Primary And Secondary
bread and butter thing
water and white rice on the table
eggs and vegetables
spread on the covered table
these are the primaries of life
poetry is at nighttime
reading aloud
composing some more
analyzing other poets' works
telling to yourself
this smacks the senses
this strikes the core of my being
this will not make me sleep again
invigorating
worth the lost salt of myself
not looking back
moving on
sailing on the boat in the middle
of such storm
seeking peace
sleeping alone and dreaming
these are the secondaries of existence
tomorrow can be
incompetent
today is the most evident
the past is duly taken
notice
the void comes
and then to its wings i take my daily ride.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Related quotes
Bread And Butter
bread and butter
day to day
on the table
i must add
this dessert
called poetry
then some
fumes of
pearl rice
and scents
of hycinths
rise up
to the skies
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Ode To A Strict Lifestyle Of The Past
'twas the cruel time
with grandpa when dropping a grain
of rice on the table cloth is such a big crime
when you like to eat but you cannot swallow
the food
when you like to drink but the water tasted
as bitter as bile
when the conversations on the dining table
are shallow as affection is strange
as nothing becomes more important
than a future
not be be bound in the house anymore
when papa did not do anything
when mama simply sobbed
and stayed silence
and surrendered everything to God
all we waited is the blackness of the night
black because death is indifferent
because time is not a rescuer
of those who sank into
the bottom
of despair
i recall all these cruel times now
upon a grain of white rice
upon a coffee deprived of milk and sugar
upon a bread without the butter
upon a naked table
scratched with a knife
stained with tears
i look over the window
and stare at the black butterfly merely passing by
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Sailing Ships
(coverdale/vandenberg)
Do you remember
Standing on the shore,
Head in the clouds,
Your pockets filled with dreams
Bound for glory
On the seven seas of life,
But, the ocean is deeper than it seems
The wind was with you
When you left on the morning tide,
You set your sail for an island in the sun,
On the horizon, dark clouds up ahead,
For the storm has just begun
Take me with you,
Take me far away,
Lead me to the distant shore
Sail your ship across the water,
Spread your wings across the sky
Take the time to see
Youre the one who holds the key,
Or sailing ships will pass you by
You cry for mercy,
When you think youve lost your way,
You drift alone, if all your hope is gone
So find the strength and you will see
You control, your destiny,
After all is said and done
So take me with you,
Take me far away,
An lead me to the distant shore
Sail your ship across the water,
Spread your wings across the sky
Take the time to see
Youre the one who holds the key,
Or sailing ships will pass,
Sailing ships will pass you,
Sailing ships will pass you by...
Take me with you,
Take me far away,
Well ride the wind across the sky
Spread your wings and you will see
You control, your destiny,
So sailing ships dont pass you by
So take me with you,
Take me far away,
Well ride the wind across the sky
Spread your wings and you will see
You control, your destiny,
So sailing ships dont pass,
So sailing ships dont pass you,
So sailing ships dont pass you by...
Baby, baby, baby, baby,
Youll find that youre the only one
Can sail your ship across the sky
song performed by by Whitesnake
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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It Is A Habit
writing poems
when you really write poems
everyday and every moment of your life
even when you're in the middle of your
bread and butter eating thing
or even when you are defecating
writing poems becomes a habit
even when you sleep even when you dream
writing poems becomes a part of your system
you eat poetry you vomit poetry
you digest poetry you poo poetry
you breathe poetry you sweat poetry
you love poetry and you live with your poetry
and at the end you die with poetry
and your epitaph says: here lies the poet,
choked with poetry.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Poetry Is Somebody Writing
Poetry is somebody writing
About soft rotting peaches,
Lying on a table that's missing a leg
In a deserted cottage somewhere,
With ermine curtains.
And Poetry is someone explaining
That the poem holds promise of great beauty,
In the seeds of the peaches,
Even if they are over-ripe;
And even if the curtains are poorly matched.
And Poetry is someone else arguing
That the poem is about avarice
And wasted opportunity
In a post-modern world.
And Poetry is somebody else saying
A poem is just a still life
Made out of nothing in particular,
And thus can't be assigned relative values.
