Saturation Points...
buying furniture
is not an option, where
do you put them
in this crowded house?
clothes are a
no no,
he is fat and
clothes don't fit anymore
the spoons and forks
we have enough of them
left unattended
they rust in their secret
places
in the kitchen
the porcelain plates
are glossy
we become speechless
of such
beauty in fidelity
despite the fact
that we stop giving parties
and they have
become of no use
unlike before
we cook the traditional way
with firewood
and chimney and we
send the smoke to the
sky
our way of communicating
to God
daily.
now, we have become
too secretive with
technology
in our privacy
we do not keep any smoke
because we know
we cannot hold them
no matter how closed the
windows are
they always keep and
tell the story
guess what?
there is a need to buy
more blankets
we are feeling this
kind of indescribable cold
for the moment
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Related quotes
Cook Of The House
Ground rice, sugar, vinegar, seco salt, macaroni too,
Cook of the house,
Im the cook of the house.
No matter where I serve my guests,
They seem to like the kitchen best cause Im the cook of the house,
Cook of the house.
The salads in the bowl,
The rice is on the stove.
Green beans in the colander and where the res is heaven only knows.
Cinnamon, garlic, salt, pepper, corn-bread, curry powder, coffee too,
Cook of the house,
Im the cook of the house.
No, matter where I serve my guests,
They seem to like the kitchen best.
cause Im the cook of the house,
Cook of the house.
Where the rest is heaven only knows.
Matter where I serve my guests,
They seem to like the kitchen best cause Im the cook of the house.
Cook of the house,
Cook of the house,
Im the cook of the house.
song performed by by Paul McCartney
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Recovery Disc
i know what you are up to.
i know that you do not forget pain and i know that that pain is still there and no matter how you hide it
it comes like smoke from an old
dirty chimney
and at winter time it shows all the black soot
the gray smoke from the house
to the sky
i know that when you invite me you do not really mean to please me.
you just want to show the changes in the house
the rearrangement of the furniture
it no longer the rose in the vase but
a carnation
that you say is loved by another
but not you
i know what you are up to but i have already prepared myself for that
in my heart i must tell you
pain has no bed.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Compulsion 5
it is there
it goes out
you want to hide it in your palm
in your clenched fist
it escapes
as perfume
as smoke
from the chimney
of the house
whose windows and doors you have closed
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Smoke
smoke from the chimney
rises to the sky
and then gone
like us, did you not notice?
we are from here
this heart and then in pain
we rise up
we mix in space
there, do you see still us?
i do not see me anymore
i am fog dissolving in the morning
i am mist dissipating on glass
i am smoke
rising to the sky from the chimney
and then gone....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Big Black Smoke
She was sick and tired of country life.
A little country home,
A little country folk,
Made her blood run cold.
Now her mother pines her heart away,
Looking for her child in the big black smoke,
In the big black smoke.
Frailest, purest girl the world has seen,
According to her ma, according to her pa,
And everybody said,
That she knew no sin and did no wrong,
Till she walked the streets of the big black smoke,
Of the big black smoke.
Well, she slept in caffs and coffee bars and bowling alleys,
And every penny she had
Was spent on purple hearts and cigarettes.
She took all her pretty coloured clothes,
And ran away from home
And the boy next door,
For a boy named joe.
And he took her money for the rent
And tried to drag her down in the big black smoke,
In the big black smoke.
In the big black smoke.
In the big black smoke.
song performed by by Kinks
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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When The Smoke Comes Out
when the smoke comes out
they are there to say that there is fire
on the chimney
when the smoke is black
they all say i have decided
when the smoke is white
they keep on praying since
no one is chosen
to lead the lost flock
without their grazing ground
during winter time
what if the smoke comes out
from my eyes and the smoke is black
and there is no fire in my heart?
what if i am lost? shall you care?
please don't. I must tell you i am happier
when left alone.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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All That I Have Left
The Apostle Paul recommended women should
not seek beauty in hairstyles, ornaments, jewellery
and expensive clothes, true beauty lies in character;
I say: Thank you, the hairstyle is easily done due to
the thin feathers on my head, as for the clothes
I have to wear something, the clothes I have is ugly
enough - I cannot find pretty clothes in my size - and
now I find none that fits, neither pretty or ugly; at least
Paul said clothing is required, my only option is to mail-
order a burka as the clothes in our Western shops
Are an unqualified flop - for me at least, I comply with
the requirements for looking ugly; working on character
is all that I have left - Paul, you did not recommend
anything, you simply stated the state of affairs!
