Restlessness Of The Spirit
to chat after midnight
and to continue to read even
when the eyes begin to fail to see the light
to write
whatever comes to mind
another poem
recalling the past
mistakes uncorrected
a new word to redeem what the self lost
retracing the patterns of the usual
hands in surrender
fingers without thoughts but still moving to capture a syllable
fretting flitting
whatever
sleep that seems cruel to
dreams
this inability to choose to cease then i tell myself
i do not really know a thing anymore.
about you.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Scribbler's Stymie
Pen and paper in sight
I've got no poem to write
Staying up all night
I've got no poem to write
Although my mind is bright
I've got no poem to write
It's windy out tonight, should I go fly a kite?
I've got no poem to write
My ceiling, it is white
I've got no poem to write
It's 4: 59! Five, but not quite
I've got no poem to write
In your arms I'd feel so light
I've got no poem to write
I've had no sleep tonight
I've got no poem to write
Will you just hold me tight?
I've got no poem to write
Outside it's almost light
I've got no poem to write
It's late, off goes my light
I've got no poem to write
poem by Julia Grace
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Always Moving On
the past
is just a set of some
grammatical errors
which i do not
wish to correct
because they are understood
to mean
what you think
too is right
but is too tired to
comment
or change
one does not have
the time to go
back and
fret and
edit
because there is so much
to write
to put into the concrete pavements
once again
to choose and
discard
to begin again a new
sentence
putting the first word on
paper
bulbs lighting
a new day
sun rising from the
east
and then suddenly
as you look again
on the screen
and look out to the
window
it is another sunset
and it is
too beautiful to speak
or write
there is no jutting down now
it is just plain
gazing
your hands on the table
all pens up
and you surrender to
such ending
it is too beautiful to behold
and then
at night some other dreams
let the letters then
reorganize themselves
let the errors
reorder what should have been
or
ought to be
now i am moving again
into another depth
another milestone
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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There Is No Poem To Begin The Week With
THERE IS NO POEM TO BEGIN THE WEEK WITH
There is no poem to begin the week with
Emptiness is the beginning
I try to think
I try to listen to some internal rhythm
I write words down
My thoughts are simple and self- referential
The green- yellow light is there outside my window
The world is moving
Am I writing a poem or simply writing whatever sentences come into my mind?
I sometimes think poetry never stops being written within me
At other times I believe I am just ambitious and pretentious
Today this is the beginning
These lines these words
A poem to begin the week with?
poem by Shalom Freedman
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In Trying To Look For The Words
i am trying to look for the words
like looking for flowers in the garden
but there are not any anymore
in this season of rain
when sunshine is becoming slim
and hideous
when the mind is becoming tedious
about what to spell
and sing
there are lesser elements there
the usual sands
which we always equate with time slipping away from the fingers
the timid pebbles that do not ask anymore
the meaning of silence
too tired for the constancy
too mindless about
what happens everyday
in trying to look for something else
one finds
stupor as a burden at the back of the head
shunning light
evading vibrancy of thoughts and memories
retouching the blackness and whiteness of the past
killing time
and resting one's head on the sofa
with the tv on
past midnight.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Cruel
Oh yeah
Born no longer a baby
Always trying to keep
In one place for long, oh long enough to sleep
Oh sleep and dreams are here the same
Gone'n got no rest
They'll no longer speak to you. moving on again
I'm moving on... moving on again
Well I'm moving...moving on again
Baby you're so cruel
You're cruel to yourself you never understand
Boy'll never do ya no harm
For you to build the frame of the bed you sleep upon
So spill your milk and honey
And get your kicks off your next man
Bigger than you think and you make him go, go on
Oh you make him...moving on again
Oh he's moving on...moving on again
Baby you're so cruel
Thought about the dream is so real now
These are dreams of mine you're so aimless...so aimless
You baby, you're so cruel
Wonder what you're gonna think of yourself
When the phone calls fade away
As you hold his shoulders, did you think it would come to this day
Ask yourself why he's off
When others surround you
He was one of many on the day that he found you
Oh you're moving...moving on again
Yeah you're moving...moving on again
Yeah you're moving...moving on again
Baby you're so cruel
song performed by by Default
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Can't Sleep
I find myself yawning again and again,
But I can't sleep, which is a real pain.