And Poetry is the child,
Falling asleep on the table
Holding a poem book open,
Pressed against his cheek,
And dreaming of ermine peaches
Rolling off of limping tables,
In a dark cottage alone,
In the middle of an existence
Nowhere that we could recognize.
poem by Patti Masterman
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In The Pursuit Of Art Every Morning...
on aching eyes
and osteopathic backbone
one must keep the
art of
writing, because that is what is art all about,
talking about
self-denial, the mastery of the
perfect art of
restraints, how to place your hands on
your chest and feel
the rhythms of that
isolated and well protected
flesh and bone
covered
heart, everything is there anyway
like bread and butter and
rice and fish
on that white painted breakfast
table, with the matching hot cup of
coffee and
table napkin, sky blue, and
silver wares, like the river passing
through an arc bridge
in that Chinese painting hanging on
your gray wall,
well,
your hands are somewhat
Olympic runners
taking pride that the fingers within
their hold
can write well even
though blinded by too much light
drivers without headlights
reckless and
wild and free like lovers always
having inklings to
change partners
till the next sperm
whale that comes
diving flatly on the Indian ocean
breaking glaciers
melting ice
flooding the world of
concupiscence
somewhere beyond the
grasp of my fingernails
much different than last nights
grips on that
smooth back of the geisha
is the thick and black
skin
of elephantine shame
but,
who cares? you don't.
and i too,
don't.
this, i must make clear,
but i know,
all these seeds fall on
rocks of salt, where not a
messy moss ever think
to stick.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Make Tomorrow
Put on the dress in which you were married
Pull down the veil til your eyes are hid
Can you remember where we both came from
Let us do as we did
Look at tomorrow today
Making tomorrow today
Making tomorrow today
Making tomorrow today
Make tomorrow
Make tomorrow
Make tomorrow today
Make tomorrow
Make tomorrow
Make tomorrow today
Put back the photo under your window
Put down the phone that you hold in your hand
Put away these things that stand in between us
Let us be what we can
When it seems
Hopeless
When it seems
Hopeless
Make tomorrow
Make tomorrow
Make tomorrow today
Make tomorrow
Make tomorrow
Make tomorrow today
Make tomorrow
Make tomorrow
Make tomorrow today
What better measure of what you were doing here
Then what you can leave behind
All the children of your children's children
Do you ever think what they're going to find
Make tomorrow
Make tomorrow
Where the sacred meet the scared
Make tomorrow
Make tomorrow
Where the dreamer's dream is dared
In each of us
A dream can burn like the sun
Let's try it all one more time
To get this lesson learned
Sitting up in a spaceship
Looking down at the earth
You wonder what they all stuggling for
What's it all really worth
Making tomorrow today
Making tomorrow today
Make tomorrow
Make tomorrow
song performed by by Peter Gabriel
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Inside the House of Bread
Everyone has a table inside the house of bread
Pouring in into the chairs the fish have come to roost
Its already started to happen inside the house of bread
Feasting and Forever enough to go around the table.
And I keep to myself in the age of all this water
We can share an ocean but don’t drink from my open well
I wont mind sharing in the house of bread
Everyone at the table deserves to be fed
poem by James Daniel Gabriel
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Caravan
Moses went into the desert
Moses came back with the law
Jesus went into the desert
God only knows what he saw
Hitch up your ass and your camel
Fill up your skin at the well
Roll up your tent, whisper your prayers
Are you ready to ride through hell
Caravan moving through the night
Sleeping in the light of day
Caravan spinning through the void
On our way to anywhere
Caravan time is just a joke change is all we
Understand
Caravan life is a mirage,
Only a mirage dancing on the desert sand
How I recall all the mountains
How I remember the farm
Oh how I miss the big city
With a pretty girl on my arm
Sell my best friend for some water
Cut off my leg for some shade
Sunburn these thoughts from my memory
If I live I will be remade
The sand is like a razor
Slashing at my face
Everyones in panic but you cant see any place
Its a sand storm, taken by surprise
Hide beneath your wrappings and cover up your eyes
Well I lost my kit and camel
Maybe I will die
Feel so lost and helpless and I think Im gonna cry
Its a sand storm, nothing you can do
No one knows if it will last
No one knows if you will make it through
Its been so long without water
Vultures are filling the air
Where is that bloody oasis
Must be around here somewhere
Time for some strong meditation
Time for the ultimate change
Time to make peace with your maker
Everything has been prearranged
song performed by by Utopia
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Thing Language
This ocean, humiliating in its disguises
Tougher than anything.
No one listens to poetry. The ocean
Does not mean to be listened to. A drop
Or crash of water. It means
Nothing.
