Scarred People
one rainy day
the scarred people
decide to take the plunge
on the murky river
they go naked
not for anything else
but to simply see who got
most of the scars
from their faces
to their feet
someone wins of course
his scars look like snakes and
centipedes
practically naked he looks like
a leopard
yet he is the most gentle person
of them all
they take their plunge into the murky river
following where the flood
may finally hide.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Related quotes
For I Have Become Murky
i am the river beside you and you are the woman
wanting to go naked and take a bath in my mouth
while wading you think of the calmness of the
a pond, some petals of roses, air showered with
white magnolias,
i am the river beside you and my ripples are tongues.
i move around loving every part of you.
and you tiptoe and wriggle and sing for i am winding
you take the plunge and you search for my heart
the warmth of my floor and the comfort of my banks
the tickles of my fish, the power of my pebbles
you feel that i own you now and you want some more
wanting to stay and savor the embrace of my foams
at noon the sun comes at the height of its brightness
you realize the mistake & you stand and dress yourself
you never want to be a part of me for i have become murky
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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One Day You Stop By A Bridge And Just Sit There
and gaze at the rage of the water
under
the brown river gathering all the nuts
from the mountain
after the flood
murky, all murky
you sit there staring blankly
down
under
and you get carried away
floating
like one of the coconuts
not minding
direction
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Me And The Sea
do not expect me to wear
a G-string when i decide to take my swim
i always go naked.
I like always to feel the sea
all over my body
i plunge myself
and feel the nakedness of the sea
too
it's water all over me
all around me
naked sea to my naked body
you know how it feels
it feels like the way we do it
you are the sea
and i am a body
you are a body
and i am the sea
so simple and yet
what a bliss
naked, deep, blue, watery
wet, slippery, salty,
sweat mixed with the salt of the sea
two naked bodies
feeling
salt, earth, sand, fire
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Sergio Fiorentino Playing A Schumann
He shall patiently play
him a piano piece a
Sergio fiorentino
And he will
Mimic a Schumann piece
Because
Today he sees him
In full view
Bathing naked
On the river
He is a big man
Like himself
Now he comes
Back to the river
Where they once
Bathed as children
Naked and so
Blessedly innocent
There is malice
Now as he is
Big and muscled
And some black
Hairs decorated
His manhood
His armpits
His thighs
And his
Chests
He calls him
To join him
As they were
Once children
To have a river
To cleanse them
Both
“come, come”
we shall have
a bath in this
river of our
vibrant laughter”
he was inviting &
he was excited.
so
He took off his
Clothes and
Every covering
Of his body
His second
Thoughts and
Taking courage
He jumped
Into the river
Where he
Stood naked,
What he will say
He is prepared
To defend himself
It was him
Who made the
Invitation and
All he did was
Simply to obey.
He promises
There will be no
Regret whatsoever.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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When The Sacrifice Is Over
and then the time comes
for the end
of all our sacrifices
when we decide to go
to the river
remove our clothes
and dip our feet
on such coolness
when we finally
take the last breath
and then plunge
ourselves
to its depth
when we
see nothing not even
ourselves
as we close our eyes
and face
the murkiness
of darkness
trying to find
a little
light
shall we find
eternal peace in the drowning
under the
cold water?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Scars
We all have scars.
Some visible and some hidden to the world.
We sometimes try to hide the physically scars because we think it is ugly,
but really having scars is not a bad thing.
It reminds us we can heal and get through the bad times both physically and mentally when we are ripped or torn apart.
So embrace you scars and keep on healing.
For healing and battling is a part of life.
