not
poem by Matthew Holloway
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Marriage
Marriage for Esme began as a wide open room
with windows that let in the sunshine
and curtains so light and airy
they floated on the breeze.
Her husband's blue eyes would sparkle
with just a hint of mischief
and fun that they intrigued her,
made him special.
Then in the second year on her birthday
it seemed the room had grown dusty,
the curtains seemed dull,
the windows small.
And in the third year, without a doubt
the sun had gone down on her
and the room held a chill
like her aching heart.
By the fifth year, she'd aged,
her eyes had shadows, her skin had paled
and the room seemed small
with no windows at all.
She had shriveled, was withdrawn,
she'd sit in the corner of the room humming,
rocking back and forth, back and forth,
back and forth........
poem by Ruth Walters
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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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Something that you cannot be accurate about
It happened, the taxi was taken, both of you took the ride
No one wanted to take the front,
Passengers
Sitting beside, no names, just chance,
Together, that moment, there was rain,
Sweat, abundant sweat, the aircon is high
Music was loud and the travel was long
A convention, you did not see malice
Friendship, sweat, abundant sweat
Even when the aircon was set higher
Drink, lots of drinks, until both of you were drunk
You hate to use pronouns now
The verb is untamed, your hair standing, your drunkenness
Suddenly lost, slowly, slowly, caresses,
Bursting you lost everything in your mind
Was the night that long really? Were the curtains
Thick? Were the windows open? Was there a moon
By the window? Were the lights off?
You do not remember, Morning comes, light
Enters the door filtered by the curtains.
You wished you were alone. You weren’t. Last night
Something happened, years ago, you simply could not remember
The face.
It is still horrible. Something you cannot write until now.
Your pronouns are not meant to be visible.
The shadows even not defined.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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For The Happy Housemaid...
early morning
the housemaid turns on the radio
in full volume that the
neighbors know that
she is already awake
and cooking breakfast
the house smells fried
egg and bacon and
steamed rice
when i come out my room
she smiles and
turns off the radio and
says that breakfast is
ready
only to be told that
no one likes to eat breakfast
(unlike the two the housemaid
likes it much to eat all these matters
alone by herself,
she is attuned like a loud radio
early morning
and she does not mind what
the housemaids' neighbors say)
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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You Changed
you changed
i know i see it clearly
you begin to like this room
surrounded by curtains, white curtains
you light a candle
and then you close your eyes
you travel inside the labyrinths
of your thoughts
you will be lost for a time
deep, deep into the sea of your being
gently you sail
arriving to the port of your heart
you changed
you are better now
you have known the haze
you have touched the opaque covering of the self
welcome we have been waiting for you
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Living For The Weekend
I awake eyes half open
Trying to survey the room
Making sense of where I am
A place I know too well
Through the curtains I watch
A half moon cross the sky
While car doors open, close
Engines start and drive away
A train passes into the distance
On the nearby line
I lay there waiting to rise
Shower, dress and catch the bus
Then sit there listen to music
While I stare out the window
Each street, people passing
Its another weekday morning
Another step in the old routine
I reach the office, hang my coat
Switching on the computer
I leave it bleeping into life
Before I make the first coffee of the day
Filtered black and strong, one sugar
Then I sit there sifting through papers
Doing my job nine to five
Till I go home and bed
I live for the weekend
poem by Matthew Holloway
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Sunday 4: 44 A.m.
the church bell sounds.
you wake up.
you wash your face.
comb your hair and
wear the best dress
on sunday.
you look again
in the mirror to check
if all about you is well
and presentable.
you take the rosary
and the prayer book.
you read the gospel.
you mumble your prayers,
you thank your husband.
you take the puppy.
you smile again in the
mirror. you thank God.
now you open the gate
and head for the nearby
church and hear mass
and the usual sermon
of the parish priest.
90% of your life
is devoted to religion.
10% is devoted
to anything else.
you have aged.
you still mumble.
i still wonder whether
it is you who misunderstands me
or i misunderstanding you.
everything seems to be
mangled and mingled.
when you come back
breakfast is ready and
everyone in the house
pretends that there is nothing
wrong with the table, or the
cover, or the broken pieces
of the glass.The maid is
quick in sweeping them
away from the door into
that thick grass beside
the window of this house.
sunday morning is still
our morning. A nice one.
the sun has come and
we are planning for another
picnic in the nearby beach.
there will be no questions.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Along A Path
When we walk along a line,
The retreat is a loving gesture;
Inside we have entrails, only to love,
So that enticement reduces us.
Open the winning races,
Beginning is like ending,
I face the enemy with speed
As the next life queries us.
Lines and more lines produce
Internal doubt, for more shouting
Incites me to write a perfection,
One finds it again and again.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Closed Curtains
Your curtains drape across your soul
covering all that you are with their silkiness.
They are heavy and thick and hang just so
in a beautiful emerald green.
Your eyes reflect golden sunlight
but when you sleep they flicker and twitch.
You talk in your sleep and are vulnerable,
a side the world never sees.
Someday you'll open up to me,
you'll understand I mean you no harm
and tell me all that you are, sweet star.
'till then I wait impatiently.
We all have traumas, secrets and fears.
Locking them away makes them grow.
