Playing with words
Sometimes one gets used to words
And they are uttered without really anything to mean
Like one kind of a routine
Like you’re one kind of a boring bookworm
Office house
House office
Church on Sundays
Seldom (having sex in some
First time places)
Sometimes one goes to the toilet without
Switching on the lights or having to open one’s eyes
There is a memory
Of what comes first and comes later
Of what one need not think anymore
Something so ordinary so invisible
We forget what meaning is
We die without really knowing why
There were words then
We remember
There is no more chill
Like a red apple that you love to bite
Fresh from the ref
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Complicated Lifestyle.
a man's life is simple.
he has a routine, like this: house, office, house.
he gets bored, adds another place,
like house, office, park, mall, house,
waste of money, but a little interesting, he adds more
a friend's house, another house where he can be intimate with someone,
then sex, and games and romance and betrayal and use and sue and
lots of booze,
he retreats back to house, office, house,
but it is not the same again.
he sins, feels so broke, and
to a certain extent
attempts at suicide.
sad, but it can happen to you.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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And What About Us Who Write Poems Every Minute Of The Day?
what words can we take pride in
these poems like our daily breaths
ordinary words we utter in ordinary
conversations we have
come breakfast come snack time
come lunch come dinner
the talks we have on the park
in the marketplaces of our ordinary days
unplanned, unscreened, unedited
ordinary words to ordinary occasions
an embarrassment, can these words be?
unscheming and devoid of meaning
the lines of the common places?
the dialogues of the fool and the unwise?
you do not have to mind
this is my journal, a record of nothing
but ramblings of my mind and there you are
carefully reading putting meaning where there was
really none
this poem of day to day, unwavering
trying to be but nothing, a mode of nothing but just
plain thinking
do you too have this kind of breathing?
tell me why you breathe, then?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Words Sometimes Take On A Own Meaning
Words sometimes take on a own meaning
and sometimes they are sharp and painful
as if there is much more to words
as if a kind of secret knowledge hides in them
that are sometimes something moving.
Words sometimes take on a own meaning
but somehow words can at times miss things
and are sometimes dependent on feelings
as if there is much more to words
when through it all love brings a kind of bonding
and so you and I are attractive to each other.
Words sometimes take on a own meaning
and daily a bond develops between us,
while you become more considerable to me,
as if there is much more to words
you constantly live in my thoughts,
while love becomes real through words.
Words sometimes take on a own meaning
as if there is much more to words…
poem by Gert Strydom
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Donkey Life
today
i was sad
so.. sad...
i my office
officer
bite me
at hard words
words are very fool
so
i am not cool
i am very hot
so thinking
my officer words at home
i did not sleep well
i did not eat well
next day
i am going for office
not a healthy person
with patent
on body...
on mind...
office life is
donkey life...
what can i do...?
poem by Otteri Selvakumar
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Donkey Life 4 Office
today
i was sad
so.. sad...
i my office
officer
bite me
at hard words
words are very fool
so
i am not cool
i am very hot
so thinking
my officer words at home
i did not sleep well
i did not eat well
next day
i am going for office
not a healthy person
with patent
on body...
on mind...
office life is
donkey life...
what can i do...?
poem by Otteri Selvakumar
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Thoughts After Sex
after sex
people sleep
that is the
usual exit that
people who want
to escape seem
to know and do
they sleep
the routine keeps
going like
house, office,
office, house
roads, doors
doors, road
after sex
the usual exit
is closed
you look at the
ceiling trying to
open another
door
but there isn't
any.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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For The Rest Of My Life
for the rest of my life
i will take the same routine
home, office, school,
home office, school,
a straight life confined
in a certain space
too confined and too
tight for my soul
and too boring
for my body
home, office, school,
school, home, office,
you ask me if there is
something wrong with
my life? there is nothing
right in it, everything has
always been wrong
and everyday has always
been an attempt to correct
it, but nothing
nothing has fit into it
to cut the routine to
break me from the
chains of everyday
nothing comes and nothing
goes, i think, that is how
it is meant to be,
i think, i simply have
to imagine, make some
figments of stars, and moon
and sun and mountains
and seas and valleys
and castles and princesses
and kings and queens
and too they become routine
too, some poems and stories
some people that do not
actually exist, some imaginary
earth, imaginary creatures
they are all here, in this routine
of imaginations, of poetics
of illusions and allusions,
these lines, my life, these routine
and all my excuses, you and I.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Yvonne of Brittany
In your mother's apple-orchard,
Just a year ago, last spring:
Do you remember, Yvonne!
