On Somethings Unclear, Occluded, Clouded
what i tell you sometimes are clouded,
hazy, misty, something that you receive and always pregnant with
the other coming questions
which of course,
i cannot answer, by their very nature, i am telling you only what
i have seen, not even what i have heard from them
hearsay (i just suppress them, folding them like shirts
and blankets in my cabinet) but
i am telling you the truth
and your face moves sidewise more often in disbelief
how can such a man like me be so foolish talking nonsense
(on something always so incomplete
and impenetrable) , occluded, shrouded sometimes in mystery
our minds unable to cope up
our hands simply of no use
because we cannot touch them
our eyes too
unable to see, our sense of smell
in utter futility
i am not stupid, honey, some things by their very own nature
are incomplete, shrouded, mysterious,
and cannot be relayed by words, not even by thoughts
simply because they are
and we can do nothing about it, except
to see, and just be silent
because they are divine
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Related quotes
I Complete With You
i am incomplete without you
i am incomplete without your smiles
i am incomplete without your love
i am incomplete without your felling
i am incomplete without your teaching
i am incomplete without your touching
i am incomplete without your soul
i am incomplete without your dreams
i am incomplete without your body
i am incomplete without your happiness
i am incomplete without your heart
i am incomplete without your bed
i am incomplete without your tonight
i am incomplete without your sorrow and sadness
poem by Khushi throne
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Shrouded In Mystery
The morning sun, clothed in clouds, is one of God’s striking shrouds,
Just as God’s shrouded in light, impenetrable by the darkest of night,
Unapproachable as He may be, He’s God of the present and Eternity,
Being a God, that we cannot see, He shrouds life, at times in mystery.
At times God moves in our days, for His purpose in mysterious ways,
For God’s shrouded in mystery, while working in lives, of you and me,
As the secret tings belong to God, Who reigns above this earthly sod,
In ways, we could not comprehend, for above us, His ways transcend.
But all things done for me and you, the Good Lord will see us through,
Through every trial that we will face, God will shroud us with His Grace,
And blessings The Lord will bestow, upon us in ways we’d never know,
As The Lord works in mysterious ways, unto our Lord, we lift all praise.
For we are shrouded in the Blood, of God’s Son, sent for us with love.
Sent to The Cross of Mount Calvary, to be a sacrifice, for you and me,
And today that blood, spilt by Him, covers not some, but all of our sin,
For The Savior alone paid the price, so we could be His living sacrifice.
Christ came to earth, to die for us, now we live our life for Christ Jesus,
To serve our Lord in this present time, for a purpose that is truly divine,
And Christ shall remove many shrouds, when we see Him in the clouds,
When Christ returns for you and me, we’ll serve our Lord, for all eternity.
(Copyright ©06/2011)
Fundamental of Liar Chapter CX: Ability
It’s not unable, it’s just not a favor
It’s not unable, it’s just reluctance
It’s not unable, it’s just not my style
It’s not unable, it’s just wrong
It’s not unable, it’s just no time
It’s not unable, it’s just out of place
It’s not unable, it’s just not consideration
It’s not unable, it’s just objection
It’s not unable, it’s just not effective
It’s not unable, it’s just stubbornness
It’s not unable, it’s just not important
It’s not unable, it’s just mercy
poem by Maria Sudibyo
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Dear Casper
I don't know why
I can't seem to cope without you
My brain keeps telling me I need you
I sometimes wonder
if I suffered brain damage
From allowing you in my life for so long
I feel like I lost myself in you
And there seems to be no thoughts
Just incomprehensible impulses
It's like being mentally paralyzed
And I wander around in a blank haze
Unable to proceed for days
And nobody seems to care
Or comprehends what my problem is
All you can see is someone
Who is unable to help themselves
Increasingly Addicted
Cultural and self hate issues,
Will remain to stay...
For those unable to face them to correct.
With a choosing to view them not as foolish,
But choices made embedded forever to accept.
And people living where hate crimes exist,
Have been fed with beliefs what is done is moralistic.
With a hoping that a praying of truths away...
Will someday validate their animalistic ways.
Many are embarrassed by realities.
Believing themselves immuned...
From truth obvious and seen.
Too many have been taught truth demeans.
And many are rooted in concepts held,
That if a telling of a lie is kept long enough...