Let people see your scars and how strong you are by healing.
poem by Christina J. Williams
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The Naked Man!
only the naked man,
who's left all baggage behind,
can stand in the heat of the fire,
and slay the corporate beast!
only the naked man,
who wears his scars with pride,
can forgive the unforgivable,
and so heal this land.
only the naked man,
without pretense or game,
can stand up to the truth,
and set the captives free!
only the naked man,
with nothing left to lose,
can find the light
in a sky darkened by greed.
only the naked man,
beaten and cursed,
will stand and give a hand
without seeing your face...
only the naked man...
no longer praying to an unknown god,
will beat the sacred drum,
that wipes away your tears...
only the naked man!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Fact....
they pretended to be there
and they want us naked
one day, and it is as usual cold
they ask us to undress and hypnotized
we do everything just as they wanted...
they are drinking their cups of tea
and their bodies are well wrapped with their clothes
their heads with caps and their
feet with their socks and shoes on...
we believe what they are always telling us
that everything is all right
that there is nothing to worry about these truths
that when naked everything will be fine and
as the rule keeps on saying
we shall soon be happy and free....
it is nighttime
and there is no star
not a single star in the heavens
and we follow their orders
and we plunge into that cold and wide river
we are like the buffaloes
we shiver
it is so cold in here
and there is no star in the heavens
there is only the whisper of the incoming rain
the stoic silence of the night
the sighs of the air
we think we are dreaming
for when we open our eyes again after we dip ourselves in the waters
they are no longer there anymore
leaving us
with the traces of their laughter
the coldness of their indifference
the acridity of their
hatred
we are fools
we follow the orders and we have never used those innate lights within
our hearts
our heads bow
our feet in complete surrender
our toes protrude in the open
but it is not late yet
we still have time to wake up
and to get away from this cold river
we rise
we dry our hair and resume with the comfort of the heat of our clothes
we take our walk toward the house
back home
and settle in our own fireplace
we take our seats now
properly as we listen finally to the dictates of our conscience
our own songs
as we make ourselves open
to the coming of our own destinies
beside us
is reason.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Where Is The River?
Where is the river?
Is it here
Or somewhere else
Where is the river?
Is it here
Or hidden under the ground
Where is the river?
Is it here
Or safe inside the cave
Where is the river?
Is it here
Or still far away
Where is the river?
Is it here
Or up above the cloud
Where is the river?
Is it here
Or out of our reach
Where is the river?
Is it here
Or trickling on the rock
Where is the river?
Is it here
Or gathering in the pool
Where is the river?
Is it here
Or down over the cliff
Where is the river?
Is it here
Or just sight of illusion
Where is the river?
Is it here
Running in your eyes
Where is the river?
Is it here
Or sudden flood in the road
poem by Maria Sudibyo
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Our Way At Giving Poetry A Contemporary Name
poetry is just a flow of the river, taking away what is floating there
everything, from the heart to the vastness of the sea,
you get carried, not just by the substance of the river in-itself,
but also of the sound of the flow so uniquely yours, unequaled even
by the perfection of those who were here ahead of you,
you get carried away, you become the river itself, the leaf, the sand,
the bubble, the fish, the twigs, the paper boat, the shadow of the clouds
the mirror of the sky, clear so clear, murky and so murky, you flow
to be one with the sea, the horizon, you become more and less,
you get carried away both with the bulk and the bulge and the budge,
you get carried away, you lose yourself with the wind, you hear all the
sounds, you talk and walk, and then you feel the happiness of the earth
and the sky and the whole of the galaxy.
There exists no borders of time. It is all space. Bliss.
There are no lessons, not even visions, there is only the universal lull.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Images!
When you try to touch my gentle heart,
Please make sure your fatty nails are clipped,
The fresh bruises and the old scars a lot,
That can't be seen through eyes the naked.
When you drink water to saturate me,
Please make sure you don't adulterate,
The fresh bulges and swellings are a lot,
That can't be seen through the eyes, the naked.
When you breathe to fill my alveoli,
Please make sure you don't suffocate.
