Perfect Crime
the walls have as always been mute
the lizard who sees it left to another ceiling where
there are more mosquitoes
the curtains are dirty too
and dusts and stains make a good companion
and so the only witness left
to testify about the crime that has just been committed is this
cockroach
no one believes what it is telling
no matter how truthful can it be
and with one stroke of the insecticide spray
everything is erased away
the walls wish for a tongue
the lizard comes back and has nothing to tell
the mosquitoes are inside its belly
the curtains are tied with a rope
the dusts are blown by the wind
the stains fabricate another companion
a funeral for the cockroach is done
i am present there, and i too have nothing to say
about the murder
pure white magnolias are laid
on the ground
on that bright day
it rains....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Related quotes
Thoughts Before The Much Needed Sleep...
one wonders, at times, in the middle of
(nowhere)
of the room, where books scatter like chairs
after a wild party, that class reunion after
25 long years, (back to the main point)
of wonder, when pushed at the edge,
whether, the things done, year after year,
polishing each, like old shoes that do not break
priding of their crocodile skins, are right
correct, and justified, whether the conclusions
arrived at are, true, useful, and normally
good, one lays his head against the tip
of the easy chair, supports the neck with both
hands and look at the ceiling for answers that
do not come out easily, but appear like lizards
still waiting for their cockroach and favorite mosquitoes,
this office has mosquitoes and cockroaches,
and, as the answers are not ready made, but
slimy like fishes on the river Kwai, one stares like
a blank wall, eyes closed later, fall into sleep and
dream.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Messing
the room is full of litters
the underwear is on top of the headboard
the shoes are far from each others' gaze
dirty clothes roam like wolves
and the bulb lights are filled with dusts
moths are dead
and mosquitoes reign the nooks
cobwebs look like fog
but i know how to paint
something so orderly in my mind
i take the brush of the brain
and the tints of bright colors
it is not denial
but it is just a matter of choosing
what reality i want
i become blind to all these mess
i only select what i must accept
so you see
my world is as beautiful as yours
i sleep soundly at night
as the ants and the scorpions
make their wars.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Images Of The Past
Image 1
A big white horse
Galloping
All four feet hanging in mid-air
On the ground below it
A yellow butterfly
A broken wing.
Image ii
A dirty boy chases a dirty pig
His dirty father chases both
While mother hides her face
Behind a black umbrella.
Image iii
I see on the ceiling a little spider, a lizard
And a white moth
The faded yellow fluorescent bulb blinks
I blink too
The little spider is gone and the moth flew away.
Image iv
A girl on a swing swinging high on air
Her left slipper left in space
Rightly so
Captured still in the middle of air
The two of us look we did not move
Like a Flemish painting
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Alien is gross, scary. There is something in a human being that looks at them and sees it as a cockroach. You can never feel nurturing towards the cockroach.
quote by Sanaa Lathan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A POW’s VERSE
Absolute loneliness
Lost in this dungeon
Nowhere to go
No friends
No companion
But the walls of my cell
Which re-echo back my thoughts
For breakfast
strokes of bulala
For lunch de-humanization
For super frustration
Indefinite fasting
For how long
For how long echoed the walls
The walls, my only companion
Dreamt last night of home
Walked familiar paths
Then, enter, dream killer
Hostile bang on my cell door
It is daylight again
Thought it was home
Expecting mother to call
In her familiar way
‘rise and shine son, it’s a beautiful day’
– the jangle of chains
bounding my hands and feet.
My eyes met the walls
The door yanked open
exposing my tormentor
A mask of all ugliness of a face
With bold lines stretching from mouth to ear
Exposing a gworo – tinted teeth
“aweje maza maza aaam brruuu….uba”
Weak to get up, bedraggled
To give the buttock and back
It’s usual breakfast,
Creating new 'bulala' marks,
drawing fresh blood from old ones
Making me sing my usual morning ballad
Healthy breeds of hair lice
Robust body fleas
Consummate what is left of me
Well, I still play a useful role
in the order of nature, I thought
A sumptuous meal for the bugs
Scratch the skins, scratch
Scratch with your unkempt dirty fingernails
Serrate your laps, buttock, belly and back
Leaving tracks of trickling blood
Shall it ever end and how?
Shall it ever end and how - echoed the walls.