Their denials will rise to heights.
And facts that exist will vanish from their eyes.
Cultural and self hate issues,
Will remain to stay...
For those unable to face them to correct.
With a choosing to view them not as foolish...
But tools to use to abuse for amusement.
Labelling people evil who speak with truth,
To keep lives lived unchanged and deluded...
Only transfers those minds medicated on fantasies,
To become increasingly addicted...
Limited and mentally sick.
For all eventually wishing to awaken from this!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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339
you are telling me about a stone
who refuses to admit anyone simply
because it has no door, no room and no space
for someone like you,
you who does not even know what knowing someone
really means. you ask the stone for a space and it says no
and you tell the stone that it has a space
where the leaf and a dropp of water live
the stone says no, and you insist because of the state you are in
you are dying and you need a place
perhaps a burial space where you may finally lay yourself
to rest, but the stone still says no, telling you that it has
no feelings that for centuries it has always been its nature
stony, stony silence, stony stares, unfeeling, that in its
house of stone, there exists no word for sympathy
that it is simply living up to the demands of its true nature
its tradition, and you finally understand, yet somehow you
tell the stone about what it does not know
inside it there is this leaf with dew, there is dropp of water
coming from the rain, that until now it has not fully known,
that inside its stony silence, there is still this song
that it has a heart that it keeps denying.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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About A Stone Without A Door
you are telling me about a stone
who refuses to admit anyone simply
because it has no door, no room and no space
for someone like you,
you who does not even know what knowing someone
really means. you ask the stone for a space and it says no
and you tell the stone that it has a space
where the leaf and a dropp of water live
the stone says no, and you insist because of the state you are in
you are dying and you need a place
perhaps a burial space where you may finally lay yourself
to rest, but the stone still says no, telling you that it has
no feelings that for centuries it has always been its nature
stony, stony silence, stony stares, unfeeling, that in its
house of stone, there exists no word for sympathy
that it is simply living up to the demands of its true nature
its tradition, and you finally understand, yet somehow you
tell the stone about what it does not know
inside it there is this leaf with dew, there is dropp of water
coming from the rain, that until now it has not fully known,
that inside its stony silence, there is still this song
that it has a heart that it keeps denying.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Shame On You, Blame On Me
DON'T GO ON TELLING ME LIES
I CAN SEE IT IN YOUR EYES
I LOVED YOU AS A MAN
YOU LOVED ME AS A GIRL
SHAME ON YOU, BLAME ON ME
DON'T GO ON MAKING PROMISES
WORDS ARE FREE
BUT FEELINGS CAUSE TRUE TIES
SHAME ON YOU, BLAME ON ME
DON'T GO ON TELLING ME LIES
I CAN SEE IT IN YOUR EYES
YOU ARE UNABLE TO RECOGNIZE
I BELIEVED YOU WERE TRUE LOVE
I THOUGHT YOU WERE MY LEGEND
BUT I WAS WRONG
IT WAS LIKE FICTION
IT WAS A TEMPTATION……..
THE TRUTH HURTS
AND DEEP DEEP RUNS LIKE A SILENT RIVER
BUT LIES ARE A BURDEN ON THE MEMORY
I DIDN'T KNOW I AM SORRY
I ONLY KNOW MY INTUITIONS NEVER LIE
SHAME ON YOU, , BLAME ON ME……
poem by Bouche Cousue
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Burning Of The Heart
One after one they give into the urge
Caught by some hand of desire.
Held by the feelings that brings them together.
Its all a mystery. when will they learn.
Its just emotion on fire.
That soul taking, primitive, passion of nature.
Chorus:
I try to run. I try to never fall apart.
But love takes pleasure from
The burning of the heart
Burning of the heart.
Telling myself I should run while theres time
I see that look in her eyes
Shes turning the heat of the moment up higher.
And watching for questions I have in my mind.
She knows somewhere in our lives
Its only love that can find us an answer.
Chorus
Telling myself I should run while theres time
I see that look in her eyes
Shes turning the heat of the moment up higher
And watching for questions I have in my mind
She knows somewhere in our lives
Its only love that can find us an answer.
