En.Citatepedia^®.ro

Outflow

as you walk
you already think of the words
putting colors to the letters
giving them scents
and shapes and
images

your only direction

home and
poetry

then you lock the
door.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Unexpectgedly

sometimes on days when we are crumpled like
waste papers or
drafts unfinished and thrown or set aside for a while
when life seems to be nothing but a desert guarded by the angry eyes
of the sun at
noonday when others seem to be islands set apart by storms and oceans
when we feel that we are dried river beds
with stinking fish attacked by gnats and worms
when everywhere is dark and
lonely and when we start to compose words for all these
phenomena describing in detail
why things are or what are they
in shapes and colors and scents
drawing from there and then
images of shadows and sighs
surprisingly when we all keep these inside our hearts
and wonder
a moment comes like a shining star
giving that little spark of our own genius
that we are never defeated
that we know how to rise above and beyond our
self-imposed limitations
like a seed that we throw because we cannot eat it
and sooner we
see something tiny is growing in our backyard
that past
into a tree bearing fruits
luscious and
giving us the extended days
in our lives.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Taking A Glance At You

taking a glance at you
is poetry in itself, by itself and for itself.

there are words in my eyes
they speak in silence. They long to tell you what i feel.

there are hands on my lips. There are fingers there.
They long to go near you and kiss your lips too.

i see you as words too. Your eyes are images of my
own happiness. Your lips are shaping the shapes of ships
and they have sails to take me away to ecstacies.

i feel you as words of love, and lust and desire insatiable.
my fingers want to read every syllable in your face.

you have always been my poem.And there are so many of you
in all of them.

words, and images, and ecstacies. faces and compositions.
i love all of them. And this time i take a glance again.
at you. this poem. this is you. Believe me.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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You've Got Her In Your Pocket

You've got her in your pocket
And there's no way out now
Put it in the safe and lock it
'cause it's at home sweet home
Nobody ever told you that it was the wrong way
To trick a woman, make her feel she did it her way
And you'll be there if she ever feels blue
And you'll be there when she FINDS someone new
What to do
Well you know
You keep her in your pocket
Where there's no way out now
Put it in a safe a lock it
'cause it's home sweet home
The smile on your face made her think she had the right one
Then she thought she was sure
By the way you two could have fun
But now she might leave
like she's threatened before
grab hold of her fast
before her feet leave the floor
and she's out the door
Cause you want,
To keep you in my pocket
Where there's no way out now
Put it in a safe a lock it
'cause it's home sweet home
And in your own mind
You know you're lucky just to know her
And in the beginning all you wanted was to show her
But now your scared
You think she's running away
You're searching your head for something clever to say
Dont go away
Cause i want,
To keep you in my pocket
where there's no way out
put it in the safe and lock it
cos' it's home sweet home
Home sweet home

song performed by by White Stripes
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Poets on Poetry: a collage

she, too, dislikes it, because it gives her the feeling as though
her head is taken off, makes her body cold so no fire can ever
warm her again. One does not look on poetry as a closed work, the poems go on and on
at all times on one’s head, and snip off a length.

You mush remember the homely definition,
Poetry is the best words in their best order, words in their nth power.

Bony ideas, bloody nerves, held together by the delicate
Tough skin of words…

Words…words...

I agree, I have never started a poem where I know the ending
Always the ending is unpredictable.
Poetry is your personal
Expression making it public, a revelation, a revolution of sort, you throw a pebble to the world.

In essence, poetry is an emotion, said, written in measured motion,
And that motion is an art.

Drip pity, drip pity, drip drip drip drip

Like a dripping rain, from a leaking roof, while one sleeps
To its rhythm.

A wording of highest thoughts, appearing as a
Remembrance, it does not really mean anything, it is simply magical…

But be.

You make a poem, but the reader recognizes it as his own,
But there is no accusation of thievery or plagiarism

A sea animal, evacuating to land, and now wanting to fly in the sky, that is poetry.

Making familiar things rare, as though they are
Not familiar anymore.

Giving habitation to airy nothing.
Giving nothing to everything.

Giving a nobody a nice home like he is now a somebody.
The invisible, made visible, and the visible made invisible.

