She Is Bored
a routine for boredom
at 4 o 'clock in the afternoon
she goes to the city
to buy something that must distract
her attention
in this messy hours of the day
when all things simply look the same
indistinguishable
two parts have become too distinct
one part needs a name
the other stays unknown
to keep life interesting.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Related quotes
Writing is like
One that I had in a dream
I was a bird flying high
Smooth air on my wings
Then I suddenly
Fell down
I did not experience any
Cut on any of my wings
They simply stopped flapping
And the air slipped
Sucked by some
Monster in space
It is like writing
I fall down today
From the heights of
Inspiration and
My mind simply
Breaks down
No thought
No dictation
From up there
Every word is sucked
Into nothingness
And all the boredom
That I have confessed to you
Once twice and always
Such that
You believe that I am
Simply inventing things
For attention,
All these are true.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Long Afternoon Became Longer
THE LONG AFTERNOON BECAME LONGER
The long afternoon became longer-
Time had no end and boredom also-
We all know it will eventually pass
But in the middle we are marooned waiting
Without any idea whatsoever of what to do-
I write these lines because I know
Boredom too has its beauty-
And waiting for nothing also its dream-
And out of nowhere there may come
Long into the long afternoon
Far after all the work is done and nothing remains
While waiting is still going on
A small poem to break the monotony
And give meaning back to life.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Cortège
Four o'clock this afternoon,
Fifteen hundred miles away:
So it goes, the crazy tune,
So it pounds and hums all day
Four o'clock this afternoon,
Earth will hide them far away:
Best they go to go so soon,
Best for them the grave to-day.
Had she gone but half so soon,
Half the world had passed away.
Four o'clock this afternoon,
Best for them they go to-day.
Four o'clock this afternoon,
Love will hide them deep, they say;
Love that made the grave so soon,
Fifteen hundred miles away:
Four o'clock this afternoon,
Ah, but they go slow to-day:
Slow to suit my crazy tune,
Past the need of all we say.
Best it came to come so soon,
Best for them they go to-day:
Four o'clock this afternoon,
Fifteen hundred miles away.
poem by Edwin Arlington Robinson
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Ehhh
The man looked up to the sky and shouted
He walked, he ran, he babbled, he cried
The city looked in astonishment at the man’s insane cries for the unknown
He would go home, and turn all the lights out
The city would hear saws, they would hear screams and cries
They believed them to be his own, so no one payed attention
One day, he did not go home, he did not go helplessly to his house
He simply stood and babbled, the name, the name of a man
His voice bore the pain of a fallen angel, they believed him to be possessed
No one payed attention, they simply watched as his actions would change
Instead of working inside his house, the man would tear his house apart.
The next day, when all the walls were gone, and the house retained no security
The city reaped its carelesness
Inside the house, the man kept, bodies
Not only human bodies, but animals.
He would sneak in the deep of the night, and rob graves.
poem by Daniel Schwarz
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Country Is Like A Body
When one part sick
All parts look unhealthy
When one part missing
All parts get the impact
When one part is weak
Do other parts only blame and not help to fix it?
When one part is failed
Do other parts only let it fall and not support it?
Even it is often forgotten
It doesn't mean it is not important
Even it is always underestimated
It doesn't mean it could completely be ignored
One part may be incapable
But it doesn't mean all parts can do nothing
One part may be invalid
But it doesn't mean all parts should also give up the spirit
In some incredible moment they are working together
In some unseen place they don't stop to struggle
It may be hard but always raises up the hope
It may be small change but always look forward
poem by Maria Sudibyo
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The Parts In Relation To The Whole
the parts in relation to the whole are hard to muster
i get lost somehow
confused on this seemingly unrelated part to another part
like seeing the legs of this millipede
when it would have been easier to think of it
as a worm,
i remember being lost in a forest of trees
wild growing trees where i can no longer figure out the shape
of a single leaf
because it is too dark
and damp
too many little things, too many details, that hinder us
from grasping the wholeness of
things
and people and daily events,
i get tired of all these, parts and parts and parts and some more
miniatures of parts, a letter to the word,
speaking in cut phrases
how can i ever understand this and that?
show me the whole
be whole to me as i am whole to you
touch the parts later
relate it always to me
this love is whole, it was never meant to be chopped
like some garlic and onions
this love is an apple that you see and pick from the tree
take it first
in its appleness, then start to bite
every part is sweet, every part is me,
this love
this me, this whole world is me
it must be first to you
then love becomes us.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Well, I mean, we are developing the other parts, and we can't give quite all our attention to the upper part, but soon the lower parts will be developed, and the upper part and the lower part will become partners, that will be wonderful.
quote by Ninette de Valois
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Shoulder
pains on his shoulder
creepy
like snakes looking for
the big bite
poisonous
lethal bite for the night
dead ma
a white man does not understand
what is it
deadma
no one's dead here
it simply means
the unmindfulness of the surrounding pain
or the itch
and the scratch
the fingernails have reasons
not to scratch anymore
too disturbing
too important to be give the attention
leave them do whatever they want
and just like anything else
they too leave
when not a pinch of attention is given
or the pain becomes a part of routine
like a the chase of the blinking signs of traffic on the road
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Distractions
Distractions
~
I seek to distract myself
So thoughts will not be forgotten
More kept elsewhere for a while
Have them otherwise entertained
A busy mind has no time to idle
To wander about the what ifs and whys
Those fruitless agonies considered
In the dull silences and quiet hours
It’s a duel of attention, distraction
When strong thoughts resist my ignorance
A book becomes a struggle
While the wayward mind wanders still
Thoughts resist to be kept at bay
However I seek to distract myself
To leave certain thoughts for a while
That I may rest my soul
poem by Matthew Holloway
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Running through things because you are familiar with them, breeds routine and this is the seed of boredom.