The walls, my only companion
Four Walls
Nobody knows the secrets captivated
Within these four walls
That construct my soul
That rebuild my life
My mind, my emotions, my past, and my present
My mind holds the key
To open all possibility
That may have been granted unto me
As my thoughts are withheld
In words I mold and meld
To acclaim certainty, justice, and divine truth
My emotions control
All storms in my soul
Whether they be sunny or pure catastrophe
As my heart reveals
What my tongue urgently conceals
As I fail to give my love to a worthy beholder
My past fills up ledgers till they overflow
Marking sins I have committed through rain or snow
How I wish I could make revisions
But the stanzas of my past are unable to be erased
No white-out was supplied, and by this haunting I am chased
For sheer terror I cry since I can't discard a memory
My present is now as I live every moment
To my surroundings I submit and relent
Living every day like there is no tomorrow
Then tomorrow comes as I wash, rinse, and repeat
As I sit in these four walls accompanied by my heartbeat
So much to record in so little time
In my cell, my home, in these four walls
Inside my body, I've stumbled and had falls
But my house was built on the rock and I am strong
Inside my shelter I'm waiting for my savior
The one that will love me forevermore
To come hailing from the sky to be my redeemer
The redeemer that opens these four walls and sees no surprise
For he already knows what is held inside
Waiting for him to open the door and set me free
So that I may stay with him for all eternity
poem by Gabrielle Fleming
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Mosquitoes
If mosquitoes were not there
To draw blood from your capillaries
You would have to visit your doctor
Every week to get rejuvenated
For Gods sake donot destroy the vale of tears
Where mosquitoes breed
Mosquitoes do not take fees
But the doctors do
If doctors replace mosquitoes
The global market will no doubt expand
For the benefit of man and the USA
poem by Dr. Ramesh Chandra Mukhopadhyaya
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THE Metamorphosis of F. Kafka
one day
he finds himself converted into
a giant cockroach
he does not know about it at first
until he wakes up
and looks at himself in the mirror
he changes his taste for food
now attracted to left overs
dislikes water and
light
dislikes people and
events
and cannot relate to the morning
news on TV
his door has now remained closed
and no one is allowed to enter
except his dear sister
who feeds him
morsels
in time he begins to understand
how is it to be a cockroach
how humans have been too cruel
to their state
and then
he writes about Kafka and
The Metamorphosis
that is the real story
until the cockroach dies
until Kafka recovers again
away from
Ward 10.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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In Times Of Depression
failure. defeat. setting sun.
dark nights. Bar escapades.
lost hopes. Excitements gone.
feeling like a dead log floating on the river.
silence. Conversations that do not mean anything at all.
dogs howling. Cat naps.
furs left on the sofa. Carpets and dusts
and some bites from mosquitoes
that find themselves
whisking inside this room.
ticks and tic tac toes of boredom.
book waiting to be read. Bookmarks and ears.
sitting on a bench. Sunshine falling on your hair.
warmth spreading inside your armpits.
lips wetting. Saliva on the tongue.
Air getting inside your nostrils.
a bubble of air inside your lungs.
a word shaping inside your mouth. You want to speak.
you choose the mute mode of your life.
You switch on to hibernation.
some leaves fall. The wind arrives. Some flowers
bloom. The bees beginning busy.
Some butterflies. Blue and Yellow lights.
Grass as green as ever with dew on their tips.
There is no depression. There may be denial.
When pain is so much. Try these little things.
inside your mind, there is fullness of thoughts.
Tiny butterfly wings. Shiny wings of beetles.
Aroma of coffee. Scents of roses. Red roses.
Beach bench. Under a tree. Time stops to run here.
You are here. You are not waiting for anybody.
Time runs. But there is no watch to tell you about anything.
Then you think you have something to write about.
It is about this. Welcome.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Transformations Of Our Being
at first, no matter how trivial
each dust becomes special
since it comes from your tongue
wet with the sweetest saliva of your love,
we always want it that way
that rainy feel
that wets us all over
running down our spine
into the hidden nooks of
our being
that we do not wish to share
with any creature
in this exclusive spot that we found
gee
you say it once
and i join you
in this harmony
of our
differences
wow is my other word
for these ordinary dusts
that go inside me
i become a part
of the boulevard
where lovers
want to spend the
night
with the winds
that change
the arrangements
made by
fate
now to dust
shall we to dust return
but when that time comes
we too
have assumed the body
of the wind
the soul of the earth
the dusts
invincible
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Mosquitoes Complained
One day a swarm of mosquitoes complained to God
“Lord God we must protest! ”
“What is it My Children? ”
“We want You to still the Wind”
“Why? ”
“Because the Wind scatters our swarm”
“Ah I See”…God summoned the Wind
Within moments Wind arrived
God Spoke, “Wind, the mosquitoes have brought suit”
Wind replied “Where are my accusers? ”
'Gone…lost within thee Wind'
So it is when Seekers dispute God’s Creation
ROTMS
(Inspired by the brilliance of Rumi)
poem by Ray Lucero
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11: 13 P.m.
now that i have fed all the mosquitoes
i think, i must
go to sleep, and this is the last poem
for all the female mosquitoes
that i have
loved before
and still love
tonight
all of them
have sucked
my skin
and all of them
are now
silent
contented perhaps
and so happy
that there is still
a man
as generous
and understanding
as i
on said gesture
i can now
have my sound
sleep
good night, my darlings
may you give
birth
to a thousand baby mosquitoes
tomorrow
morning
may all of you
spread my genes
manyfold
like the sands
in the sahara desert
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Insectarium Virtual
Aurora hours open the 'middle- class' kitchen
An added odour to a wife's pathos
When attacks a band of mosquitoes
Morning coffee, mosquito-seasoned, bad omen
Mosquitoes whiz around and around
Tickling at times the lady's nostrils
A squad of running lizards
Invading on the wall the whizzing band
As the mosquito-music sports
Out of its flock an antenna-wand
Trekking in sympathetic wizard
A cockroach scuffles and scuttles
A spider in higher space with frantic tugs
Trying out effortfully its prey
Fatefully that comes its web- way
Frenetic lady in boiling fizzes
Nocturnal enemies, nonsense thieves
Perpetual presence never in decrease
Insectarium-home yet with more varieties
poem by Indira Renganathan
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Both the cockroach and the bird could get along very well without us, although the cockroach would miss us most.
quote by Joseph Wood Krutch
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Both the cockroach and the bird would get along very well without us, although the cockroach would miss us most.
quote by Joseph Wood Krutch
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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La cucaracha for lady Phoenix Rain
.