A quarrel within himself.
In his tranquility, he recollects powerful feelings, and give in
To an spontaneous flow of giving.

That is poetry. Giving, and always giving, no taking, nothing taken.

I, too, dislike it at first.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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46

she, too, dislikes it, because it gives her the feeling as though
her head is taken off, makes her body cold so no fire can ever
warm her again. One does not look on poetry as a closed work, the poems go on and on
at all times on one’s head, and snip off a length.

You mush remember the homely definition,
Poetry is the best words in their best order, words in their nth power.

Bony ideas, bloody nerves, held together by the delicate
Tough skin of words…

Words…words...

I agree, I have never started a poem where I know the ending
Always the ending is unpredictable.
Poetry is your personal
Expression making it public, a revelation, a revolution of sort, you throw a pebble to the world.

In essence, poetry is an emotion, said, written in measured motion,
And that motion is an art.

Drip pity, drip pity, drip drip drip drip

Like a dripping rain, from a leaking roof, while one sleeps
To its rhythm.

A wording of highest thoughts, appearing as a
Remembrance, it does not really mean anything, it is simply magical…

But be.

You make a poem, but the reader recognizes it as his own,
But there is no accusation of thievery or plagiarism

A sea animal, evacuating to land, and now wanting to fly in the sky, that is poetry.

Making familiar things rare, as though they are
Not familiar anymore.

Giving habitation to airy nothing.
Giving nothing to everything.

Giving a nobody a nice home like he is now a somebody.
The invisible, made visible, and the visible made invisible.

A quarrel within himself.
In his tranquility, he recollects powerful feelings, and give in
To an spontaneous flow of giving.

That is poetry. Giving, and always giving, no taking, nothing taken.

I, too, dislike it at first.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Poetry Workshop

got invited to this poetry workshop
telling me
these critics
that they like my work, the way i put my words
like glass,
shiny colored glasses shaped like
ballerinas
in my cabinet

a menagerie of sorts like i am a keeper
of transparent dreams

so there i go, on free board and lodging
and oh yes, the place is so poetic
and i really like the scenery
of shrubs and bushes
and heights

on top of a hill where i can see lines
of sea and land
separated by my
kind of imagination
the sunset
the sunrise

the cool winds at night the
warmer sea breeze during the day
the kind of wind
that flaps the window making a sound
of a slamming door

i remember then the house
of my youth
where papa always slams
the door before mama
and the quarrel so endless
and we were not even
considered
as

creatures of the house
and they all begin
to leave
one after the other
and i remember
they all die
anyway but that is not the end
of the subject of my poetry

i see everything
in the workshop
where we eat and drink and discuss
my possibilities
my potential
as a great poet one day

but it is all in the mind
of this critic
it is all in my mind
until she begins
to dissect my poems
like a cadaver
nerve after nerve
muscle after muscle
bone connecting
to another cartilage
to another bone

until such time that all i see
are dead bodies
of my poems
surrounded by vultures
eating each
rotten flesh

i close my eyes and
feel the
wrong crowd all around me

what they do not know
is

i believe in myself, i still believe
in my
way of putting words to feelings
colors to blandness
scents where the dead are dead
and some
little dramatics where they are needed

just to live
and just be alone and still imagining believing
the beauty in things
in people

in words that flow like a free wind touching my face again
fresh like a flower with few dews still sticking
glistening
till the wee hours of my mourning

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Why Poetry?

'what is in poetry? 'sometimes you ask me,

'you can always love me without poetry,
why bother about words?
your kiss is enough,
what is the use of the metaphors?
we can always make love all through the night
and words become all too useless
and images become too superfluous' you ask more that what i can
muster to answer.

And this i say:

'i agree, poetry is is useless but like the monk who was asked
one day about something that he does
like sweeping the floor
like climbing the stairs
like praying and contemplating...'

let me say
'we have poetry because they are there to be written'

my heart smiles.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Creativity/ Like My Father On His Deathbed

Poetry is not about words.
Poetry flows
from experiences that hover beyond words,
a shining memory sounding muffled
hidden behind a familiar door.

The words of a poem
are the funeral of my old father,
magnificent, feisty and watchful,
available to the last
through indefinable gestures
and a shining silence
existent somewhere else now
as poetry is, the real poem,
not the heavy coffin of the print.

