S4
now i am hearing the rushing steps
of the fish vendor
towards the market
passing by the road fronting
my blinds
a busy day,
the red ant below my feet is at it again
finding some crumbs
of cookies
under the computer table
beside the swivel chair
i always have a word
despite,
the ant wonders
why are you doing this?
the nails have no feelings
and so are the feet of the chairs
the monitor is a eunuch
the room fills itself with so much mess
rambling books
scattered papers still unread
piling folders and
dusty nooks
the light brown curtains need
badly a laundrywoman
the walls are calling for a painter
and the floors yell for a scrubbing and mopping
this is the earth of being
needing an updat a cleansing of some sort
a deluge perhaps
and what must remain must only be the essentials
a pen a piece of paper
discard the table and the chair
for man can squat
and still relate to what is bare and empty.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Related quotes
The Table
This table is reserved an invitation for two,
only one sits alone and the other chair is bare.
He waits and waits as the hours creep through.
Stares at the empty space and wonders where are you.
He looks at his watch as another hour ticks by,
looks at the door to see who is coming through.
He feels eyes staring, probably wondering whom
he is waiting for as the minutes turn to hours.
The empty chair remains bare
as outside the sun sets as night begins to call.
This table is reserved for two, but where are you?
He thinks of all the reasons why you could be late
for this most important date.
He has rehearsed his lines of what he purposed to say.
The box with the ring within his pocket stays.
Where are you he wonders, do you love him anymore?
The negative thoughts invaded his mind
as he waits looking at the door, just waiting for you.
Finally the waiter comes along and tells him they are about to close.
He gives one last look at the door, then gets up and goes.
The reserved table for two stands empty and bare.
Those who should have sat there are gone never to return,
and as the light go out the table stands alone and forlorn.
24 September 2008
poem by David Harris
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Undone
I smoke a fag,
with a coffee mug,
The morning is mad.
It as corked head,
The room is a mess,
and broken chair.
The table undone
With crumble buns
and slices of ham.
The book shell
is a mess as well
of a picture holder
of dusty folder.
The walls are warm
the heater is on.
The fish are sunk
in the square tank.
Raining day
the cat stays
on the bad undone
leaking his paws.
The pillow wrinkle
and the sheets crinkle
the pyjama lay
on the bad end side.
My laces are undone.
This is a the last one
So I tie my shoes,
while I wait for you,
poem by Luca Menin
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The Table And The Chair
Said the Table to the Chair,
'You can hardly be aware
How I suffer from the heat,
And from chilblains on my feet!
If we took a little walk,
We might have a little talk!
Pray let us take the air!'
Said the Table to the Chair.
Said the Chair unto the Table,
'Now you know we are not able!
How foolishly you talk,
When you know we cannot walk!'
Said the Table with a sigh,
'It can do no harm to try;
I've as many legs as you;
Why can't we walk on two?'
So they both went slowly down,
And walked about the town
With a cheerful bumpy sound,
As they toddled round and round.
And everybody cried,
As they hastened to their side,
'See! the Table and the Chair
Have come out to take the air!'
But, in going down an alley
To a castle in the valley,
They completely lost their way,
And wandered all the day
Till, to see them safely back,
They paid a Ducky-quack,
And a Beetle, and a Mouse,
Who took them to their house.
Then they whispered to each other,
'O delightful little brother!
What a lovely walk we've taken!
Let us dine on Beans and Bacon!'
So the Ducky and the leetle
Browny-Mousy and the Beetle
Dined, and danced upon their heads
Till they toddled to their beds.