It
Is bread and butter
Pepper and salt. The death
That young men hope for. Aimlessly
It pounds the shore. White and aimless signals. No
One listens to poetry.
poem by Jack Spicer
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Tuzla (feat. Vocal: Joy Askew, Vocal: Dawn Upshaw & Radio Croatia And The Avatar Rainbow Coalition)
Of all the treasure in our chest
We love the golden god of war the best
Look, look at that little clown
Here, look through the binoculars
Someone burned his schoolhouse down
And he's blinking in the sun
He's drying something in the sun
Ha! It's an old tea bag!
Now he rolls it up
Look! He made a cigarette
But he's not gonna smoke it yet
Maybe he's gonna sell it
How much d'you think he'll get?
A slice of ham = a long goodbye = 3 days of peace
A bar of soap = a can of oil = 10 years of debt
A pinch of salt = a week of news = 4 double-A's
A plastic bag = a place to hide = one sucker bet
I got what you want
You got what I need
Of all the sterling men of steel
We crave the one who'll teach us not to feel
Look at the guy selling beer
Where the hell did he get it from?
He's the King of the Hill
He's the bug that survives the bomb
See the smirk on his greasy face
Handing a bottle to the mortal foe
It's not the time to kill
Not that he forgets . . .
As he takes a crumpled bill
And thinks this is better yet
A pot for the rain = a pair of shoes = 2 hand grenades
A spade for the grave = four lovely eggs = 3 cigarettes
A stick of gum = some wood for a fire = 2 table legs
A cup of rice = a pint of blood = 1 pound of flesh
Line up to buy here
Line up to die there
Look, look through that window
Looks like your sister there
In a Chetnik's bed
Look, there on the table
Looks like she did it for a loaf of bread
Shit! She's got a knife!
And he's snoring like a pig
Is he worth more alive or dead?
How much for his boots?
How much for his head?
Though all the day
song performed by by Joe Jackson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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0005 Totally Boring Poem
I’m totally bored by:
poems that sound like other poems
poems that try to sound unlike any other poems
poets who never take risks
poets who think that taking risks
makes them good poets
poems with 'meaning'
poems with no meaning
poets who slag off other poets
as if that achieves something
poets that tell you that rhyme
is not for an age but for all time
poets that tell you that rhyme is outmoded and boring
poets who think that the poetry of 'the past'
is greater than that of 'the present'
poets who think that the poetry of 'the present'
is greater than that of 'the past'
poems that tell you the poet's the first to discover sex
poets that tell you they’re the best sex you’ll ever have
although you’ll never meet them to find out
poets that tell you they’ve been dumped
poets who've never known love and being dumped
poets who are ambitious
poets who are unambitious
poets who tell you all about higher things
poets who reject higher things
poets who think life’s just a joke
poets who think life’s no joke
poets who sit on the fence
poets who have no sense of balance
poets who despise 'the middle ground'
poets who talk about technique
poets with no technique
poets who just throw down their thoughts
poets who 'work up' their poems to a self-satisfied polish
poets who list what they like (who cares?)
poets who list what don’t like (who cares?)
poets who write about extreme states
poets who think they’re immune to extreme states
poets who tell you why they’re bored
poets who have opinions
poets who seem to have no opinions at all
poets who have boring opinions to air - why choose poetry?
poets who comment on others' poems
as if it's the last word
poets who never bother to comment
on others' poems
poets who don't love poetry passionately
poets who tell you they 'love poetry passionately'
poets who – oh I’m too bored to go on reading this,
how about you?
I suppose you have boring opinions too?
another time perhaps
and oh yes I'm most of all bored by
those who waste their precious time on this earth
being bored
well I feel better for that.
how about you?
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Lunch Is Ready
you must have read before
that when a man is made to choose
between lunch
and poetry
he must choose lunch
it is 12: 20 noon
and if you wish
please finish this poem for me
make it say something
about hunger
the pinch in the stomach
the lack of guts
the impatience about life
for the meantime
i'll take what is offered on the table
i still have to chew
another idea that is fed in my mind
another poem
shaped like a fried chicken
scents of lumpia shanghai
images of white rice
exuding some fumes in
the light to the ceiling
clinking sounds of silver spoon and fork
and flowing clear drinking water
in the glass
in a whoosh
and the usual conversations
of sweet nothings
displayed on the table
like a soup
of bird's nest
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Shifts
you shift from poetry
with regret you must
get into the ramifications
of the law of bread and
butter, you want to kill
time and just lay there,
the law, the law, how
dry can these laws be,
you gaze outside the
window, sighing, looking
to the blue sea and
feeling the breeze salty
to your brain, ahhh, it
is this salt of the earth,
talking. I shift my head
now to these lines,
i live for the moment.
now, back to what i
detest, this bread, this
butter, i too live here.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Close To The Wind
Written by gerry beckley and steve levine, 1994
Found on hourglass.