Poetry pines for it’s lost world,
its hidden home,
like a swan still singing on a plate.

It is homesick, alone, away
from its chosen canyons and
mountain trees around the lake,
vibrant with colour
in memories that glow
for a lifetime.

You know, as I do, poetry is not words,
but is a royal personage,
my father on his deathbed.

poem by Iain Trousdell
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An Introduction To A Poetry Book

Poetry Is More Than Mere Words,
i agree
mere words do not make poetry
it is the mixture
of night
and day
and day
and night
when
you think of yourself
and the other
when the night
dragged
so slowly
and you forget
that
morning has arrived
like
an unwanted visitor
of you party

it's a profound expression of what's inside oneself.

oh yes, it is always the inside
that matters
myself wanting to get out
from the cave
of innocence
and assume
the form
of a bird
wanting to fly away and never come back
since
there is no home
anymore to
speak of

It's an impressive play of words with meaning and
depth through which the author shares his feelings,
thoughts,
and
ideas.

i agree, it is sharing
above all, reaching to others who take the same
walk with you
angst
depression
joys
bliss
nu mbness
and feelings
of guilt

a confession

Through poetry, he conveys his innermost self -
putting them into vivid
and vibrant verses
that tell stories,
express sentiments,
and speak of lives.

In this kaleidoscope of poems,
he gives focus on everything
and anything there is,
making this poetry
as diverse as life itself.

Enjoy

these poems, and

you'll find yourself inspired

to write your own.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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This Is Mumbling This Is Rambling

do not care to read me carefully, just skim over
some words that may call your preferential attention.
do not mind the smaller ideas, or the images that
you find hard to imagine. They may not be images
after all but just blotches of my stains, the negligence
of my trembling fingers, the lapses of my brains,
the slip of my tongues, the cliches of humanity,
seeking meaning in the meaninglessness of words.

this is mumbling, this is plain rambling
do not ever mind what i am writing. this is not about you.
or myself, or the society that like sheep simply graze on the grass
not knowing that on the next step is the landmine that kills them,

or why look for the meaning of loneliness in words or lines or poetry.
are you going home tonight? on a train. sit there. look over the window.
see the line of trees, do they shout at you? No.
and move your eyes, as though you are scrolling for names on the
cell phone, like roving camera, you do not have to look that far on the
20th person sitting across the other side.

someone is sitting next to you. listen to his silence.
feel the vibrations of all his problems. try to unmask the cover of his face.
are there words covering his face? none.

or if words cover his face and body, try reading them all silently.
most of the truths are not said. Not even written. You always see them
next to you. Be it on the train, the bus or the plane. Or simply when you
walk along the cemented paths of the park. Here comes another
lost soul. Talk to him. Do not write poetry.

this is mumbling this is plain rumbling. Do not speak poetry.
write them and let them cover your face. That is the best way to speak.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Watching For Shapes

Written by ricky & marty wilde
Influences now are things that are all around me
Changing shape as they move around in an open mind
Coloured in by the images I find
Im just watching for shapes that grow
Im just watching for shapes that grow
(watching for shapes that grow)
Like electric sparks they danced by an open mirror
Closing doors never looking round but its not goodbye
Theyll be there till Im taken out I know
Im just watching for shapes that grow
Im just watching for shapes that grow
(watching for shapes that grow)
In my mind theres a space thats full of painted pictures
Things I did that I went through, but cant recall
Now and then theres a flash of the unknown
Im just watching for shapes that grow
Im just watching for shapes that grow
(watching for shapes that grow)
(watching for shapes that grow)
(watching for shapes that grow)

song performed by by Kim Wilde
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Silent Conversation With Myself

do not care to read me carefully, just skim over
some words that may call your preferential attention.
do not mind the smaller ideas, or the images that
you find hard to imagine. They may not be images
after all but just blotches of my stains, the negligence
of my trembling fingers, the lapses of my brains,
the slip of my tongues, the cliches of humanity,
seeking meaning in the meaninglessness of words.