Chorus
song performed by by Richard Marx
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Not knowing you is respect
I ask your name, what you do, what you are,
You said
I do not have to know you
You are nobody
You have no name
You do nothing
You are not what you are
I am not knowing
I do not know you
We call each other as friends
Blind friends
Two blind friends touching a big elephant
And we shall say different things
You are nobody and I am nobody too
That is identity enough
Respect for nobody to nobody
Blindness is now dignity
We feel the heart
Because we have no eyes
We do not touch
We have no hands
We only speak
Because what we have are only
Two hearts. No eyes. No hands.
A mouth a nose. We are breathers in space.
We are incomplete. That is complete
Respect for humanity.
We are simply breathers. Nobody touching nothing.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Burgundy Taffeta
As death embraced my whole being
Shrouded in burgundy taffeta
Her arms forceful
Embraced me
So as we spooned
I could not turn to see her lace shrouded
Face
She whispered
In Victorian tongue
Just loud enough to menace
Yet no matter how intensely I listened
Not one word
Made
Sense
I tried to respond
Or scream
Or raise
But my living soul stood still and silent
We swooned
Noir skies
Still
Laid out
And wrestled silent screams
And finally she softened her hold
And allowed me to leave
Our dream.......
poem by Karen Sinclair
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One Of The Great Mysteries Of Nature
A bird or wild animal when they sense death is upon them will crawl under thick cover for to die
Why this should be great minds have often pondered though they did not come up with the answer why
Beast or bird to die will try to crawl to cover it's something way beyond them to explain
It's one of the great mysteries of Nature and as a mystery forever 'twill remain.
There are so many mysteries in Nature and us humans despite our advanced technology
Cannot unlock Mother Nature's deepest secrets and Nature to us still a mystery
Some seem to think that wild creatures die in cover from their enemies to hide themselves away
But that is just one of a thousand theories and I would rather stick with 'who can say'.
There are so many mysteries in Nature and her secrets she doesn't share with you and I
And Mother Nature to me still remains a mystery though I've lived near her since I was a young boy
And those who say they know of Nature's secrets they kid themselves or if not that they lie
For Mother Earth to us remains a mystery though to understand her ways we never cease to try.
The bird or beast for to die will try to crawl to cover even
from their own kind they wish to die alone
And why this should be to us remains a mystery and none of Nature's secrets to us known
As the years go by we acquire greater knowledge but people like the Seasons come and go
But Nature with secrecy will guard her secrets and her secrets are not for us to know.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Symbiotic Relationship
Dry season
Spelled out
Nothing besides
Remains; all out.
You, for me, for
Eternity.
My vision, your eyes,
My intention,
Your pride.
Nothing besides,
Remains; if you are not.
My incomplete book is you.
That destination, I linger
Starts from you.
When I speak, I spell out
Words,
Those words are you.
When I see, what I see,
Those sights are you.
When I touch, what I touch,
Those touches are you.
When I sense, what I sense,
Those sensation are you.
poem by Vizard Dhawan
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Unable To Keep From Looking Back
Unable to face facts...
Is an unfortunate mindset to have,
When all foundations of the past...
Are being revealed to have cracks.
Every question one can ask,
Can today be traced to the truth.
And every denial one offers back,
Slips from a validity needlessly pursued.
The few amongst the many,
Feeling to be at peace with themselves...
Without the need for traps,
Also have a need to isolate from those...
Who stubbornly refuse,
To accept with belief these times we are at.
Unable to face facts.
Unable to keep from looking back.
Unable to shake away hours from a yesterday.
And...
Unable to say a grip held tightly,
Begins to fade and to drift away...
From one's existence.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Times To Weep
So often I
have taken from you
and given little back
yet
you never complained
as I pretended to think
this was simply in your nature.
Many times
I turned from your tears
fooling my self
that you were grieving
over some girl friend
and her misfortunes in love
not seeing
the hurt there
came at my hands;
ignoring that I kept you
in my emotional jail
you unable to leave
and I unable to let you go.
I wore your obsession with me
like male perfume;
my aroma therapy
But came the day
you rolled up your
heart-break carpet
tucking it neatly away
in the hall closet
me in two days calling you back
from your mother's house
because I missed
you not being there for me
for whenever I needed.
You saw this abandoning
your healing time
and came back
came back to say your
final hello
and your final goodbye.
