Sitting Upon The Stairway
lean upon
a rail of the stair
your head
finds a wall
thoughts in prison
bars
of the mind
the feeling of
being compressed
arrives
this early morning
eyes ache but
not squeaking
poor set
these tools for
that are dependent
on light
hands like driftwood
land on stair ways
upon the steps of
your perceived luck
you will be luckier
yesterday was a curse
the stars last night
keep saying
in this little town
some roads are still on
their way to somewhere
else
a bus flowering with
people
windows all blanks
filled with
straight faces
passes you by
you are staying put
there will be an absence
that they will not
ask or miss
dusts from the street
layer upon your eyelids
and you do not blink
you bite your lips
tasting another flavor
of your own blood
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Stare
a stare is like a stair
it has steps
and there are feet
walking,
and leaving,
you stare at me,
and i see stairs, where you walk
and climb and stop at the middle
and then take the stairs layer by layer
that is what you like to do, to look at me
as though i am this room where you build the stairs
and you want to go inside my room and lock me up
and take all of me with your tongue and hands and
mouth. You mouth me. And i receive the life you have.
and then your stare subsides. the stair is gone.
the room vanishes. I am free. And you are inside me
your stare has become the memory lingering inside me.
i become a bird and you are inside my wings.
Your stairs become my feathers. Your stare
becomes my eyes.
in love, we make the stairs leading to a house.
and there we feast, and live and sleep.
yes, there are wings and windows.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Halfway Down
Halfway down the stairs
is a stair
where i sit.
there isn't any
other stair
quite like
it.
i'm not at the bottom,
i'm not at the top;
so this is the stair
where
I always
stop.
Halfway up the stairs
Isn't up
And it isn't down.
It isn't in the nursery,
It isn't in town.
And all sorts of funny thoughts
Run round my head.
It isn't really
Anywhere!
It's somewhere else
Instead!
poem by Alan Alexander Milne
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When day is over
When day is over
I climb up the stair,
Take off my dark dress,
Pull down my hair,
Open my window
And look at the stars.
Then my heart breaks through
These prison bars
Of space and darkness
And finds what is true,
Up past the stars where
I'm one with you.
poem by Lesbia Harford
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We
we build the stairs first
stair upon stair
wood and nail
and hammer
and hands
and some
determined thoughts
dreams to reach the skies
focus
and look what have be done
we have reached the door
of the room
it is here where we shall hatch
all our dreams
like eggs to our warm
hands
like chicks to our cheeks
time and stairs and hopes and dreams and nails and hammers
and hands
and eyes
be awake and always be vigilant
for dreams that do not die like night
stars
are we
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Someone's Mother
Someone's Mother trails the street
Wrapt in rotted rags;
Broken slippers on her feet
Drearily she drags;
Drifting in the bitter night,
Gnawing gutter bread,
With a face of tallow white,
Listless as the dead.
Someone's Mother in the dim
Of the grey church wall
Hears within a Christmas hymn,
One she can recall
From the h so long ago,
When divinely far,
in the holy alter glow
She would kneel in prayer.
Someone's Mother, huddled there,
Had so sweet a dream;
Seemed the sky was Heaven's stair,
Golden and agleam,
Robed in gown Communion bright,
Singingly she trod
Up and up the stair of light,
And thee was waiting - God.
Someone's Mother cowers down
By the old church wall;
Soft above the sleeping town
Snow begins to fall;
Now her rags are lily fair,
but unproud is she:
Someone's Mother is not there . . .
Lo! she climbs the starry stair
Only angels see.
poem by Robert William Service
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Coming close
to the sound made of light
almost soundless steps stair by stair
eavesdropping
the crackling of the staircase
glued to the buzzing in my own ears
is that you
coming close to the window silently breaking
to the opening of the eyelids into the night
with the taste of the word 'never' on the tip of my tongue
a shadow swallowed in each word
is that you
coming close always to the outbreak
sewed within a bird mad enough to fly
coming close always with the hope
painful enough to remember a dream
is that you
is that you
thus whispered the night
is that you
thus cried the streets
is that you
thus thundered the mountain
is that you
thus were silent the galaxies
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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Poor Little Girl
Poor Little Girl
Nobody cares what she does
She only lives what she was
In her mind reliving thoughts of yesterday
‘til she finds she knows her way she’ll have to play poor little girl
Poor little girl
Why can’t she love what she’s seen
People don’t want her to’ve been
Wasting time and living in her yesterday
‘til she finds she knows her way she’ll have to play poor little girl
Poor little girl
Her heart will shoulder
Who she’s intended to be
She may never know her
Until she has set herself free
Harboring the darkest nights of yesterday
So until she finds her way she’ll have to play poor little girl
Poor little girl
She’s so important to me
I admit I use to be
Runnin’ never knowin’ of my destiny
Blessings in disguise today that end that play
Poor little girl,
Poor little girl
Poor little girl
Little girl’s me
Copyright 1969, Will Fiala
poem by Will Fiala
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Mother to Son
Well, son, I'll tell you:
Life for me ain't been no crystal stair.