this is mumbling, this is plain rambling
do not ever mind what i am writing. this is not about you.
or myself, or the society that like sheep simply graze on the grass
not knowing that on the next step is the landmine that kills them,

or why look for the meaning of loneliness in words or lines or poetry.
are you going home tonight? on a train. sit there. look over the window.
see the line of trees, do they shout at you? No.
and move your eyes, as though you are scrolling for names on the
cell phone, like roving camera, you do not have to look that far on the
20th person sitting across the other side.

someone is sitting next to you. listen to his silence.
feel the vibrations of all his problems. try to unmask the cover of his face.
are there words covering his face? none.

or if words cover his face and body, try reading them all silently.
most of the truths are not said. Not even written. You always see them
next to you. Be it on the train, the bus or the plane. Or simply when you
walk along the cemented paths of the park. Here comes another
lost soul. Talk to him. Do not write poetry.

this is mumbling this is plain rumbling. Do not speak poetry.
write them and let them cover your face.

That is the best way to speak.
This is what is life is all about.
Speechless. Alone always.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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~Painting Poetry~

Poetry in thought
words tumble
from my mind
onto the page and screen
like paint dripping
from sable silk brushes
creating new visions
of new realities
in the virtual space
of my Soul
painting a perfect picture
words drip down the canvas
in deep brilliant hues
of purples and reds
and vibrant blues
to soft indigo of
twinkling velvet starlight
yellow tones as warm as sunrize
and golden oranges
of fleeting sunsets
blanket the page and screen
as verse, lyric and rhyme converge
splattering from my tongue
giving form to my dreams
and shape to my fantasies
trailing across
the smooth texture
and terrain of
flesh and muscle
brushes whisper
across the canvas
dance across bodies
images of two entwined
captured boldly
in Nubian hues
of mahogany and mocha
limbs and torsos
move and connect
in a vision of words spoken
caught in the kinetic frenzy
of bodies joined
and poetry painted
across the canvas
of this night’s loving
a masterpiece to behold
for generations to come
culminating in the joining of
pen and brush
words and colors
page and canvas
poetry and paint

poem by Soulful One
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No Direction Home

Crawl upon the earth, scour the universe you know
Set my compass north, circumscribe the earth and go - no direction home
Whats my part in this, whats this dream I cant let go
Whats your weight of this, what d'ya want to see and who d'ya want to know
You've no direction home, no direction home, no direction
Feels like all is lost, there's nowhere left to go
Through the seasoned sands, cross the sky to the morning snow
Is there no direction home, nowhere left to go, no direction home

song performed by by I Am Kloot
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Poet Loses His Power For Poetry

A POET LOSES HIS POWER FOR POETRY

A poet loses his power for poetry
He can put down words
But they no longer have poetry in them
Something of the feeling of what real poetry is
is gone.
He strives
He writes again and again
He puts words down in the forms and in the shapes his poems usually take
But he has no poetry in him
He has lost what he is
And all he can do
is strive again and again
Word after word
Silence after silence
To hear within himself again
A voice he does not have.

The poet is writing poetry
And it is not poetry
The poet is dead
And he is pretending to be alive
Is this a poem?
Is he a poet
Is he dead?
Is he alive?

poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Poetry To Me

What is poetry to me- it is words of beauty-words of life
Words of love, pain and sacrifice.
Words of showing and growing and needing and feeding
Words of hope and despairs, wanting and cares.

Poetry takes you into the minds of mankind
From days of old to the present time.
Poetry takes you on trips that you've never been before
And opens up every door.

Poetry becomes a longing, a want, a desire, a need
On which your mind must feed.
It becomes a life within itself
And takes you to the heavens and down to hell.

Poetry becomes a flaming desire
And only writing can put out this fire.
I call it my passion while others say it's my obsession
Yet! No matter what they may think or say
Poetry is here to stay.

So many different types of poetry
For the different minds 'you see'.
You will always find one that will give you meaning
From a loving heart to one that's bleeding.