poem by Edward Lear
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Know His World
the center table is the sun
and the chairs around are his planets
the walls are the horizons
the floors are the abyss
his words on paper scattered stars
his dogs and cats his zodiac
his silence his void
doubts his ripples
in the sea of galaxy
where his soul
is immersed.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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untitled ONE
early morning
it will be the same sound
of cocks
crowing,
harbingers of
a new day
up on the tree
their only guide whether to
take the jump
to the ground is the
sun,
she is safe in sleep
as i take the usual journey
again
with all the cocks
crowing
the trees have black leaves
roads and fences are bold strokes
of the Chinese brush
from a painter in Vietnam
i remember
his feet are cut
one wonders if we can be whole
again
when the fragile glasses of our arms
are all broken
early mornings when
the hens are silent
when the ref murmur
a nameless song
when i sound like an empty
gong
love emaciated
like a malnourished
African child
one exhibits the boredom
of his words like
one malling without anything
in mind to buy
nothing specific except
the will to kill time
that does not serve
any use
at the pasta room
where the tea people are not around
on one table the two lesbians are drinking beer
while the two queers on the
other table near the rest room
are exchanging some pleasantries
of notes
they are not singing
but giggling
a man that they call as dark and handsome
passes by
it is strange because he is not wearing anything
his face is covered with black cloth
as though he is bound
for the gallows
there is yet no food on my table
the waitress is busy biting her nails
the mother beside a kid is slapping herself
it is strange here and i put some money on the table
and leave
i need some air to breathe
this world is suffocating.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Sketches Of Life
early morning
it will be the same sound
of cocks
crowing,
harbingers of
a new day
up on the tree
their only guide whether to
take the jump
to the ground is the
sun,
she is safe in sleep
as i take the usual journey
again
with all the cocks
crowing
the trees have black leaves
roads and fences are bold strokes
of the Chinese brush
from a painter in Vietnam
i remember
his feet are cut
one wonders if we can be whole
again
when the fragile glasses of our arms
are all broken
early mornings when
the hens are silent
when the ref murmur
a nameless song
when i sound like an empty
gong
love emaciated
like a malnourished
African child
one exhibits the boredom
of his words like
one malling without anything
in mind to buy
nothing specific except
the will to kill time
that does not serve
any use
at the pasta room
where the tea people are not around
on one table the two lesbians are drinking beer
while the two queers on the
other table near the rest room
are exchanging some pleasantries
of notes
they are not singing
but giggling
a man that they call as dark and handsome
passes by
it is strange because he is not wearing anything
his face is covered with black cloth
as though he is bound
for the gallows
there is yet no food on my table
the waitress is busy biting her nails
the mother beside a kid is slapping herself
it is strange here and i put some money on the table
and leave
i need some air to breathe
this world is suffocating.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Take A Load Of Your Feet
I do them when Im down in the tub
With avocado cream theyll take a rub
They wrinkle like a-raisins if I stay too long
I wouldnt want to do it wrong
Theyll put you in the drivers seat
And to the table when you want to eat
But when you go to sit down in your chair
Something else has gotta put you there
Take good care of your feet, pete
You better watch out what you eat, pete
Better take care of your life
cause nobody else will
Theyll twinkle when you fall in love
And put you there when you jump up above
When youre on the spot, get em right under you
One, then the other too
If you want to do the right thing for em
Just take a walk in the grass
But dont you catch yourself fallin
Or steppin on a piece of glass
(ouch glass)
Pete knows all the treacherous blows
The fallen arches and the cramp in the toes
He went to h. e. l. p. and got some sandals new
And dusty old saunas too
Take a load of your feet pete
You better watch out what you eat
Better take care of your life
cause nobody else will
Do do do do do do do do do do
Petes feet are your feet oh
Do do do do do do do do do do
Petes feet are your feet oh
Do do do do do do do do do do
Oh!
Petes feet are your feet oh
song performed by by Beach Boys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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After Having Written Poems Late At Night...
I see her turning off the light
on the table. I can see gray.
I hear her
folding the books and
crumpling the papers
perhaps her drafts
of a letter or
a composition.
I see her stand, leave the chair and the table,
and i hear the closing of the door.
everything turns dark.
i imagine her lying in bed
she closes her eyes
i know that the light inside the room
is open.
as usual the TV is on with no one watching.
i just know it. It is a habit
and it has become a practice and that
when i follow, i must be felt
when i turn off the light
and when i turn off the TV.
I know she is awake.
But i do not mind
we all pretend we are alive and that
we want to sleep.
we fall on the same mistake.
we sleep always late, and we do not talk about it.
i put my hands around her body.
she tilts her body and finds her own direction towards the path to
her own dreams
not mine.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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My Favorite blanket
When I was very little
I had a favorite blanket
I named her (For to me that
fluffy piece of fabric with
threads hanging off it,
was a girl) Yes I named her
Boobie
Now boobie was 'brown'
with small flecks of 'fawn'
she Hung by my side from dusk
until dawn.