I have a cockroach for a friend.
I may just start a whole new trend
But when you're pent in the death cell
it makes it difficult to tell.
My friendly cockroach visits me.
He's not afraid to let me see
he wants the leavings on my plate
Though he’s polite prepared to wait.
I have no other friends who care
my leavings I will gladly share.
And when they strap me in the Chair.
I know my cockroach will be there
He will be waiting faithfully
to have his last free meal on me.
8-Jul-08
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Leticia II
Of the horned owl,
Of the little owl,
Of the fisher owl,
Of the screech owl,
Of the white owl,
Of the desert owl;
But, do not hold back the wages of a hired man overnight!
Of the large lizard,
Of the monitor lizard,
Of the sand lizard;
And like the spreading of mildew in a home!
But, the blood of the tresspass offering is now seen around;
Because, the life of the flesh is in the blood.
Do not eat blood oh my sweet Leticia! !
And learn from the old paths always in this life;
For, the truth is always the truth.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Ideas For Walls
So many things in my head, Ive always had them before
No reason to be upset, theyre just ideas for walls
Now Im standing inside, outside, which is the right side
Im standing, demanding that the nightlife be called the right life
Like putting paint on my feet & walking sideways in rows
My walls could be so complete, complete with patterns of toes
Now Im standing inside, outside, which is the right side
Im standing the left side, right side, which is the right side
Now-ideas
Ideas for walls
Ideas for walls
Ideas for walls
A little m for the mirror, a double u for the wall
To make things perfectly clear, a great big h in the hall
Now Im standing inside, outside, which is the right side
Im standing, demanding that the nightlife be called the right life
Is everybody confused? (no) Im making no sense at all
You want a room with a view you need ideas for walls
Now Im standing inside, outside, which is the right side
Im standing inside, outside, outside, right side
Inside, outside, which is the right side
Now -- ideas
Ideas for walls
Ideas for walls
Ideas for walls
Ideas
Theyre just ideas for walls
Ideas for walls
Ideas for walls
Ideas for walls
Ideas for walls
song performed by by Men Without Hats
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Walls Of Red Wing
Oh, the age of the inmates
I remember quite freely:
No younger than twelve,
No older n seventeen.
Thrown in like bandits
And cast off like criminals,
Inside the walls,
The walls of red wing.
From the dirty old mess hall
You march to the brick wall,
Too weary to talk
And too tired to sing.
Oh, its all afternoon
You remember your home town,
Inside the walls,
The walls of red wing.
Oh, the gates are cast iron
And the walls are barbed wire.
Stay far from the fence
With the lectricity sting.
And its keep down your head
And stay in your number,
Inside the walls,
The walls of red wing.
Oh, its fare thee well
To the deep hollow dungeon,
Farewell to the boardwalk
That takes you to the screen.
And farewell to the minutes
They threaten you with it,
Inside the walls,
The walls of red wing.
Its many a guard
That stands around smilin,
Holdin his club
Like he was a king.
Hopin to get you
Behind a wood pilin,
Inside the walls,
The walls of red wing.
The night aimed shadows
Through the crossbar windows,
And the wind punched hard
To make the wall-siding sing.
Its many a night I pretended to be a-sleepin,
Inside the walls,
The walls of red wing.
As the rain rattled heavy
On the bunk-house shingles,
And the sounds in the night,
They made my ears ring.
til the keys of the guards
Clicked the tune of the morning,
Inside the walls,
The walls of red wing.
Oh, some of usll end up
In st. cloud prison,
And some of usll wind up
To be lawyers and things,
And some of usll stand up
To meet you on your crossroads,
From inside the walls,
The walls of red wing.
song performed by by Bob Dylan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Walls
Walls of stone and walls of brick,
Some walls thin and some walls thick,
Walls so high and walls so low,
Walls to hide and walls to show.
Walls quite short and walls quite tall,
Some walls, last well, some walls fall,
Walls for comfort, walls of hate,
Walls for security, walls ornate.
Some as a barricade, some to support,
Walls of wood and walls of iron wrought,
Walls as a barrier, walls to enclose,
Some are to sit on, some to lean and doze.
Walls we build ourselves, these aren't good,
Walls for privacy, walls that have stood,
So many years through weather foul or fine,
Walls, that are yours, walls that are mine.
Brick by brick they are built to last,
Whether built now or in the past,
They shelter us from so many things,
And shield us from whatever this life brings.
poem by Ernestine Northover
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