Jump on the bandwagon and take a hold
For with poetry ' life unfolds'.

poem by Louis Rams
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Can't Walk You Home

You're a rich girl we all know
daddy runs an airline,
mummy's eye is on the dough
and the butlers' on the bread-line
You're so bright you glide through school
brains run in the family
You've been taught the "how do you do"
and all your men are manly
I'm just a boy, not what you're used to
That is why I can't walk you home
that is why I can't walk you home
that is why I can't walk you home
that is why (Why) I can't walk you home
I don't want to run you down
I don't mind the money
but last time when you asked me round
you said I was funny
Pulling strings and pony tails
just to get to know me
The only time you'll ever fail
is when you try to own me
I'm not a toy, I'm no use to you
That is why I can't walk you home
that is why I can't walk you home
that is why I can't walk you home
that is why (Why) I can't walk you home
[Mike Solo]
I'm just a boy not what you're used to
That is why I can't walk you home
that is why I can't walk you home
that is why I can't walk you home
that is why (Why) I can't walk you home

song performed by by Level 42
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Rainbow of my Life

You put rainbow into my life
Different colors, so bright
Rainbows that full of life
That gives colors to the lonely skies

Rainbows end is a pot of gold they say
A treasure to keep as long you stay
Rainbow is like a man or a woman in our lives
It shines, gives us colors, gives us life
That would shine through the rest of our lives

But sometimes rainbows are gone
Not shining nor not giving colors in the clouds
Nor not giving life to the lonely skies
When its so hot and dry

Rainbows is like a life
Giving us water when everything is drought
Giving us colors when everything turns out dark
Making us smile for the different colors they had

You are like my rainbow
You give colors to my life
You give meaning to my lonely nights

But as like rainbows
Sometimes they are gone
Sometimes they don't show
Sometimes not giving us life

You are my rainbow
For a moment in my life
But now, my rainbow is gone
The shines, the colors, the bright
For my rainbow will never shine again
To my lonely life

(09/05/09)

poem by Gil Caguiat
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Poetry Blog

my daily online
poetry, a blog
of nothing but
thoughts of

stone, petal,
raindrop,
a threadlike
composition
of colors
and scents
and personalized
designs

depicting
mood swings
moral, amoral
or otherwise

goes and goes
like a train
of thoughts
day by day

chronologically
relevant
trying always
to figure out
who am i

really

it is not to entice
or corrupt

it is merely
a signification of

here i am
are you there too?

no climbing
of ladders
or blowing of horns
no choir
of angels
or boasting
of this

oh my God
what a coincidence
you think
the way i think

nope, there is nothing
worthy of my poetry
even myself

this write, all the poems
but a poetry blog

and so by now
express your angst

shout, rage,
cool dude, subdue
subdued

a stream
of consciousness

the turtle swimming in the
deepest part of
this ocean

clouds like cotton
submerging
to your pond

i watch, yes, let me watch
i speak, yes, let me speak

truly, i am not interested,
i write,
because i have something to write,
this destiny,
of i cannot get away,

yes, call me a rambling thought,

i am, i am, i am
it is all about, this i am, i am, i am,

today, i am, i am feeling this heaviness
and you sit
in the dark corner, telling me,

why do you write poetry,
and yet here i am dying, and you do not really mind.....

i beg of you,
do not try to figure out, to understand, i beg

of you,
this is nothing, go away, go somewhere

i am a cloud, i drift, i am this space groping for letters,
a word will not do, i beg, i beg of you.....

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Red Letters

Red letters
Cut deep
Soothe the pain inside.
Red letters
Bold and loud
Scream silently.
Red letters
Secret and hidden
But a cry for help.
Red letters -
A way to deal with this pain.

As I cut these words into my skin
I remember seeing red words somewhere before
Then it hits me like a lightning bolt -
Words of Jesus are printed in red. Words of Christ in red.

Red letters
Real truth, piercing deep
Soothes my pain inside.
Red letters
Your passion, Your blood
Covers me.
Red letters
Hope and life
I cry, 'Fill me! '
Red letters -
You were pierced and bloody
So I wouldn't have to be.

'What can wash away my sin?
Nothing but the blood of Jesus!
What can make me whole again?
Nothing but the blood of Jesus!
Oh! precious is the flow that makes me white as snow!
No other fount I know -
Nothing but the blood of Jesus! '

Red letters... Nothing but the blood -
Red letters... Nothing but the blood of Jesus!

poem by Zoe MacRae
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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