One day as I sat in my 'beige' child's seat
with a 'chocolate' ice cream I was trying to eat
it melted and covered me from head to my feet
my boobie and I were stuck to the seat
Chocolate everywhere
Everything turned 'brown' including the 'beige'
little chair I now found.
Mummy would be so angry I knew
so I decided on what I must do
I gathered the mess
took it into the bath
filled up the tub
and then for a laugh
chucked in the chair with me and my clothes
funny thing happened the water just rose
over it flowed onto the floor
a sticky 'chocolate brown' water ran out the door
I remember Mummy did not think it fun
when she saw the mess and what I had done
She sent me to think about things in my room
with my soggy 'brown' blanket
to help ease my gloom
poem by Janice M Pickett
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I threw my arms about those shoulders
M.B.
I threw my arms about those shoulders, glancing
at what emerged behind that back,
and saw a chair pushed slightly forward,
merging now with the lighted wall.
The lamp glared too bright to show
the shabby furniture to some advantage,
and that is why sofa of brown leather
shone a sort of yellow in a corner.
The table looked bare, the parquet glossy,
the stove quite dark, and in a dusty frame
a landscape did not stir. Only the sideboard
seemed to me to have some animation.
But a moth flitted round the room,
causing my arrested glance to shift;
and if at any time a ghost had lived here,
he now was gone, abandoning this house.
poem by Joseph Brodsky
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Robinson
The dog stops barking after Robinson has gone.
His act is over. The world is a gray world,
Not without violence, and he kicks under the grand piano,
The nightmare chase well under way.
The mirror from Mexico, stuck to the wall,
Reflects nothing at all. The glass is black.
Robinson alone provides the image Robinsonian.
Which is all of the room--walls, curtains,
Shelves, bed, the tinted photograph of Robinson's first wife,
Rugs, vases panatelas in a humidor.
They would fill the room if Robinson came in.
The pages in the books are blank,
The books that Robinson has read. That is his favorite chair,
Or where the chair would be if Robinson were here.
All day the phone rings. It could be Robinson
Calling. It never rings when he is here.
Outside, white buildings yellow in the sun.
Outside, the birds circle continuously
Where trees are actual and take no holiday.
poem by Weldon Kees
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Cogitation
if this chair does not exist
will i, this, chair, me, who asks,
if this chair, exists at all,
can i, exist, too? will i be dependent
on the thought of a chair
a thought of me that i think i
can touch, that i think thoughts
touching this thought of a chair
does the chair think about me,
i ask, looking for that therefore
beside the chair that i thought
is a chair, that i thought is I,
am, therefore, a chair, thinking
chair, on four feet?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Dad and Me
Inside our house you'll find crannies and nooks.
Crevices and cracks and fissures and books!
Books under the bed and on the floor,
Books around the table and beside the door,
Books on the bookshelf and surrounding it,
Books all over the house, every single bit!
Not a one of these books are non-fiction,
Different worlds are their depiction.
Fictional, sci-fi, dark and fantasy,
Horror and happy, more books for me!
Books belonging to my father,
Or belonging to me as I rather.
My father and I in bookworm heaven,
Until mum cleans up around half past seven.
She throws the books in a huff,
Says it's a mess and to clean it up!
Well dad and I try to clean,
But on the work we quickly wean
And in one of the larger nooks
You'll find dad and me reading our books.
poem by Lenore Lee
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Crumbs From Your Table
From the brightest star
Comes the blackest hole
You had so much to offer
Why did you offer your soul?
I was there for you baby
When you needed my help
Would you deny for others
What you demand for yourself?
Cool down mama, cool off
Cool down mama, cool off
You speak of signs and wonders
I need something other
I would believe if I was able
But I'm waiting on the crumbs from your table
You were pretty as a picture
It was all there to see
Then your face caught up with your psychology
With a mouth full of teeth
You ate all your friends
And you broke every heart thinking every heart mends
You speak of signs and wonders
But I need something other
I would believe if I was able
But I'm waiting on the crumbs from your table
Where you live should not decide
Whether you live or whether you die
Three to a bed
Sister Ann, she said
Dignity passes by
And you speak of signs and wonders
But I need something other
I would believe if I was able
I'm waiting on the crumbs from your table
song performed by by U2
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Marc Greets Things in the Morning
Hi boy with the bike on the vase on the bloom
ploom ploom
hi chair by the table
hi bread on the table
hi fisher-of-fish with the pipe
and
hi fisher-of -fish with cap
cap and pipe
of the fisher-of-fish
H i i i —i fish
hi little fish
hi tiny fishy-fine of mine
poem by Paul van Ostaijen
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Library
Drowsing on the chair at six in the evening,
I sat in the library.