quote by James Galway
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Real Is Beautiful
when you go back from where you
once stayed
you notice that there is a wrong there
and it is messy
very messy
and your friends who cannot believe it
call your attention
it is a shame they say
and it will be damaging to my reputation
but i have no plan correcting it
i leave it there
to show me who i was and why i am at present
elevating myself to another level
after all i am the fruit of so many errors
an improvement of my past mistakes
and i am real
and so i leave things as they are
unretouched and no matter how erroneous they had once become
i still think
that they are so beautiful
because they are real.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The magic snow
In our city the snow never melts.
Usually it's
indistinguishable from the grass and asphalt.
In our city the sun always shines.
However, it's
often moonful
or
moonless.
In our city all live forever.
Sometimes
they pretend to be dead
and hide
among
roots.
poem by Eugene Silman
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On the robot kit, I can choose very boring parts or I can choose exciting and interesting parts. That is a reflection of my personality and the kinds of things I am interested in.
quote by Bill Budge
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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For The Rest Of My Life
for the rest of my life
i will take the same routine
home, office, school,
home office, school,
a straight life confined
in a certain space
too confined and too
tight for my soul
and too boring
for my body
home, office, school,
school, home, office,
you ask me if there is
something wrong with
my life? there is nothing
right in it, everything has
always been wrong
and everyday has always
been an attempt to correct
it, but nothing
nothing has fit into it
to cut the routine to
break me from the
chains of everyday
nothing comes and nothing
goes, i think, that is how
it is meant to be,
i think, i simply have
to imagine, make some
figments of stars, and moon
and sun and mountains
and seas and valleys
and castles and princesses
and kings and queens
and too they become routine
too, some poems and stories
some people that do not
actually exist, some imaginary
earth, imaginary creatures
they are all here, in this routine
of imaginations, of poetics
of illusions and allusions,
these lines, my life, these routine
and all my excuses, you and I.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Fate
There once lived an olive green frog
in the back of a half-rotten log.
He was killed in his sleep
well, the log wasn't deep
and the killer was simply a hog.
As for truffles the hog searched in vain
it was clearer than glass and quite plain,
in his terrible mood
he came wholly unglued
but he later was hit by a train.
Thus the hog and the frog bought the farm,
it was sad that there was no alarm,
though the frog owned a clock
which went tick and then tock
'till the sun was well past the yardarm.
But one night there was Ezel the lizard,
he was known in the woods as a wizard.
Called to fix for the frog
his small clock in the log
a small spring disappeared in his gizzard.
Since no parts were on hand for the clock
they marked North and then South on a rock.
It would show them the time
(the idea was sublime)
'till the clock parts again were in stock.
But, the sun let them down and slept in.
(It is said she is partial to Gin) ,
thus two critters lost big
through no fault of the pig
but the lizard's huge overbite chin.
poem by Herbert Nehrlich
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Clocks.
(Emmylou Harris)
Old brown clock ticking on my shelf
Take my mind to someplace else
Little gold clock ticking by my bed
Funny little people dancing 'round my head
Morning brings me things to do
Morning brings me thoughts of you
Gentle sunshine through the curtain lace
Some of which shining on your sweet face
Counting hours making days
Watching time throwing love away
Nothing golden never stays
That's what I heard the poets say Mmm ...
Time is always taking me
Places I don't want to be
But when the morning rise the moon
I know a bird day's coming soon
Counting hours making days
Watching time throwing love away
Nothing golden never stays
That's what I heard the poets say Mmm ...
Morning brings me things to do
Morning brings me thoughts of you
Gentle sunshine through the curtain lace
Some of which shining on your sweet face
song performed by by Emmylou Harris
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Emotion is wheels
The desired are left; the desire stays.
The ignored are got; the ignoring stays.
The loved are missed; the love remains.
The hated are nowhere; the hate remains.
Curiosity and boredom take shifts.
When wisdom dawns, the life downs.
30.12.2002
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Our inventions are wont to be pretty toys, which distract our attention from serious things. They are but improved means to an unimproved end.
quote by Henry David Thoreau
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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War is Boredom
War is Boredom
War is Boredom
War can be defined as long periods of boredom, short burst of terror, seemingly lasting forever, To those who are there, Waiting for another outburst, which never seems to cease.
You Pray, you count all your blessings, the outgoing not what you fear, its the incoming that can't be trusted.
War can be defined as boredom, for those who's life was spared, as the days in between that matters, on those who life spent there.
2008
poem by Charles Garcia
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The unknown rockstar
He sits in the park
Singing to his own tune
Strumming his guitar to his own chords
The park was rather busy this afternoon
But yet no one seems to see him
As if their life was too busy or important
To just stop and pay attention
To this one guy
Maybe just maybe
Nobody could care about this stranger
This stranger sitting at the park
Well maybe that’s not entirely true
For there is this one girl
Every chance she’s able to go
She comes to the park
In search of him
The unknown rockstar
The guy with no name
With a voice that no words could describe
His talent with a guitar that no one can match up to
He’s an unknown guy
That’s why no one notices him
That is, besides one girl
Who just notices him
As the unknown rockstar
poem by Storm Pedersen
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