On The Night That You Are Not On My Side
last night
the bed feels like a glass
without water
the blankets are like eyes
seeing a blank ceiling
the lampshade has a tongue
of light untalking
the floors are indifferent
the door is hinting
about what hate can do
to the windows that close
like fists
the heart grips for a hold
on its veins
tears want to see the
waterfalls
the mouth bites itself
the teeth gnashes
to a steady gum
simply because you are
not with my side.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Related quotes
At Night With The Rain
i have closed the doors
and the windows
and let go the curtains
touching the floors
i close my eyes and listen
to the rain
i dream of stars
i miss the moon
the walls close on in me
beyond the glass windows
to the sea
i hear the sad calls of the
night
outside the trees are blown
the black cat stares at me
and then some tears
begin to fall
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Prison Door (Clangs Open)
the prison door clangs open,
the man in me set free.
with nothing left
but the clothes on my back,
and feet that know
the way home...
rain begins to fall
with the coming of night.
i seek shelter beneath a bridge.
staring into the blackness
i see, i think i see...
one solitary star.
a star that tastes like bread,
and meat scorched by the flame.
that feels like warm blankets,
clean sheets, the bare skin of a woman.
a light that pours, invades a room,
and fills the room with living.
water drips down my face,
mixes with tears...
my fists open and close,
my mind the same.
and all the sounds of the night
become the sounds of breathing.
the prison door clangs open,
the body carried on a stretcher.
the lights flashing turn off,
no more need to hurry.
the driver stares blankly,
tires whisper prayers on wet roads!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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383
a word from you, then you stop
something choppy
i like to listen more from you
another word, cut into half
i am having a hard time
figuring out what is there
with you that wants to hold
me, i stop to listen again,
some scratches from your
tongue, some gnashing from
your teeth, i am listening still,
some more words, more of
pauses, like some commas
are constructed by you on
purpose, i am tired in this,
i am impatient, you stretch
your arms to reach me again,
as i go nearer tapping my ears,
for you, yet there is this
suppression of meaning,
i am listening still, you
close your eyes and then
open them, this time some
tears fall, like ripe drops
of rain from dark clouds,
i see, your heart is broken
and your mind cannot
understand perfectly,
your mouth haggles
with words that your
tongue cannot form
simply because love is always misunderstood.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Allegro Comodo
a word from you, then you stop
something choppy
i like to listen more from you
another word, cut into half
i am having a hard time
figuring out what is there
with you that wants to hold
me, i stop to listen again,
some scratches from your
tongue, some gnashing from
your teeth, i am listening still,
some more words, more of
pauses, like some commas
are constructed by you on
purpose, i am tired in this,
i am impatient, you stretch
your arms to reach me again,
as i go nearer tapping my ears,
for you, yet there is this
suppression of meaning,
i am listening still, you
close your eyes and then
open them, this time some
tears fall, like ripe drops
of rain from dark clouds,
i see, your heart is broken
and your mind cannot
understand perfectly,
your mouth haggles
with words that your
tongue cannot form
simply because love is always misunderstood.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Goodbye
(l. stansfield/i. devaney)
You used to always say it
Honey we can make it
Weve got such a love
So sweet and pure
But now you seem to feel
The love we have cant take no more
How can you be so sure
I have to close my eyes to hold back the tears
I beg you baby please
Chorus:
Never wanna say goodbye
Goodbye to you
Find though theres not a thing I can do
I never wanna say goodbye
Goodbye to you
It used to feel like heaven
But now it feels feels hell
cos youre closing the door
On love
Now it feels so cold
cos baby when you hold me close
Its not there anymore
I have to close my eyes to hold back the tears
I beg you baby please
Chorus
I have to close my eyes to hold back the tears
Just cant believe that you dont want me here
Dont let me go now
Im down on my knees
I beg you baby please
Chorus x 2
song performed by by Lisa Stansfield
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Insomniac Who Drew The Head Of A Sheep Wildly On A White Paper
the insomniac's heart is bleeding. she is in pain tonight like the other past night.
she thinks she is dying right on her own bed. changing positions. finding the right way to sleep. she could not find it. she is lost in the darkness of this loneliness. she goes naked towards the refrigerator to get a cold glass of water.
ice cubes. water rushing to the glass. clicking sound of glass and another glass.
coldness rushing to her esophagus. Coldness multiplying in her burning heart. her blankets burning. She could not sleep tonight. She gets a white paper, a pen and begings to scribble her life: wildly, some lines run. Shaping the head of a sheep. one. two. three. four. five. Five eyes. She stops. She needs five eyes to see everything. Awake. The ceiling where the lizards grow to become alligators on the plywood swamp. No grasses but cobwebs of sleepy spiders.