1 Timothy 3: 9 & 10
poem by Margaret Alice Second
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Grandma's Silver
You met me
and I had given up.
You met me
and I took out the good china
from Grandma's hutch;
her gold-plated knives, forks and spoons
and the silver,
toasting you
that summer night
had both of us playing house.
I was the gourmet cook,
you were eating hearty
and wolfed down lustily my heart;
made me forget giving up
for giving it up
happily;
mostly from memory
and you were kind enough
not to notice
how awkwardly
and how long
my breathing took
to run to smooth.
It was the conversation
I believe
late into the night
that over-came me
re-mending those broken heart pieces
which laid themselves out carefully
on my dining room
table;
festooned
with grandma's
silver and gold-plated spoons.
We have gone on now through
paper, wood
and silver anniversaries;
golden
on our horizon;
nearing fifty years.
Thanks Grandma
for the silver-ware
and for him.
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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In Love
love i must say has no limitations
its nature is pervading,
always in the mood for sharing
resources, physical and whatever
it does not stay
in one place, it travels to places
of the heart, expands, evaporates
and become the part of the clouds
the essence of an ever protecting sky
love, i must say, cannot be limited
to just one person,
it goes beyond unity and fidelity
it is always giving itself to another,
i am not hiding, i am love,
i am married, but it does not really matter,
it is man that makes marriages,
it is man that breaks this law
this law that limits the power of love
to love and love and love again and again
how can i conceal this love
that i have for you?
it burns itself, makes a smoke, goes out of the chimney
and shows itself to you
it gives you the smell of my soul
it pleads
to be loved in return
but even if you do not reciprocate it
it goes beyond refusal
it goes up again
and become part of heaven
the universe, the galaxies,
the infinite....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Sometimes
Sometimes,
The onions
Come to my rescue.
Sometimes, the
Choking on the food.
Sometimes, the smoke
From the firewood.
The tears in my eyes
Just wouldn’t stop
And I know the reason
Why.
But have to hide them
From my children.
If they ask me why,
I can’t tell them why.
Sometimes, hiding
Doesn’t work.
So if they see it,
They wonder why…
Then I tell them
Stories of how
Invisible particles
Prick my eyes.
So now, they just guess
It could be the onions,
The smoke, the particles
Or the choking that plagues
Mummy sometimes,
Don’t know why…
poem by Aparna Chatterjee
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A Happening Within
there is something in us that grows
into a complication,
the sophistication of the labyrinths that
we create in every word and line,
it used to be just a simple house with
one door without walls and ceiling
a theater for the dance of the wind
and the fireflies & perhaps
one window and a little patio to appease the senses
of simplicity
dressed like a rag doll
but it can't be prevented
as time grows more hands and feet and even wings
and horns
many subways are built
secret chambers
foxholes and slaughter houses
or tea tables
restricted areas and hidden homes
and buried cemeteries
and lost treasures
that will never be found
perhaps that is our nature
and also the nature of our poetry
there is a room where we make love
and there is only one person there
name not revealed
no one has a hint
there is a kitchen where no cooking is done
for fear of smoke and fire
where firewood is taboo and where cigarette speaks
a language of puffs
like Indian warriors communicating to
themselves
in the smoke of their palms
i, myself, create signs
that are designed more to confuse
than to
make bridges
the rivers are happier
and the clouds celebrate the success of
the floating
i am into this again
this chasm between two selves
split carrot stick
that falling that is endless
that bliss that is as silent as the star at night
when you are alone
and missing no
one.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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This Is The House
This is the house
This is the hill
This is the story - it's a little thing
A lock of hair
An invisible smoke trail
Nothing there but the dust and the rust
Oh/oh/oh everything changes
This is your picture (it's in black and white)
This is the family having a party
There's a crack in the ceiling
And there's an open door
Nothing there but the dust and the rust
Oh/oh/oh everything changes
song performed by by Eurythmics
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Granny Used to Smoke
Granny used to smoke,
She had her special cigarette.
Granny used to smoke,
She had her special style to.
Granny used to smoke,
She used to send me to shop.
Granny used to smoke.