The vessels are collapsed with cancerous blooms,
That can't be seen through the eyes, the naked.
poem by Veeraiyah Subbulakshmi
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One
One thousand voices
But not one heard
One thousand thoughts
But not one word
One thousand troubles
But no one will know it
Unless I decide to
Finally show it
One thousand cuts
Run down my arm
A tribute to my
Life of self-harm
One thousand scars
That will not heal
One thousand people
Who will not feel
One thousand but no more
I finally decide
There will be one less person
And one more suicide
poem by Anonymous Ghurl
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198
From the mountain
I will throw this stone
To the nearby river
Try to see if the
River gets murky
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Double Edged Pleasures
naked children
bathing under the rain
girls stamping their
feet on the water
scattered pleasures
in the rising waters of the river
the boys are at it again
cliff jumping
there are no stones
the rain keeps on pouring
the bamboo raft floats
seeking a strap for home
naked boys and girls
they bathe in the river
long ago there was no malice at all
pure pleasure of angels
the rain keeps pouring
the waters still rising
there is a flood of happiness
at what price tonight?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The River, and I
I stand naked, untouched
Alone, unafraid and still
The sun shies away
And the wind brushes past me
While I stand
Naked and untouched
I kneel down,
And feel the river
Flowing relentlessly, unstopped
Angry, loud, cold and pure
The river shows no mercy
As it beats against the rocks
It knows no love, no guilt
It only knows survival
As it finds its way
And so it flows
Relentless and unstopped
Yet, I fight the river
I yearn for its love
Like a fool,
I keep standing, waiting
The river keeps moving
Paying me no heed
Yet I keep standing
Naked and untouched.
poem by Gauri Gupta
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Recollections of Our Native Valley
Know ye not that lovely river?
Know ye not that smiling river?
Whose gentle flood,
By cliff and wood,
With wildering sound goes winding ever.
Oh! often yet with feeling strong,
On that dear stream my mem'ry ponders,
And still I prize its murm'ring song,
For by my childhood's home it wanders.
Know ye not that lovely river?
Know ye not that smiling river?
Whose gentle flood,
By cliff and wood,
There's music in each wind that blows
Within our native valley breathing;
There's beauty in each flower that grows
Around our native woodlands wreathing.
The memory of our brightest joys
Is dearer than the richest toys,
The present vainly shed around us.
Know ye not that lovely river?
Know ye not that smiling river?
Whose gentle flood,
By cliff and wood,
Oh, sister! when 'mid doubts and fears,
That haunt life's onward journey ever,
I turn to those departed years,
And that beloved and lovely river;
With sinking mind and bosom riven,
And heart with lonely anguish aching,
It needs my long-taught hope in heaven,
To keep that weary heart from breaking.
Know ye not that lovely river?
Know ye not that smiling river?
Whose gentle flood,
By cliff and wood.
poem by Gerald Griffin
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To Honesto In Going to the City
as you pack
your jute sack
containing your
personal belongings:
a pair of pants
an old dirty white shirt
a pair of rubber slippers
a hat
(leave your bolo
you can't use it there)
do not promise me
that you will not
be coming back
to this poor little
town which has not
given you the
opportunity for
a higher wage
as a houseboy
ah, Honesto the city
if you only know
has no pity
it had long forgotten
feelings
and those who
cannot adapt to
its cruelty
may simply die
beside the sidewalk
of its cold streets
and when the flood
comes to clean
its waste
you may be lucky
carried for free
by the big water
to be finally eaten
by the wild fishes
in the murky river
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Dead Fish Speaking For İtself
the best evidence
of that dead fish
is its body bloating
and stinking
floating on the
murky river
the rage of the river
tries to report the sad story
to the deep
blue sea
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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In Any Form Of Endearment
The river in you moves
Taking the least resistance
You shall be the murky one
That seeks your own level of murkiness
In calm and still moments
Let me fish for once
In your moments of rage
I shall be the rocky gauge
In the moment of your dryness
I shall be the river bank nearby
We shall be always here in any form
I shall be the bamboo grove one day
And you shall be the cool river again
gently flowing by
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Scars
Now I see that you are pushing me away,
The scars remain as my pain,
I can see that my veins are full of scars,
Scars of remaining past,
Scars from all those cutting,
Scars from all the pain I went through,
Love is vain,
The rain might pour down,
But nothing has stop me from seeing the scars I have left behind,
Nothing can’t stop me from seeing the remaining scars,
All my scars, all my memories remain as my pain.
poem by Jennifer Rondeau
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