On The Second Night
i like the
wall
of separation
within it
is the silence
that i could
have written
since
i cannot
speak it
i tried
many times to reduce
the color
of silence
into something
like
black here and
white
over there
i want to capture
it in
some letters
like bars
and rectangles
formed
by my hands
i have never
done so
well
i am not good at
capturing
the perfect moment
it escapes
always it escapes
always
it escapes
because it is
free
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Fierce Poem Escapes Me
The fierce poem escapes me
The deepest intensity is not here-
In calm I write
In calm I listen-
Quiet and easy now
Waiting in the blessing of my own long silence-
The fierce poem escapes me
The deepest intensity is not here
I am no longer young
And my words have the wisdom
Of a tiredness I too barely know how to bear.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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I Cannot Be...
i cannot be always the guardian angel
to your stupidity which like a female cow in heat
somehow escapes from the fence when i begin to take my much needed sleep.
when that cat in your hand escapes to eat the moon
i cannot always assume the body of the dog
for in my own weakness i assume the shadow of the mouse
sometimes i let you go and wish that you fall off from that cliff and die for my own
good.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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With No Escapes From It To Exit
There is no other way to address truth,
But to be prepared to be stripped naked...
Bare,
With the exposing of every blemish.
Since truth is not seeking to be impressed.
Truth is on a mission to uncover honesty.
And many are still unbelieving,
The depth of which truth sees without explanation...
To deceive what is already revealed.
When truth is in one's presence and is fully awakened,
With no escapes from it to exit...
Foolish is the time taken to charade in masquerade,
To evade it with a wasting away of one's time.
With no escapes from it to exit,
Truth...
Is very effective!
With no escaping undetected,
Truth...
Is very effective.
Once fed truth it manifests.
And truth will not be neglected...
To reject!
With no escapes from it to exit,
Truth...
Is very effective!
With no escaping undetected,
Truth...
Is very effective.
Once fed truth it manifests.
And truth will not be neglected...
To reject!
With no escapes from it to exit,
Truth...
Is very effective!
With no escapes from it to exit,
Truth...
Is very effective!
And truth will not be neglected...
To reject!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Wouldn't It Be Wonderful
Wouldn't it be wonderful...
If reality provided each one of us with escapes.
To celebrate those moments.
And we were free to place orders,
For our favorite tastes.
Topped with fresh whipped cream.
Delighting each bite of the walnuts crushed.
And those sweet strawberries dipped in chocolate,
Slowly satiating and prolonging this as we ate.
Without haste or hint of a rush.
Wouldn't it be wonderful...
If reality provided each one of us with escapes.
To dance and hold hands on lush green hilltops.
And shocked by anyone who dared to speak of hate.
Wouldn't it be wonderful?
Wouldn't this be great?
Wouldn't it just be marvelous,
If we all debated...
On a date this could,
And would take place.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Neptune
Nobody seems to dream of visits on Neptune.
With a giving of its wonder and suspense.
There is nobody that seems to speak with curiosity,
Of how life lived on Neptune would be.
What is it about it that escapes wishes to adventure it?
Does it not appear to be intimate?
What is it about it.
Is it too far out there for imaginary visits?
What is it about it.
Is it too much like Uranus?
And Saturn and Jupiter have captured its magic.
What is it about it.
Although depicted by the Romans as god of the seas...
Neptune is rarely mentioned or romanticized,
As a place to be!
What is it about it that escapes our fantasies.
Eight from the Sun to see in orbit.
But no one mentions Neptune for that odyssey.
What is it about it.
So vast it is...
Sixty Earths could sit within its grasp.
But no one wishes a visit with it.
Nobody seems to dream of visits on Neptune.
With a giving of its wonder and suspense.
There is nobody that seems to speak with curiosity,
Of how life lived on Neptune would be.
What is it about it that escapes wishes to adventure it?
Does it not appear to be intimate?
What is it about it.
Is it too far out there for imaginary visits?
What is it about it.
Is it too much like Uranus?