I lie on my left side, then on my right,
But, for me, there is no sleep in sight.
Next, I turn and lie flat on my back,
But, of any sleep, there is still a lack.
I lie there, looking up at the ceiling:
Pretty drained, is how I am feeling.
I wish my system would just slow down,
But, through my mind, thoughts race round.
Feeling restless, I begin to huff and puff:
I know that, in the morning, I'll feel rough.
As a poet, my mind is still really busy rhyming,
But, when I'm trying to sleep, isn't great timing.
To try and get some sleep, I really endeavour,
But the night seems to go on forever and ever.
I am really willing my mind to take a rest,
But, night time is when my mind thinks best.
Over my sleeping patterns, I have no control:
On me, tomorrow, lack of sleep will take its toll.
As I snuggle myself down, under the covers,
My body wants one thing; my mind, another.
When lying in bed, I just want some peace:
I want all of this rhyming, for once, to cease.
poem by Angela Wybrow
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A Poem Writes Itself
A poem writes itself
I merely follow
As it leads me
through the shadows
A poem seeks itself
And the light
I'll surrender …I write
A poem finds a way to be heard-
I try to remember each word from my
mouth to my ears to my hands
Then, to the world's
A poem finds a voice
I become, pen and paper
A poem makes a choice
I, the ghostwriter
poem by Sonya Florentino
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Each Poem That You Are Reading
each poem that you read
is a product of painful eyes
from the excruciating grief
of the heart
from those exhausted fingers
still moving till nigh-time
the writer is a psychosomatic bleeder
so you see no stain whatsoever
it is only when things are too near
that you feel pain and acknowledge it
but when you travel and create distances
from yourself
when you drift like a cloud
(the usual cliche for drifters)
or perhaps a raft on the river
along the surges of cagayan de oro
you begin to see the most beautiful shape
of that struggle
a cheek smoothed by the flow of tears
soft hands massaged by those pains of the days
cautious lips, open mind, a heart that is finally set free
by the candidness of your thoughts
no longer entrapped by the words that you left
tied on those yellow sheets of paper
from that silent room where smoke hangs
on the ceiling.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Did Your Love For Him Last?
i am just wondering why you do not
write poetry anymore. I am asking myself
if your having jumped over the fence
yielded the bliss on the other side of things.
Are you too happy to forget the sad refrains
of poetry?
or Are you too sad
mourning over another
love lost
that your hands are too weary
to write another love poem for this
valentine's day?
whatever happened, please write me a love poem
sad or happy, please do write me one
i just want to know what a love poem should be all about
after all those years
when we think we really found the true one.
write me, please a love poem, show me the color
and scent of each word, show me the texture of each line,
show me whether the heart is bleeding
or leaping with joy like the one we used to write before together
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Accidental Insults
Although I write mainly for me.
I choose to share my poetry.
With other poets on the net.
The only thing that I regret.
Sometimes I find I have upset.
Somebody inadvertently.
Albeit unintentionally.
I can only apologise
For bringing teardrops to their eyes.
Though I am taken by surprise.
By what they read into my words.
I often find it quite absurd.
They take offence at what I write.
They see it in a different light.
And choose to take the opposite.
view. Because they fail to understand.
They then dismiss me out of hand.
As they have every right to do.
Because sometimes I've chosen to.
Criticise what they hold true.
I do not mean to cause offence
I offer this in self defence.
The words I write, you filter through
Experiences peculiar to you.
That's why you read them as you do.