Five Jacks are hidden on the ears. On the ears are hairs of corn. Blonde. On the nose are paper clips. With them, she is cruel. Then she hides a bull inside her pharynx, the one that shits inside her mouth. She stinks. The bull makes a call for desire. For lust. She closes it with the prison wall of her teeth and gums and lips. Her lips are sealed now. All the five eyes are open throughout the night. Looking for love. Love is not found. Her heart bleeds. Stains of blood penetrate the white paper.
She had not slept for five nights. She will add another five eyes. She knows
if this happens again and again, she will die. She pretends that she is strong.
She will not forget these nights. Preludes to her death. She writes some hieroglyphics all over the empty spaces of the white paper. She will not forget
what each line and curve and sharp edges mean. She codes them. She writes the date 9.2.2008.
She does not put her name. It is enough that no one knows and remembers.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Ennui (whatever)
there are four corners of this room
(as usual, us usual,
we are here again, both
on a togetherness
since the early days of our
union)
i want to go away, remember the flight
of the little bird, away from its mother's nest?
but i can't, your tears are holding me
like a mother,
and so how can a son get away?
how can a lover go away and be stripped
from its beloved?
the vinyl floors are dusty
the curtains unwashed for weeks
the door creaks like a man complaining
for its usual work
to close and open
to open and close
the door has always been closed in here
there is no exit
but i shall not scream, that is too much for this
harrowing experience
there is no tv, no ref, just the sound of an AM/FM radio
that i bought from a cheap department store
i hold your hands
that is enough for me now.
i stare at the ceiling, and then i get so weary and i close my eyes
asking shelter
in the colored world of dreams.
are you happy now?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Deserted House
Life and Thought have gone away
Side by side,
Leaving door and windows wide.
Careless tenants they!
All within is dark as night:
In the windows is no light;
And no murmur at the door,
So frequent on its hinge before.
Close the door; the shutters close;
Or through the windows we shall see
The nakedness and vacancy
Of the dark deserted house.
Come away: no more of mirth
Is here or merry-making sound.
The house was builded of the earth,
And shall fall again to ground.
Come away: for Life and Thought
Here no longer dwell;
But in a city glorious -
A great and distant city -have bought
A mansion incorruptible.
Would they could have stayed with us!
poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson
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Dance
(j. spinks)
Growing up ain't easy
Especially when you?re young
And everyone you know is older than their years
And growing up ain't easy
When the only girl you want
Looks at you like you just disappeared
But you keep holding on
To every little thing that she's done
And if you?re chance came along
You'd make it clear
Hold me close close your eyes
Dance the night away
Growing up ain't easy
When time is on your side
And you?re wishing that these times would pass you by
Everytime a door is opened
There?s nothing on the other side
Just another door for you to try and find
But you keep holding on
And hoping that you're times gonna come
And she can do nothing wrong
You make it clear
Hold me close close your eyes
Dance the night away
But you keep holding on
To every little thing that she's done
And if you're chance came along
You'd make it clear
Hold me close close your eyes
Dance the night away
Hold me close close your eyes
Dance the night away
Dance the night away
Dance the night away
song performed by by Outfield
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Repost Of The Past Poem
i step out of the door
from my dark room the windows are not open
it is humid and cold
i step out of the door the windows are still closed
i lock the door and step upon a patch of green grass
the dews are hanging on the blades and shaken
i look upon the sky
and there is this star still shining
despite the opening of the mouth of the morning
i was in deep slumber
i close my eyes
i see your face but i promise there shall be no tears.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Glass Of Water Please
and so the story wants to end itself with a
glass of water.
those who cry after always need
a glass of water.
those whose hearts are broken
those who sob
those who close the window of the niche
those who have nightmares
those who wake up at 3 o'clock in the morning
those who sit on bed and cannot sleep back
always go to the kitchen
open the refrigerator
get a glass and splash
a cold glass of water
this time, i am asking for a glass of water
for i could be
all of the above or you could be one of those
i have described
but who knows we are not one of those
who knows
we are but just anyone who is normally thirsty
and with nothing to ask
simply ask
for a glass of cold water.
and cheerfully, we do not forget to say
please....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Darkness
For sometime I’ve been living by myself
and as usual I close the windows at night.
I was sitting on the bed reading a letter
when something darkened the light.
My immediate thought was a power surge
and the house was on a reduced supply,
but when I looked up at the ceiling light
I just couldn’t believe my eyes.
So much so, I rubbed them,
and hoped that it wasn’t there,
but it was, hovering above me
like a mist hanging in the air.
I’d never seen anything like it,
from nowhere it came into sight.
An expanding layer of darkness
that was squeezing out the light.
It had now covered the ceiling
and was edging down the walls.
My breathing wasn’t helping,
as my inhaler began to stall.
I could feel and hear my heart beating;
fear drove me towards the open door.
As my fingers touched the doors handle
its sudden slamming shook the floor.
If it touched me what would happen?