The dear trees lavishing
Rain of their starry blossoms
To make you a coronet?
Do you ever remember, Yvonne,
As I remember yet?
In your mother's apple-orchard,
When the world was left behind:
You were shy, so shy, Yvonne!
But your eyes were calm and kind.
We spoke of the apple harvest,
When the cider press is set,
And such-like trifles, Yvonne,
That doubtless you forget.
In the still, soft Breton twilight,
We were silent; words were few,
Till your mother came out chiding,
For the grass was bright with dew:
But I know your heart was beating,
Like a fluttered, frightened dove.
Do you ever remember, Yvonne,
That first faint flush of love?
In the fulness of midsummer,
When the apple-bloom was shed,
Oh, brave was your surrender,
Though shy the words you said.
I was glad, so glad, Yvonne!
To have led you home at last;
Do you ever remember, Yvonne,
How swiftly the days passed?
In your mother's apple-orchard
It is grown too dark to stray,
There is none to chide you, Yvonne!
You are over far away.
There is dew on your grave grass, Yvonne!
But your feet it shall not wet:
No, you never remember, Yvonne!
And I shall soon forget.
poem by Ernest Christopher Dowson
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My Invisible Friend
All I could remember about you
Is your angelic face [now that I’m old]
Dear! You might be… still the same
As always when we were teens
‘Cause I only hear your voice
As kind as your words to read
Maybe one day you appear
Before… my very own eyes
And before… I’ll lose this mind
Oh! Those priceless advices
Love is in your trait
Every time you care
God is in your heart
And no one could take this place
Right in my heart, my friend
In all spaces and places
Over and over, again and again
I can still feel your strength
Though you’re still invisible
Still! I love you my friend
poem by Efren Petalver Carranza
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Glass House
Glass house, that once was mine , the sun will shine in on me
You, change your mind, you werent the kind to live on me
I remember yesterday , turn my tears to laugher
Then you left and like a stray, I came running after
(break)
I remember you at night, palm trees softly swaying
I remember all the words you were softly saying
Glass house upon the hill so big and still, the shady lane
Its ours , my love , until the day we say auf wiedersehen
song performed by by Bee Gees
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Woman Is Fire
There was a time when Woman went out of house, house of wax was left by Woman, Woman with waxen complexion I was, I was fiery Woman, Woman's body was a wax, Woman's eyes a flammable paraffin, what Woman's mouth was: withered red apples when Woman was fired out of house. House was invisible when Woman took a fire lamp and went to cheer in the smell of fallen apples, scattered around house, our moldy house. In the cold night Woman molded her body in a candle mould to revive old fire and saw Man that gathered apple stalks from moldy apple trees. It was a lonely man, Man that made a fire with waxed paper and moldering apple stalks. Man that sat outdoors on a moldy wooden bench by that fire and drunk applejack.