Ah
Lately, it hasnt been easy
Ive been wanderin all night
Searchin, tryin to find an answer
Why Im in this situation
Ive been sailing close to the wind
Trying to keep my head above water
Close to the wind, without you
Ive been sailing close to the wind
Everyday it just gets harder
But youre all I need to survive
For so long it felt like
I was walking on the water
I found the hard part
Is waking without you in the morning
Ive been sailing close to the wind
The weight of the worlds on my shoulders (everyday now)
Close to the wind, without you
Ive been sailing close to the wind
The loneliness its neverending (yes Im falling)
Open your heart, come aboard
And if were back together
I know our love will be everlasting
I still believe that theres a chance
For us to have a happy ending
Peace will reign on earth
Life for all its worth, oh yeah
I pray every single morning
That this time we will be much stronger
Ive been sailing close to the wind
Help me try to find a shelter (to protect you)
Close to the wind without you
Ive been sailing close to the wind
But inside its safe and warm now (were together)
Dont be afraid of the storm
Ive been sailing close, close to the wind (been sailing in)
(close to the wind) dont be afraid of the storm
Ive been sailing close, close to the wind (been sailing in)
(close to the wind) dont be afraid of the storm ...
song performed by by America
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Old Dreams Are Simple
rubber slippers on my feet
for christmas
fried chicken wing on the table
a cup of white rice
a glass of water
gazing at the stars and the moon
cool winds and shadows of tree
silvery river
a wooden boat and a paddle
with you
beside me
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Breakfast
Look, the golden plate is ready set
On the round table for breakfast.
Glitters reflecting tinges of my blood
In tune with the table of mud
With the green medow streaking to fret.
Listen, worshiping Aurora at dawwn daily
Comes to me that golden plate by priority.
The green paddy rooted in deep water
Fans soothingly with its ricy flavour.
Feel, it makes golden plate more catchy.
I cook the rice to petalsoft
Adding ghee and jaggery enough to taste.
I resolve with my prayers in bundle
To offer the made rice i.e 'pongal'
To the above deity of splendid light.
On the muddy table, over the glisten
Placed a plantain leaf, served on
The pongal.I then whisper'my sun,
Enlightened by the plate of your glisten'!
poem by Indira Renganathan
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Breaker
amidst the busy day
the hurry and the blurry
of things and events to come
i take a break. Poetry.
Images of sunlight where the sunflower rides
across the window
the sea, a boat, a little boy playing on the shore
a man paddling,
a woman with a hat waiting for the fish
the wind gets in
i smell salt and i feel the coldness.
back to paper work
and reality, a table of folders
names and figures
reasons and justifications
citations
15 years now
more to go till i get 70
how do i get there?
ah, i need sleep,
i will have my siesta.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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i was just behind you at Mc Donald's
don't get mad, i was really there
but you did not notice since you were surrounded with handsome men.
Medical reps i supposed so
With vested interests.
You had the pepperoni pizza and cocacola
And you added caesar's salad
There was laughter on that table
Obviously, you were enjoying it.
I was alone at Table 10.
Reading a newspaper.
I took time looking at the road
Over the glass window.
When you left with them
I counted, all five, I merely smiled.
There is such thing as
delicadeza, and I still have it with me.
When i texted you
You said you were waiting at Maria's Cafe.
It was enough. You lied
and what will you expect from me?
Tell me.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Vegetables
Im gonna be round my vegetables
Im gonna chow down my vegetables
I love you most of all
My favorite vege-table
If you brought a big brown bag of them home
Id jump up and down and hope youd toss me a carrot
Im gonna keep well my vegetables
Cart off and sell my vegetables
I love you most of all
My favorite vege-table
Oh oh taba vega vegel
I tried to kick the ball but my tenny flew right off
Im red as a beet cause Im so embarassed
Oh oh dum do dum de dooby do
Oh oh dum do dum de dooby do
Oh oh dum do dum de dooby do
Oh yeah
Oh badumday oh dum do dum de dooby do
Oh badumday oh dum do dum de dooby do
Chomp chomp chomp chomp do-do-do do-do-do
Bop bop bop bop do-do-do do-do-do
I know that youll feel better
When you send us in
Your letter an
Tell us the name of your
Your favorite vege-table
I know that youll feel better
When you send us in
Your letter an
Tell us the name of your
Your favorite vege-table
song performed by by Beach Boys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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