Attendant came to put the lights on.
Some chairs after days work were lucky to be empty,
While some were occupied.
I felt the chair feel uneasy.
Uneasiness passed on to the scholars
They moved here and there.
The chair cried in pain.
No one could hear, but I could feel
White dove the chairs messanger came
It shouted, "Let them rest".
Because what they were pursuing was not wisdom but knowledge
There dull minds were unaware
The dove went, I went too, but the chairs suffered there.
poem by Sanjay Mehta
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Empty
A table, chair,
and empty wall
surround me where I sit,
my thoughts hark back
to days gone by
and the way it used to be.
Everything was touched
with love;
its warmth enveloped me here.
Every room was filled
with wonderful things
dotted here and there.
The walls were never empty,
pictures and photographs
looked down at me,
as I would sit here.
Someone had forgotten bills
that had to be paid.
Then came the bailiffs.
I look around and everything is gone.
My life is left in misery.
Oh, what happened?
What went so dearly wrong?
Our loving home is now empty, even of you.
27 June 2007
poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Take A Load Off Your Feet
I do them when Im down in the tub
With avocado cream theyll take a rub
They wrinkle like a-raisins if I stay too long
I wouldnt want to do it wrong
Theyll put you in the drivers seat
And to the table when you want to eat
But when you go to sit down in your chair
Something else has got to put you there
Take good care of your feet, pete
You better watch out what you eat, pete
Better take care of your life
cause nobody else will
Theyll twinkle when you fall in love
And put you there when you jump up above
When youre on the spot, get them right under you
One, then the other too
If you want to do the right thing for them
Just take a walk in the grass
But dont you catch yourself fallin
Or steppin on a piece of glass
(ouch glass)
Pete knows all the treacherous blows
The fallen arches and the cramp in the toes
He went to h. e. l. p. and got some sandals new
And dusty old saunas too
Take a load of your feet pete
You better watch out what you eat
Better take care of your life
cause nobody else will
Do do do do do do do do do do
Do do do do do do do do do do
Do do do do do do do do do do
song performed by by Beach Boys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The lonely old lady
She sits in her favourite chair
her dog lies by her slippered feet
a cup of tea in an arthritic hand.
The television is on in the corner
she sees it as a very close friend
talking to the newsreader about her day.
She stares over at the telephone
praying that someone will call
it hasn't rung for a long time.
The postman has just been
she wishes he'd come in for a chat
but people are so busy these days.
The pretty weather girl is talking
it's going to be a hot and sunny day
the old lady tells her she looks nice.
Struggling to get to her aching feet
she looks out of her living room window
people and cars go quickly by.
Sitting back down in her favourite chair
she bends to pick up her little dog
and stroking him she starts to cry.
The old lady died in her favourite chair
her little dog sat for weeks by her slippered feet
the postman kept pushing the mail through.
poem by Kevin Halls
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Squalor & Chips
My angel of the night
came down the stairs of morning
his hair, brown locks of greasiness,
his mouth, those sweet lips, yawning.
He stopped three steps from earth that day
and gazed at trainers in his way
and then as I began to pray,
stepped over and ignored them.
He took four steps across the room
he missed the cloth, the pan, the broom
and squashed cold chips, bare footed
upon the kitchen flooring!
Alas my fallen angel there,
sat his bottom on a chair
and sweeping hand through tousled hair,
ate his breakfast without care.
Without thought for chips all squashed,
flattened on that kitchen floor.
A floor so needy for a wash
as I exclaimed, "Oh my dear God! "
I found the mop, the bucket too
I cleaned the floor, mopped up the goo
and then I had a notion to,
but my angel wouldn't let me through.
Squashed chips on the kitchen floor
last nights washing up,
sticky table, dustbins full
and an empty coffee cup.
poem by Ruth Walters
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