Woman saw Man, Man that felt Woman's looks through apple shaped embers bursting out of fire when wet apple leaves dried. Fire was a necessity for Man, for Man made his living being a fire-eater. The fire-eater wanted fire that gives birth, of fireworks, exploding fire. Man moved a long green apple stalk through fire to burn fire more. Man took a dropp and swallowed it. Man took another dropp and spat it into the fire. Suddenly Man realized what he needed and waxed on a piece of paper: fire must drink applejack for fire is becoming moldy, and he spat what he drunk mingled with apple-tasting spit. House is moldy too, Woman remembered and woman's heart became a rotten apple.. Fire was quenching as Woman closed her eyelids, apple peels, longing for house. House may be moldy, but house is not empty. Woman molded house the like, house full of candle lights and fireflies. Woman left Man's fire quenched and remained an apple scented candle. House melts easily and hardens quickly, Woman too. Woman abandoned Man not to be melt. That is old fire in Woman, as she stalks on apple waxed earth toward house.
poem by Afrodita Nikolova
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These Three Words
When was the last time
That they heard you say
Mother or father, I love you
And when was the last time
That they heard you say
Daughter or son, I love you
Ones you say you cherish everyday
Can instantly be taken away
Then youd say I know this cant be true
When you never took the time
To simply tell them I love you
When was the last time
That they heard you say
Sister or brother, I love you
And when was the last time
That they heard you say
Darling or best friend, I love you
The one for whom youd give your very life
Could be taken in the twinkling of an eye
Through your tears youd ask why did you go
Knowing youd didnt always show
Just how much you loved them so
These three words
Sweet and simple
These three words
Short and kind
These three words
Always kindles
An aching heart to smile inside
I know a family
Who hasnt a cent to their name
And yet the joy and love they have between them
They always claim
And when ones called from life
The survived mourn the lost
And will never be the same
Yet they rejoice
In knowing they gave them their all
These three words
Sweet and simple
These three words
Short and kind
These three words
Always kindles
(repeat and fade)
song performed by by Stevie Wonder
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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To my charmer...
I maybe ordinary but unlike my words,
my words aren't ordinary at all, you see.
My eyes are hazel shades of other worlds,
my eyes are attraction force, back to me.
I'm short but i'm smart, so smart,
my mind can be devilish, but not to you.
I won't begin to talk about my heart,
my heart's created for the love of you.
I may seem boring but i'm interesting,
my thoughts are amazing and my love within.
I may look poor but i'm actually investing,
my love, in your heart and i'm hoping to win.
And my hands are cold and yes, they're small,
to the touch of your hand, warm, they will become.
If my hands are small, my heart is not at all,
and to your love, i've loved my self and every one.
Tell me, how is she like? you're wife,
beautiful? loving? caring? smart? kind? ?
I'm all that, so, share my life,
believe me, i try but i can't leave you behind.
I think i'm under your spell,
i can't but to gaze upon your face.
I'm going straight to hell, but look at you,
and put your self in my place! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !
Thank You!
Two little words that mean so much, a courtesy expressed...
A chance you really ought to clutch: somebody's done their best!
Two little words that show you're pleased because somebody cared!
Somebody helped thus tensions eased when love itself was shared...
Two little words can change a life, acknowledging a debt:
When calm was brought to what was strife, or joy replaced regret!
Two little words so simply said and yet what hope they bring!
They seem to dissipate our dread and cause our hearts to sing!
Two little words, just two, no more! What practice is required?
Good manners help both rich and poor and so they're quite admired!
Two little words said with a smile can bless somebody's day -
They have a certain sense of style that time can't wear away!
Two little words as sweet as wine, like nectar to the bees!
Their sentiment is just divine, they open doors like keys!
Two little words that bless the Church, the office and the home -
So close to us, no need to search, because they never roam!
Two little words that even Christ was wise enough to speak!
Lord Jesus knows they're highly prized! Indeed, they're quite unique!
Two little words God likes to hear directed to His Throne!
Of all the words to volunteer, they're the greatest ever known...
poem by Denis Martindale
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Your Birthday
Here's to another birthday,
Have fun on your special day.
These are the typical phases,
On ordinary birthday cards.
Well you are not ordinary.
You need to hear,
Just how dear,
And near,
To my heart you are.