You hide behind closed curtains,
someday the light will flood through.
poem by Ruth Walters
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Saturday Night Sunday Morning
I knew you'd come back
We always do
Like thieves
Returning to the scene of the crime
But did they tell you
Everything has changed
Just everything
Oh, everything has changed
Just everything
It's not Saturday Night Sunday Morning
There was something else I meant to say
It's not Saturday Night Sunday Morning
There was so much more I meant to say to you
You know they still like to talk about you
But they don't want anything too real
So most of the conversation revolves around
Things that happened 20 years ago at least
They must have told you
Everything has changed everything
Oh, everything must change everything
It's not Saturday Night Sunday Morning
There was something else I meant to say
It's not Saturday Night Sunday Morning
There was so much more I meant to say to you
It's not Saturday Night Sunday Morning
There was something else I meant to say
It's not Saturday Night Sunday Morning
There was so much more I meant to say to you
oh oh oh oh
oh oh oh oh
oh oh oh oh oh oh oh
oh oh oh oh
oh oh oh oh
oh oh oh oh oh oh oh
song performed by by Madness
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Regular John
Who are you girl?
Who are you boy?
Bet I know what your up to
Can I come along?
Your home numbers on the wall
I just had to call...had to
I'm not the only one who will
Run with a knife
Open up your eyes
Open up your room
Open up your arms
Third 16th Sunday
2:16 Sunday night
Where's your daddy now?
I heard he went away
Who are you girl?
Cause i'm so bored with myself
Anyway...anytime...anyplace
I just hang around
Open up your eyes
Open up your room
Open up your arms
Third 16th Sunday
2:16 Sunday night
Open up your eyes
Open up your room
Open up your arms
Open up your door
Open up your eyes
Open up your room
Open up your arms
song performed by by Queens Of The Stone Age from Queens Of The Stone Age
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Two Word Lines
I write
my pain
and its
just another poem
its just
the same
all the heart ache that goes onto this page
only takes me back to the place where I await
behind the curtains of an empty stage
the pain
I write
I wrote this
I locked my own cage
I threw away the key to he that did see me rage
and still
I write
yes still
I fight
hoping that I might find something you feel
because these two word lines are just rhymes
when I say them back they aren't real
I'm sick and tired of talking about better times
forcing things like a relationship two people don't really want
a mum and dad staying together for the sake of the kids when the love is really gone.
Look at this back and see my two word lines
see my two word lines
are one.
poem by Daniel McCann
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In The Darkness
In the darkness
Waiting for the day to be begin
Perfectly alert and awake
I write these lines
That have no message
Except their own existence.
We want to be
Not only for ourselves
But for others -
We need our voices to be heard
Not only by our own dreaming
But by those who respond to our sounds-
You are with me as I write these lines
Whoever you are reading this
You are with me-
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Early morning rain
Early morning rain
~
Rain taps upon the window
while the faint light of morning
lines the gap between curtains
a halo of pale blue illuminates
the darkness of the room
a cold beyond the duvet
invites a reason not to move
while tired eyes open and close
motionless I lay here listening
to the sound of the rain
like restless fingers drumming
upon the windowpane
in the early hours of morning
I lay awake
poem by Matthew Holloway
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If I Write A Few Lines
IF I WRITE A FEW LINES
If I write a few lines
My mind will open
My heart will take heart
I will begin to believe in myself again.
If I write a few lines
I will say that I still somewhere am alive,
Writing these lines
In such deep deep sadness and trouble,
I try
And word by word
Squeeze out a bit of Hope.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Sunday morning
Through a
filth-laden
plate glass
window,
I saw
her standing.
Wearing her
Sunday best.
Her thick black
hands hung down
in front of her
meaty thighs,
each grasping
on to her purse strap.
Patiently waiting
for the bus.
Shining off
of her
ample face,
a sun which
suggested
faith's glowing
promise
in the afterlife.
A beautiful,
too perfect,
blue-skied
Sunday morning,
contrasted the
depressed ghetto
surroundings
and the stench
of the
laundromat
I was cleaning.
Suddenly,
a knife
plunged
in to the side
of her head,
just below her bonnet.
Her thick right hand
covered the wound,
as her left refused
to surrender her purse.
She screamed
and cursed at
her assailant
as he ran off,
empty handed.
Wailing uncontrollably,
her hysterics equaled
the brutal attack
she had endured
Blood continued
to run
down her face,
between her
fingers and
onto her dress.
Her purse was saved.
Her life spared from
the vicious attack.
To the assailant,
the contents of
her purse meant
more than her life.
The ambulance
came soon-after.
She lived.
I wasn't
the only
witness
that morning.
God was
watching too.
She lived.
And her after-life
didn't occur
on that
fate-filled
Sunday morning.
I finished my
bologna sandwich,
sipped my Pepsi...
and went back to
sweeping the floors.
by
Tim Labbe`
Just Remember
The sun will always shine,
even on the darkest of days,
just remember,
passed the stormy clouds,
then sun is blazing down.
It's the same way with humans,
never let pain rule your life,
just remember,
there is always a new day,
and new reasons to smile.
What's the point,
in letting darkness ruin you?
Why can't you just
open your eyes and see the world,
and you were meant to?
The world isn't a dark place,
it's shining and waiting,
waiting for you.
There's something out there,
waiting for you.
Don't let it,
slip away.
If it starts to walk away,
don't just watch it leave,
run after it.
What if it was,
going to change your life?
What if it,
was the best thing,
that would ever happen to you?
That would change things,
would it not?
Don't be afraid of,
taking chances,
you were meant to take.
poem by Katherine Bryce
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Inside The House Of Pain
a damaged brain inside a house of pain.
pieces of broken porcelain, all white and tiny.
under my feet. flying plates landing on walls.
smashed to the sound of bangs and cracks.
running mantels and falling glasses.
and viands splattering on the floors.
dirty carpets. stained curtains. broken windows.
loud words buzzing like giant bees in such a small
room. where everything is a crowd of cruel
words and slapping hands and pulling hairs.
mother wails and shouts for help.
father strikes her face. some blood bleeding
on unwashed handkerchiefs.
children running away. hiding in corners of
this world. all silent not needing any help because
they are all to afraid to become big like them.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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