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Sorry I Never
im missing the good old days
where i sat alone in my room
where the darkness fades under my eyes
and i needed much more sleep
im sorry i gave to many reasons and escapes
im sorry i was too tired to be awake
im sorry i never told how i truly felt
in truth we never ever really began
which is to say
that day when i told you i died
were you even listening
my life was just a sleeping pill
that i was fighting, fighting away
im sorry i gave to many reasons and escapes
im sorry i was too tired to be awake
im sorry i never lived spontaneously
in truth i never really went anywhere at all
so im missing the good old days
though i never even learned how to play
i took life to seriously
i never dreamed; i needed much more sleep
im sorry i gave to many reasons and escapes
im sorry i was too tired to be awake
im sorry i never trusted you
in truth i never even trusted myself
im sorry i gave to many reasons and escapes
im sorry i was too tired to be awake
im sorry i never told how i truly felt
in truth we never ever really began
poem by Sarah Cotnam
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England in October
England in October
Leaves red as scarlet,
Crimson blushing faces
Sunset exquisite, lifting
White upon white;
Violets shading
Whispers willing
Bowers in misty dreams
"hope in sighing times"—
Silence—falling.
Apples crisp as heart-aches
Vibrant, slow escapes
Beauty as Itself achieving Eloquence—
Freedom takes cheer, cheer takes freedom,
Eloquence achieving itself as beauty escapes
Slow vibrant aches-;
Heart as crisp apples, falling—
Silence.
Times sighing in hope
Dreams misty in bowers
Willing whispers
Shading violets
White upon white lifting exquisite sunset
Faces blushing crimson scarlet as red leaves—
October in England.
poem by Hepburn Caraway
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Silence and Echo
solitude
like silence
falls off on the ground
undisturbed waters
transparent
this silence of word
silence of air
this silence
solitude
nobody's longing
breaks against a bricked wall
high
wall like concrete
thick
and heavy
this perfect peace
at times
larynx scream
will wake up the silence
disturb
this constant reverie
sorrow
wants to leave
or silence
wants to play
with the echo
longer
(transl. Annaya Chomczyk)
poem by Dorota Szumilas
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The Truth Is/ I Cannot Remember
The truth is
I cannot remember
I do not know all I have done-
Most of it escapes me
It seems the work of another person
From another world -
I don’t live then with all I am
Or all of what I was
But only with a small part of myself now
And this small part of myself is enough for me-
I try day by day
To give another small part and to be in that
And if I give it
It is enough-
But what I have been
All I truly am
All I have done
I do not know-
It escapes me
I will never know
Most likely no one will ever know-
Waste fills the universe
And that apparently
Will be true about my own life and work, also.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Eating The Fear
Eating rose petals.
Choking on the thorns.
With such a sweet smell their should be some kind of warning.
A sign saying in big bold letters.
If you do it you will regret it.
Jumping into a brick wall head first.
Trust me it does hurt.
I would know.
I got my scars to prove it.
Black and blue bruises is a usual at least for me.
Maybe it cause I will never accept defeat.
Even if I know I'm already beat.
Things can and will change.
It is a matter of time ticking on by.
A color scheme mapped out.
A portrait perfected.
Yet it is still rejected.
Don't you know it is to be completely expected.
Don't give up.
Oh no not just yet.
No matter the dire circumstances.
You got to be strong.
Just hold on for one more moment.
I keep hearing these whispers that say I don't know if I can.
Oh does it make me any less of a man?
Failure at ones my weakest moment.
Ducking down in disgrace.
Walking away from an unfulfilled dream.
No sorry I just can't.
Even if suck every bit life out of me.
My inner strength will still remain.
Like a cloud floating high in the sky.
Taking many shapes.
Creating many escapes.
Going to an illusionary world where everything is alright.
Because I just don't know if I can make it another night.
Not here.
The uncertainty brings only fear.
And I must keep my distance and try to never let it get near.
Close my heart.
Shut it down.
It is an exposure that will ruin my perspective and objectives.
poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
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Em 3
about you
what shall i say about you?
ah, i prefer my
silence
this is my cure about
you
yes, my silence
it shall speak about
you my silence
my very own silence
to speak about your
long silence
now we are at peace
in our silence
both shall speak about
us yes our silence
our marital silence in
the silence of our bed
the root of all our
troubles freud say is in
the silence of our beds
two beds now
four meters apart
speaking in silence
the silence of the house
and the chairs
and the staircases
and the carpets and
the ticks and the
empty glasses or those
cold coffee and
frozen butter.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Infanta
For a moment it flashed
through me, I thought I
remembered being someone before now,
the her who was me
hurt, felt,
embedded like a whorl in wood.