It's had tacks in it,
And splinters,
And boards torn up,
And places with no carpet on the floor—
Bare.
But all the time
I'se been a-climbin' on,
And reachin' landin's,
And turnin' corners,
And sometimes goin' in the dark
Where there ain't been no light.
So, boy, don't you turn back.
Don't you set down on the steps.
'Cause you finds it's kinder hard.
Don't you fall now—
For I'se still goin', honey,
I'se still climbin',
And life for me ain't been no crystal stair.
poem by Langston Hughes
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The Stairs....
the stairs show us
a door, and we focus
to the moment when
we arrive at the very
doorstep
anticipating about
a day of an opening
and see finally what is next
what is there
we step upon each
plank
ascend every next
stair
each stair
and the next stair
all the days of our
lives
spending time
with little rest
and sometimes with
nothing at all
sooner we feel
so deceived
having spent so much
time already
ascending
habitually
but not really getting near
that attractive door
and when we notice that
it is too late
our faces have given birth
to all the wrinkles
our heads have grown
all the white hairs
and silences by all means
have sewn our lips
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Ken
The town is old and very steep
A place of bells and cloisters and grey towers,
And black-clad people walking in their sleep—
A nun, a priest, a woman taking flowers
To her new grave; and watched from end to end
By the great Church above, through the still hours:
But in the morning and the early dark
The children wake to dart from doors and call
Down the wide, crooked street, where, at the bend,
Before it climbs up to the park,
Ken's is in the gabled house facing the Castle wall.
When first I came upon him there
Suddenly, on the half-lit stair,
I think I hardly found a trace
Of likeness to a human face
In his. And I said then
If in His image God made men,
Some other must have made poor Ken—
But for his eyes which looked at you
As two red, wounded stars might do.
He scarcely spoke, you scarcely heard,
His voice broke off in little jars
To tears sometimes. An uncouth bird
He seemed as he ploughed up the street,
Groping, with knarred, high-lifted feet
And arms thrust out as if to beat
Always against a threat of bars.
And oftener than not there'd be
A child just higher than his knee
Trotting beside him. Through his dim
Long twilight this, at least, shone clear,
That all the children and the deer,
Whom every day he went to see
Out in the park, belonged to him.
"God help the folk that next him sits
He fidgets so, with his poor wits,"
The neighbours said on Sunday nights
When he would go to Church to "see the lights!"
Although for these he used to fix
His eyes upon a crucifix
In a dark corner, staring on
Till everybody else had gone.
And sometimes, in his evil fits,
You could not move him from his chair—
You did not look at him as he sat there,
Biting his rosary to bits.
While pointing to the Christ he tried to say,
"Take it away".
Nothing was dead:
He said "a bird" if he picked up a broken wing,
A perished leaf or any such thing
Was just "a rose"; and once when I had said
He must not stand and knock there any more,
He left a twig on the mat outside my door.
Not long ago
The last thrush stiffened in the snow,
While black against a sullen sky
The sighing pines stood by.
But now the wind has left our rattled pane
To flutter the hedge-sparrow's wing,
The birches in the wood are red again
And only yesterday
The larks went up a little way to sing
What lovers say
Who loiter in the lanes to-day;
The buds begin to talk of May
With learned rooks on city trees,
And if God please
With all of these
We, too, shall see another Spring.
But in that red brick barn upon the hill
I wonder—can one own the deer,
And does one walk with children still
As one did here?
Do roses grow
Beneath those twenty windows in a row—
And if some night
When you have not seen any light
They cannot move you from your chair
What happens there?
I do not know.