She used to smoke this way:
Putting the glowing side,
Inside her mouth cavity,
And hers is to release,
Trains of smoke!
poem by Buyunde Acura Sylivester
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Autobiographia
I had everything and luck: Rings of smoke
blown for me; sunlight safe inside the leaves
of cottonwoods; pure, simple harmonies
of church music, echoes of slave songs; scraps
of candy wrappers -- airborne. Everything.
Mother and father, brother, aunts, uncles;
chores and schoolwork and playtime. Everything.
I was given gloves against winter cold.
I was made to wear gloves when I gardened.
I was made to garden; taught to hold forks
in my left hand when cutting, in my right
when bringing food to my mouth. Everything.
I had clothes I was told not to wear outside;
a face you could clean up almost handsome;
I had friends to fight with and secrets, spread
all over the neighborhood; the best teachers,
white and colored. I'm not making this up.
I knew that I had everything. Still do.
poem by G.E. Patterson
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Religious Dress
Extra religious nature shall taste sweeter when held,
The clothes of stress are like dress, unparalleled.
One worships the ghosts, delicious food has been consumed,
Many spoons and forks clatter to bring the costumed.
poem by Naveed Akram
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It Is The Same Unrequited Love As The Old Song From The Mountain
the love is alive
within you and it wants to talk
and tell and just
be a smoke rising finally from the
confines of the chimney
from those closed windows
and locked doors
liberation, spirits freed from
what imprison them
just to say i love you and then
i go
it is enough it does not demand much
it says hello and then
keeps upon its pocket the word
goodbye
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Things That Happened
There is a connection between
the tree and you
between a space of cool air
There is a spark
that short moment that shakes you
because it is too beautiful
and then gone
You have always returned from far places
hoping to see it again
The tree had been tall and proud and someone
that you hate cut it into pieces for firewood
You have seen the smoke from far away
you are mute
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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From Behind Closed Windows
Is it easier for one to gaze from windows closed
To daydream daily of wishes to come true?
Than it is for someone seen from those same windows,
Making advancements towards making their dreams...
A reality.
Although viewed to stumble to fall to get back up again,
Many times.
And embarrassed by the sight of this,
To sit for a moment in tears but to get over it...
By the one seen laughing as they stare,
To have their dreaming interrupted...
From behind closed windows,
Amused but chooses to go back,
To a daydreaming done daily.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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House Wife Affair
I been having my housewife affair for awhile
which my husband doesn't even care about!
They are all performed in the comfort of the home
And I never have to ever dress up, or go out!
These men that live in our home
are Kenmore, and then that other fella, Hover!
They're my kind of secret men!
They are shakers and, real movers!
One takes me around and around the house
as he sweeps me across, clean floors!
The other pampers my clothes in bubbles
and sometimes, even helps me, clean above the doors!
Then one can be as cold as ice!
But does take me to the kitchen to dine.
And sometimes makes me coffee
Aromas, waking me up, before the stoke of nine.
I don't think I'll let my husband in on it
these other men I have in my life!
I'll just pretend, that they're my secret lovers
helping just another, imaginative, overworked, housewife!
poem by Linda Winchell
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Clothes Line
After a while we took in the clothes,
Nobody said very much.
Just some old wild shirts and a couple pairs of pants
Which nobody really wanted to touch.
Mama come in and picked up a book
An papa asked her what it was.
Someone else asked, what do you care?
Papa said, well, just because.
Then they started to take back their clothes,
Hang em on the line.
It was january the thirtieth
And everybody was feelin fine.
The next day everybody got up
Seein if the clothes were dry.
The dogs were barking, a neighbor passed,
Mama, of course, she said, hi!
Have you heard the news? he said, with a grin,
The vice-presidents gone mad!
Where? downtown. when? last night.
Hmm, say, thats too bad!
Well, theres nothin we can do about it, said the neighbor,
Its just somethin were gonna have to forget.
Yes, I guess so, said ma,
Then she asked me if the clothes was still wet.
I reached up, touched my shirt,
And the neighbor said, are those clothes yours?
I said, some of em, not all of em.
He said, ya always help out around here with the chores?
I said, sometime, not all the time.
Then my neighbor, he blew his nose
Just as papa yelled outside,
Mama wants you t come back in the house and bring them clothes.
Well, I just do what Im told,
So, I did it, of course.
I went back in the house and mama met me
And then I shut all the doors.
song performed by by Bob Dylan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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