Would I be blanked out like the light?
I stumbled flicking off the light switch,
and with it went the cause of my fright.
poem by Orlando Belo
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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
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A Picture Of A Bound Man Who Forgot To Say...
one time
by chance i see a man bound
with ropes
all over his body
that even his toes and
fingers cannot move
i recall the feeling once
when i let time bound me
when i let time pass by me
and i have done nothing
to change
who i am
and what i am supposed to be
when my being
is simply left to the winds
and the seasons
to the blackness of the night
and to the bleakness of my days
when i just lay on the floor
crying
when i just let the door close upon
its face
when the windows are useless
without its hands
when the floor has no mouth to make the
sound at all that
even the termites shy away
when i feel the nearness of death
hushing upon my ears
when i simply close my eyes
and let things
hop and hover upon
my being
when i have forgotten
even to say
to hell with
life....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Picture Of A Bound Man
one time
by chance i see a man bound
with ropes
all over his body
that even his toes and
fingers cannot move
i recall the feeling once
when i let time bound me
when i let time pass by me
and i have done nothing
to change
who i am
and what i am supposed to be
when my being
is simply left to the winds
and the seasons
to the blackness of the night
and to the bleakness of my days
when i just lay on the floor
crying
when i just let the door close upon
its face
when the windows are useless
without its hands
when the floor has no mouth to make the
sound at all that
even the termites shy away
when i feel the nearness of death
hushing upon my ears
when i simply close my eyes
and let things
hop and hover upon
my being
when i have forgotten
even to say
to hell with
life....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Kind of Falling
There is this kind of falling
that is free, and it does
not think of any floor
or end, the trip continues
down and down
and darker and darker
you close your hands
and put them on
the side of your
hips, and you keep
on waiting about the
expected
deadly impact, you want
it done
and done so quickly
for years this free falling
has been with you
and you are into this
feeling always
where to
and when and what
and why
it's been like this from
the beginning
no floors no ceiling
no walls now
and all the doors
are closed
except the windows of course
that you keep on seeing
there is the wind
that keeps on going and going
passing through and through
inside your heart
the freedom of falling
it is here always inside your heart
you are numb
and there is nothing difficult to understand
letting go and just this feeling of falling
the consolation is that
you are always on top of things
explains, thus, this falling
for why should i fall? i ask sometimes.
thanks God, i must be up here, and there is no end to this tunnel
let me see, let me see the light, with you.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The stained glass windows
God has turpentine the walls
And brushed out the cobwebs
And wax polished the floors
But he always resists in cleaning
The outside stained glass windows
That filled his heart with light
Even under the darkest throws
Of some evil godforsaken night
poem by Mark Heathcote
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In Poetry (again And Again)
you talk about doors
where there are no windows
you imagine things exist
when all they do is pass by
you try to hold unto permanence
when there is none actually
it is not at all emotions
mind you, there is more to all of these
not just words, flesh, perhaps i am just
entertaining the illusions of the flesh
or light, or even the grass that live
on my head, as though i have
hair, in this game, there is no fixed
directions, simply because
in the first place, you do not really know
where to go, or what to do
with your life, it is just sitting down, talking
to the conscience, playing with its
thoughts, and questioning its rules,
there could be war, between you and
another you, and they say, here comes
another schizophrenic trying to spell
out the difference between a spill and
a pill, but there are images on the ceiling
lizards laughing, and a light bulb that
gets steady with its own
dim light, you imagine chairs as people
and the walls as curtains, and you
as the clown, or the magician trying to
do a trick, to please time, to stop hurting
other people, to love this self, that
lays like a carpet on the floor, there is
warmth, there is a flow of sentences, and
cut flowers, and a glass of cold water,
chunks of iced feelings, and sweet
sour fishy tales, and here comes another
fool trying to figure out, what are these lines,
maps, or pathways, or eddies of air,
or jars without wine, mugs without coffee,
words without meanings, just that.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I Know You're Hurt
i know you are there in your usual
electronic silence, facing the monitor of your laptop.
the kind of person who keeps all the hurts inside her heart
you bleed and you simply let the blood flow from your hands to the floor,
and the blood flows like water spilled from your
drinking glass.
the beauty of your pain
shows through those beautiful flowers
sprouting on the floors
all the vines of green and blue tendrils
spreading on the window sill, the ceiling, the roof.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Inside The Moviehouse
inside the movie house
my lips are drying because it is so
cold in here, but with you
i get myself moistened up
with your constant flow
of salive from your
mouth to my mouth
tongue to tongue
i close my eyes to get
the picture of you sitting
on my lap my extra large sausage
rising up from its ruins
you rain on my valley
wetting my grass and
my cliffs have waterfalls
flowing steadily
there is this forest fire
and there are no firemen coming....
i know the title of the movie
but i cannot really remember the details
of the story..
and i don't blame you.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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