While you loved you said
'and offered the kiss'
I merely turned my head
all those years
and 'offered only the cheek.'
Now my face
is to the wall
unable to sleep
all these years
and you
have the children
you sought
and I have my own
carpet
now
kneeling
at night
taking
my own time to weep
about missed opportunities
love lost
regrets at my pillow-keep.
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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X Can Do
Unable to do
he became able to do,
unable to do again,
able to do again
and unable to do again.
He was unpotentialized,
potentialized,
expotentialized,
repotentialized
and reexpotentialized.
Someone said it was the honey.
poem by Douglas Scotney
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Whether We Are Dogs Or Men
whether we are dogs
or gods
or men
it does not really matter
if we believe in nothing at all
if we believe
that there is no reason why the wind blows to the west
why the birds build their own nests
why glaciers exist
why we write poems
it matters. why we always want to say something
and open our hearts
for them to see the white doves
flying there
it matters. why we wake up and wash our face.
why we ask. why we look for answers.
whether gods or dogs or simply men.
it matters now when we begin to believe
about eternity.
this sense of being incomplete.
the want to be
completed. it matters now. whether we are dogs or gods or simply
men.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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435
The Police Officer Arrested Them
Last Night While They Were Strolling On The Park
And This Is The Story:
He Asks For Their Names And They Say They Have None
He Asks From Where They Come From And They Say
They Do Not Really Know
He Asks Them Where They Are Going And They Tell Him
They Are Still Undecided
He Asks Them What Is In Their Bags And They Say They Are Just Nothing
He Asks Them Some More And They Say
They Have Nothing To Say Of Themselves
They Come From Nowhere
And They Are Heading Nowhere
And The Police Handcuffed Them
These Vagrants
These Potential Terrorists Of This Rural Place
Where The People Still Love Peace
And This Afternoon The Police Officer Brings Them All To Me
And He Tells Me About The Whole Story
About His Questions And Their Answers
And I Am Looking At Them And They Look At Me
Straight In My Eyes
With Dignity And Without Shame
With All Pride
That They Are Telling The Truth, The Whole Truth And Nothing But The Truth
That This One Whose Age Is 16 And This Other One Whose Age Is 18
Are Simply Talking About
Themselves And About Us
And About The Policeman Himself
And Surely, I Agree
We Have No Names, We Do Not Know Where We Come From And We Do Not
Really Know Where We Are Going
We Are All Like That, In The Strictest Sense Of The Word, Except
For Our Little Pretensions
And So I Ordered The Policeman To Release Them All
And Let Them Be Themselves
And Let Them Go In Peace And Finish Their Journey With All Ease
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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One Is 16 And The Other 18
the police officer arrested them
last night while they were strolling on the park
and this is the story:
he asks for their names and they say they have none
he asks from where they come from and they say
they do not really know
he asks them where they are going and they tell him
they are still undecided
he asks them what is in their bags and they say they are just nothing
he asks them some more and they say
they have nothing to say of themselves
they come from nowhere
and they are heading nowhere
and the police handcuffed them
these vagrants
these potential terrorists of this rural place
where the people still love peace
and this afternoon the police officer brings them all to me
and he tells me about the whole story
about his questions and their answers
and i am looking at them and they look at me
straight in my eyes
with dignity and without shame
with all pride
that they are telling the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth
that this one whose age is 16 and this other one whose age is 18
are simply talking about
themselves
and about us
and about the policeman himself
and surely, i agree
we have no names, we do not know where we come from and we do not
really know where we are going
we are all like that, in the strictest sense of the word, except
for our little pretensions
and so i ordered the policeman to release them all
and let them be
themselves
and let them go in peace and finish their journey with all ease
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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If You Read
If you read me
In my lines you begin
To understand what
I write about &
Perhaps what I am
That would be
So ordinary
A matter only of clarification.
If you read me, however
Carefully
in between
My lines,
and go deeper
To hidden symbols
And find some meanings
You will find
something
Else, something not
Me but sounding like
Me and you will begin to have doubts
If it is really me
Or I am just
Bluffing
Misleading you
For something else
So that you
Do not grasp me
At all,
and if you begin
to
Doubt it,
well, it could be that it was
Done on purpose
i
Wanting to achieve
A little
dramatization
Of what I am,
For some little
Thrills
Some gigs
Or gimmicks
We all love these
Tragic plays
Most of the
The time.