How you are my safe house.
How I can tell you my secrets.
How we give one another,
Memories that we can't forget.
How can I possibly,
Put all this into words.
My feelings go beyond,
All that you have heard.
It's more than words can say.
You see.
It's not just your birthday,
It's the day that,
God blessed me! ! !
To have you to be,
A part of me.
poem by Tameeka Smith
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I think what we ought to be focusing on is that we are on path for the release of 75,000 pages of documents in connection with John Roberts' work in the White House, as in the counselor's office and as his time working as an assistant in the office of the attorney general.
quote by Alberto Gonzales
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Houses
1898 -- A Song of the Dominions
'Twixt my house and thy house the pathway is broad,
In thy house or my house is half the world's hoard;
By my house and thy house hangs all the world's fate,
On thy house and my house lies half the world's hate.
For my house and thy house no help shall we find
Save thy house and my house -- kin cleaving to kind;
If my house be taken, thine tumbleth anon.
If thy house be forfeit, mine followeth soon.
'Twixt my house and thy house what talk can there be
Of headship or lordship, or service or fee?
Since my house to thy house no greater can send
Than thy house to my house -- friend comforting friend;
And thy house to my house no meaner can bring
Than my house to thy house -- King counselling King.
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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My Daily Bread
you do not believe when i tell you that i write everyday
it is routine to me
so my poems
are like
breathings
inhale
exhale
a poem
here a poem there
writing has become like a beating of my heart
so every beat
every pulse
is a poem made
like one kind of a factory
mass production
of breathing and beating
i have developed sort of too much familiarity with this kind of poetic activity and it has become so
so ordinary
and so much familiarity comes my contempt for my daily poetry
it is nothing extraordinary
it is like washing my face
brushing my teeth
cutting my nails
going to the office
teaching my class
reading books
walking the dog
taking a morning walk
lunch with my wife
listening to
lawyers argue
their cases
in court
all these are so ordinary
routinely clockwork
and they are nothing
they are
my poems
my daily bread.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Blind Love
Words and music by tom waits
Now youre gone
And its hotels and whiskey and sad luck days
And I dont care if they miss me
I never remember their names
They say if you get far enough away
Youll be on your way back home
Well Im at the station
And I cant get on the train
Must be blind love
The only kind of love is stone blind love
The only kind of love is stone blind love
The only kind of love is stone blind love
Oh blind love
Blind love
Stone blind love
Stone blind love
Well the streets turning blue
The dogs are barking and the night has come
And its tears that are falling
From these brown eyes now
And I wonder where you are
And I whisper your name
(I whisper your name)
And the only way to find you
Is if I close my eyes
And find you with my blind love
The only kind of love is stone blind love
The only kind of love is stone blind love
The only kind of love is stone blind love
Oh blind love
Blind love
Stone blind love
Stone blind love
Oh its blind love
The only kind of love is stone blind love
The only kind of love is stone blind love
The only kind of love is stone blind love
Oh blind love
Blind love
Stone blind love
song performed by by Bob Seger
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Manifestations
she comes
late tonight
and tells you
she is very tired
that she was
with her aunt
and in the
restaurant
where
they ate
early dinner
where they
drank
light beer and
smoked
some marlboro
and they were
laughing
on some jokes
that i told you
the other day
about married
people who
do not make
do
anymore as
often as they
want to
on the
early part of
their marriage
the honeymoon
that you
do not want
to remember
anymore
and then she
kissed you
goodnight
on your cheek
slightly and she
went straight
to your
bedroom
turned the air
condition
on and then
wrapped herself
with thick
wool blanket
and closed her
eyes and
slept
with all the
lights
on
she curled
like a puppy
that
we bought
yesterday
you guess
she must
be very
lonely in this
kind of
misery
the time
is 9: 30 p.m.
it is
saturday
and it is
raining
and there
is no one
in the house
anymore.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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