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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I Need to Write
I need to write a poem, but how shall I do it,
First of all shall I write standing up, or just sit;
Until I get comfortable, I won't be able to start,
All the words will be muddled up, and then it'll fall. Apart.
Now! I got it right, I will choose the title to write about,
No good getting frustrated, or even sit or pout;
Just need to relax, and then the words will come easy,
Cause if I try to hard, Then my stomach will feel queasy.
I know what sort of holiday would people like,
And as I start the poem, the hall clock did strike;
Oh! It is now is what I can do, write about the time passing,
And so I have the heading, the thoughts on paper lasting.
It's got colour, size, And description, and the taste of art,
It's come from my mind, emotions, and also from the heart;
It has vision, and thoughts about where I want to go,
Yes! I think it'll get some to agree, to me they'll show.
So if you have a problem to write a poem or story,
Just read this poem, as a help, it's a help from me;
Don't force the idea, or rush it through at all,
Just go have a cuppa, read an article or a friend call.
Eventually it'll come, the words will flow along,
You might even end up, turning it into a song;
Writing poems will be rewarding, just give a go,
And you might enjoy it, they may end up in a show.
poem by Margaret Haig
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Soap
you wish i were true
to every word i wrote in my poems
like sadness
that i must be sad when my poems
talk about sadness
like separation and disgust and pain
that i must suffer
with the poems i write that i must have despair
and pain too
and disgust
for every word of disgust written in every word
in every line
how cruel of you
how cruel of truth
how can i justify my death when i speak only of death
and in the very poem
where i write the word
death
there is soap
there is this box of untruths in pandora and when i open it
they must spread and you may refuse to believe
me again
but it would be very cruel of you
to make these poems
all these poems be my life my only life
and lived
and day by day lived in accordance with the
mouths of these poems
empathy
is the word, it is like i am putting my feet in another person's
shoes
then i write, and i could have written about this word: happiness
joy, bliss
ecstasy, light, and amazing glory
i choose not to,
i think, i have too much of it, and i do not share it for now
there is no necessity
and i cannot really help
with so much loneliness and sadness out there
with them i stretch my hands to hold them and feel them
and they all become
myself. it is not soap then, and there are no bubbles in the skies
there is no child playing amazed by the bubbles that burst and by the
bubbles that
are so abundant.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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It Is Strange
i find the coming days strange
filled with your silence and i am here feeling so abandoned
pampered once by your words of concern
like i am always showered by your rain
when i was once a vast dryland
with grasses all wilting and animals moving away
searching for water,
it is indeed strange when a day goes away without any word from you
when the night comes as black as tar
and as lonely as a house without its children
moving out to another place carrying with them their
conversations and laughter
and oh even the usual noise
those senseless ones that i begin to miss
because of their absence
i miss you and i will be missing you more for the coming empty days
of my life
i am like a window now always open as
the strong winds come and scatter everything that i have written
the night comes like an empty space of darkness where i surrender
without any word
i sleep and then wake up for another day
when the light stabs my face
piercing my heart
this time every change that comes
is pain
because you are not here anymore and without you
i will be always alone
feeling so abandoned like the shell without its flesh
like the skull without a face
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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You Know That Well That I Do Not Edit My Poems
there is no aim for fame
there is only this gut, this push, this inspiration
to write a poem
every morning,
even at noontime when there is so much to do
a poem is an icebreaker
it is cold to my tongue like a refresher
or even at nighttime
when everyone is fast asleep dreaming
when i am sleepless over a word
that strikes in my mind
like a bowling pin
i write put on words like a hat
and hold it there
like a staff for now i am an old man
with no one to talk to
no where to go
no one to sleep with as i think about the memories of my youth
summers and
rainy days
barefoot on the river
socks in my hands
crazy on a covenant
as death begins to whisper
the last word
for the last poem.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Poem As A Form Of Confession
when you read my poem
you begin to say that i must have been confessing
about a past and it is my subconscious who is always speaking
apparently you
notice the coming and going of a soul
to its favorite place
talking in the first person
sometimes you begin to piece the different forms
of metaphor: an image of mother, a naughty son
a flock of sheep, an old house by the river,
green hills, ripples of the sea,
leaves falling,
you connect chain to another chain
always bearing in mind
that one who tells the truth cannot forget
a story.