But sometimes,
For you to know me
I write about you,
You are
in some lines
talking about me,
and it is quite
challenging,
me finding you
to elaborate me,
and this one
would be a little bit
complicated,
You become
so confused
And even be paranoid
About this twist of
Things
Some turning points
Which may
Even be mistaken
As an identity
Crisis or a mental
Disorder,
Why do I have
To be spoken of
By another
Personality
As you or any other
Organism,
Sometimes a bird,
Or a fish,
Or even things in nature,
Like a cloud,
Or the wind, or the
Sea, or the
Sun or even the coldness
Of the night,
Where I can always
Be there in such
A hazy form
Or in opaque shapes,
And yet so essentially me
And so very like us,
And such questions as
Why
May even be answered
In that kind
Of reading,
About me
And you
And this world where we are always
In a situation.
Well I do not wish
To complicate matters more
Like this is some kind
Of a treasure hunt
With lots of signs
And symbols
And some missing links,
In a sense
I want clarity,
I need simplicity,
To drive my points clear
So that when you read
Me in short crisp lines
You grasp me directly
Like
A traffic sign
Red for stop
Green for go
And yellow for a while,
But in truth,
Things and matters and me and you
Are not that really simple
And as such
We cannot be so simplistic
And at the same time
Do justice to this and that
This you and me, this world,
But perhaps reading
Is not just that,
Not just knowing me
Or reducing me to a
Simple conclusion,
Reading me
Could simply be an enjoyment
Or a plain reading
For curiosity or
Even for just a perusal,
As I am not even
Worth reading at all,
A waste of your
Precious time,
You are busy,
But some lines may strike
You or shake you
Or develop a certain
Familiarity, of such things
Like this once happened to me
Or that I once said these lines
Or that I once thought
The same thoughts,
A sense of home
A sense of déjà vu
A sense of I am just like you
In the same situation,
That we are on the same boat
On a stormy sea, tossed
By this fate,
This commonality of failures,
And so you are
Interested for common reasons,
In a way that I search for myself,
You are also searching for
Yourself,
And once I talk of this
Loneliness, this sickness
Unto death, you ring a bell,
You are also
Feeling the same,
And we come together
Searching for the cure,
Or you at the end,
Would simply be
Wishing that we will have the same
Kind of fate,
A survival,
A victory,
A success,
A shout for joy, a shout for discovery.
But on the other hand,
that would be so
Selfish and we do not
Glorify selfishness,
as it
Is not a commendable
trait,
We humans are
humanitarian
We always care,
we always love
We always have
affection
For another, so
If you read me,
really, as a
Good natured
human being
With a soul,
You read me,
With sympathy,
You empathize
You cry in sad poem,
You laugh
In humorous ones,
You get
Glorified in glorious ones,
you
Become a part of me,
and I become a
part of you,
well,
being
One with each other,
but, I still
Doubt it,
you read,
because
You simply check whether
This poem is good,
or making some
Sense,
or this poet
makes a
Mark for good poetry,
which
To me, is nothing but
Hypocrisy,
utilitarian,
and
Too
academic.
In truth,
I write,
not wanting
To be read,
not so inviting to
Any reader,
You read me
With a risk
But if you read me,
I am telling you,
Frankly,
I do not invite you,
You came
You gate crashed
Me, and you are
Never my guest
You are simply
misinformed,
coming here,
I do not know
You and
you do not
know me, and
I will fault you
For this intrusion,
And that would be
Too arrogant
& cruel of me
telling you
to stop reading
and leave me
at once.
Well
Actually, this is it
If you read me
As you read this poem
Just read,
For no purpose,
No vested
Interest,
You read,
Because you have nothing to do
With me
And I have
Nothing to do with you
We have nothing
To do with
All these
This life
This poetry
It is
Not because
You are hunting for
Some animals,
Put them on a cage
Or kill them
For meat
Or consider the stuffed heads
The tigers and
lions and
Gazelles
as your trophies of your adventures
on a safari of life
Or marks of your
Civilized cruelty
You are here because
you just pass by
And want to read
this poem
for a while
You read
me
in passing,
I see you passing by…..
It is a matter of feeling not knowing me at all.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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