The photograph is black and white,
but I know the dress was amber--
she bells out toward me,
her fingers resting against
a cage of satin,
she stands the way I do
already--is that it--
or have I never forgotten how
to stand like her?
If I could just take the fire with me
into the next room I might sleep
and stumble into the black hole
of that photographer's studio,
back into the frame,
a wax doll, head and hands
emerging out of her costume,
like the infanta of Velasquez,
her future already in place,
maids-in-waiting, a dog, the dwarf,
everyone staring into a dream so dense
nothing ever escapes it.
poem by Ioanna Carlsen
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I think the more stressful our times get, the more we look for fantasy escapes.
Measure the distance
Anyone in constant sight
escapes your thought.
Anyone out of sight
Also follows suit.
Never be too close, or too far
To capture one’s attention.
17.12.2001, Pakd
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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At Black Clouds
I look at black clouds
Hear its noise very loud
Fully charged with stored water
Human beings wait for all needs to cater
Some how I have liked black color
It has special fragrance and odor
It has so much to show and attract
Of course with good nature and acts
How come these white silver linings?
Due to friction not clearly defining
How come it revolves around black clouds?
May there is opportune time for meeting ground
Black color leaves long lasting impression
There is no violation and transgression
It escapes unnoticed from world’s evil eyes
No one run after it and readily buys
Black has unique quality to store
Hide all treasures in belt to explore
Present to world all its high quality metal
Like beautiful rose with its fresh petals
I adore black for its retention quality
Its high potential and enormous ability
Not to feel bad even if said in open
It is accepted as fact in face of it even
I would give cent percent credit
Every living object has something to omit
They emit smoke disguised in black layer
We all are blind to prefer white and not to choose black as buyer
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Price Of Freedom
No man’s actually free
All answer to someone
It’s only through death
One escapes misery
ROTMS
poem by Ray Lucero
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Silence of Rumi
I read Rumi several times
And every time I went through
the same sincere silence
That unites the human with the divine
Silence of Rumi as though
Is the silence Sublime—
The heart of all sounds!
I dove deep down that silence,
A child’s wonder of sort
Why do I start my poems with words?
When they end only with silence!
His silence is deep
Deep as the existence at the bottom of the ocean
Deep as the calmness of a wise man
And yet he is in conversation
With the silence
And through it, time and again
His silence is the silence of a flute
Empty, easy and melodious
It turns separation into liberation
Oh what a joy—Rumi’s silence!
His silence is an invitation
To join the journey of the soul
A sweet beacon to lose yourself
In the Self of existence
And yet it is conversational
You can toy with it safely
Who can turn his back
Having heard Rumi’s silence
In its sincerity
In its entirety
Who can escape from Rumi’s silence
Having been there for a moment
Who can not hear his silence
Having heard it with the thumps of his heart
Oh love! Go and meet this evening
Silence of Rumi in its serenity
Of heavens
This must be the highest
Of souls
This is the highest!
poem by Bhaswat Chakraborty
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The Forest
The edge of the forest stands
Against the grey, white sky
Like a row of colourless headstones
Stripped trees emerge
Tombs of a bleak winter
Silhouetted in the dull light
Against the imaginings of man
No light or life escapes
The depths of the forest
The thoughts which swell there
Creates in them a fear
Some great sadness hidden
Branches reach out like clawed hands
Pointing into a nothingness
Or grabbing, pulling inwards
To the shadows and the darkness
Of the deathly forest floor
The silence that awaits
Far beneath the grey, white sky
The morning becomes forgotten
Beyond the edge of the forest
Where shadows hide
poem by Matthew Holloway
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Preciseness
All this talk about ego.
When no one escapes self expression.
Isn't that what composing is?
For a poet.
And the writing of it is what gets done.
For a poet.
Who unlike critics...
Sit and wait for something tart to remark.
That could be said of most!
Certainly not for everyone.
Is this place offered to those who create.
For those who are innovative in thought.
And not scholared in debated...
Seeking to correct self expressions.
And...
Hoping to find a clue what to do with their own.
If that should happen before the ego does arrive.
All this talk about ego.
When no one escapes self expression.
Isn't that what composing is?
For a poet.
I can pretend I know it all and I know I don't.
So you get no entertaining charades from me.
However,
Expect everything you can imagine,
From those who have none!
Their preciseness is overdone.
With an overbite.
And under-rated is their aggravation.
With an unspoken wish they were out of sight.
And they would get it delivered quickly.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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