i used to believe in what i write
and chose those which i must believe in
but somehow i have changed: i now want to write for
those i do not believe anymore.
a black book, an access code,
a blue bird, a caterpillar, a cat on top of the
dog's head.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Rose-scented.....
when you sleep with a
broken heart
the eyes that ache
with lost sleep
and the hands that
fail you
you drown in sorrow
but in a certain miracle
you do not succumb
to death's
final offer
you rise from a whirlpool
of grief
nauseous
as usual a broken heart
like a salamander
mends itself
repairs its chambers and
begins to make
a lovely sound, a call to
love again, as the eyes wake
up for another
romantic moment, the hands too
hold unto another pair of hands
the whole system in you
reinvents
discarding old memories
buzzing
for a switch
that gives a brighter light
in that room
rose scented.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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When I Write
When I write,
I do my best...
To incite an insight!
Some may not like.
But I seek a comprehension.
Not to revisit...
A safety zone,
Already known.
Or one that has been mentioned.
And when I write,
I choose to test...
A curiosity,
Within me...
That does not sit and rest.
I want to produce seeds of understanding.
And in the doing...
Even I am not thoroughly delighted,
By what I have to admit...
Is a bunch of 'horseshhhiftivities'
From that which I have sown.
When I write!
'Horseshiftivities is not a word! '
I've entitled this poem 'When-I-Write'
Not 'Give-me-Your-Unsolicited-Opinion'.
'Did you or did you 'not' ask me to read it? '
AND not a thing more did I ask!
Did I?
'Correct.'
But you must admit,
That 'horseshifting' business drew you in,
Right?
'No,
Not really.
I knew if I didn't read it...
You wouldn't allow me to leave.
Then I would have to deal with much more,
Than just this 'horseshift' on your shoulders! '
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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God is the creator
God is the creator
poem is a creation
Poet is not God.
I am a lover of poem
Poet is my hero
God is hero's hero.
I just read poem
I just enjoy reading poem
I shall continue to read poem
As long as I enjoy poem.
At times
Poems are being written by me.
The credit goes to God
God direct me to write poem
And I write.
God only can explain the meaning
I am just an instrument
And nothing.
poem by Gajanan Mishra
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I Lost The Poem I Wrote In My Mind
I LOST THE POEM I WROTE IN MIND
I lost the poem I wrote in my mind
When walking to Shul this morning-
I can only try to recall its thoughts;
‘Walk too fast and the mind cannot hear itself
Walk slowly and listen to the poem inside yourself.
The road ahead the trees the sky
Has a beauty too great for you to write
Thank God for your sight.”
The best lines are forever gone-
A poem to replace a poem
Is not as good as the original-
I wish I had the words for all the beauty God gives me in my life
How wonderful it is to be alive- sometimes
And to be able to write poems – even if somewhat poorly.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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The Poem Of All The Places I Have Never Been
THE POEM OF ALL THE PLACES I HAVE NEVER BEEN
The poem of all the places I have never been
The poem of all the dreams I have not seen
The poem of others poems written in lines I have never imagined
The poem of the infinite – what-is- not and ‘what- will- never- be
The poem of seas and suns and sounds and Shakespeare’s sonnets,
The poem of words and only words whose sounds do not mean what we feel
The poem of all I would not and cannot write
The poem that is not and never will be in me
The poem I do not write
The poem I am not
The poem lost
The poem which itself is not a poem
The poem of the last contradiction and the first
The poem beyond the poem hidden within the poem
The poem which will never be a poem
The poem which is not
The poem I cannot dream.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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