So, when they took
Ken to that place, I did not look
After he called and turned on me
His eyes. These I shall see—
poem by Charlotte Mary Mew
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The Nun in the Schoolyard
The morning
The morning smile
Her smile
The morning light
The light morning
The light step
The heavy steps around
The passers by
Her smile
A light stop
A smile widens
The river
In her eyes
Lights the dark
The lark
'Good morning'
Sings the morning
Passes by
The night
And many a night
Her smile
Passes by
The sweetest
Unforgetable.
poem by Eman Elbadawi
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There's A Wall On Which To Draw A Hand
a face the eyes but not the sight
future features quiver in the strokes 'but' 'and'
a sightful 'or' will bite the lips of plight
quess 'maybe' will laugh across the colours
if you're brave enough to layer any
and sometimes will cheat on a line allures
dipped in too much drawn for too many
faces and eyes but never for the sight
shading the hues towards the light
because at one point a gene forgets it all
taken too much in that he paints the wall
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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A Ducktail Called Stan
There was a man they called Stan the ducktail,
a well build biker with very long hair,
his real name could have been Sam
or Dick or Dirk
no one really still knows
but he carried chains
and knuckle-dusters
that he used as fighting tools
(and sometimes his bare fists did the thing)
whenever a game of cards, pool, snooker
or even darts did not go straight
he took a swing
and rumour had it that he had even
knocked some cops through shop windows,
had send them straight to hospital
he was a hippie in the time
that free love and marijuana
was in some circles acceptable
and this bloke had many friends,
a gang full of them
that used to party with him
with chicks near Brakpan dam
drinking champagne, beer and cane,
or whatever liquor
they could lay their hands on
and to all the schoolboys Stan
was the man, the archetype
of what they wanted to become
what they used to call:
“a mean fighting machine, ”
and some parents did not want them
to associate with what they called
ducktail scum, even went as far
as warning the kids in the Sunday school
against Stan, hippies and ducktails in general
and to live a honest respectable life
and held a prayer meeting
where they begged God to intervene
in the life of Stan
and to this day they believe that He did
and one day just to have some fun
Stan was breaking shop windows
in the main street, waiting on the police
to come and meet him
with drawn batons and fists
and the big well build expected six
were hanging back
and a young lean cop walked right up to him,
tried to make an arrest
and the rest is history.
Stan smiled at the young man
lifted his huge right fist,
but it went right over the cop’s head
and he got one hell of a punch
on his own jaw instead,
was knocked right from his feet,
landed unconscious in the street,
waked up cuffed in a police cell
and it was totally beyond him
that a small lean policeman
had given him a beating
and it was the last trouble
that the town, the police and people
in the local hotels and bars
ever had with Stan
and what had become of him
no one knows.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Master Of Mind Can only be a Master Mind!
Seeing and hearing,
Is it eye that see?
Is it ear that hear?
Eyes are windows of Mind,
Like are ears, eyes have eyelids, ears remain open!
Seeing is not perceiving,
Light passes through the small camera,
Giving picture of world around,
Yet mind is the processor,
Process the data,
Process the colourful image,
Sometime filling with its own colour!
But it is not vision,
mind sees something itself,
Seeing through the mind without the help of eyes
Neither windows opened,
Nor light from open windows affect!
Mind is that faculty sees something within,
And day by day the vision become clear,
When mind learns it is not the seer,
It sees everything clear,
Clearly presented to the master,
And Self is the master of Mind,
When mind is pure and clear,
Without prejudice and suspense traits,
Self perceives self in its true nature,
Nothing goes bad,
processed food for thought remain good for ever!
one who sees eyes as seer,
He is ignorant,
One who sees mind as a seer,
Knows not,
One whose mind sees the seer is different,
Vision get purified, seer can see through the mind,
Scenes seen by mind with eyes closed,
when perceived by seer,
It becomes vision of life,
And that vision when becomes ambition of life,
Ambition becomes aspiration,
Aspiration transforms into mission,
Mission transmits wisdom and genius of self!
Self becomes master Of mind
Self becomes master Mind,
Master and mind becomes one,
Master Of Mind Can only be a Master Mind
poem by Ramdas Bhandarkar
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I Decided
this is the decision
i do not imitate you
and in your justification
that everything is yet
unfinished
i shall not follow
there is this nice feeling
that every creation is a beautiful one
whole and finished
and seen by the eyes
as a flowering delight
like a window with an
orange curtain
a wall with vines
a stair with intricate carvings
of wood at the
railings
when i pass by
deep within i smile
my heart whispers
this world is whole and complete
and so
beautiful
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Look Through Any Windows
Look through any windows, yeah
What do you see?
Smiling faces all around
Rushing through the busy town
Where do they go?
Moving on their way
Walking down the highways and the byways
Where do they go?
Moving on their way
Are people with their shy ways and their sly ways
You can see the little children all around
You can see the little ladies in their gowns
When you look through any windows, yeah
Any time a day
See the drivers on the roads
Button down their heavy loads
Where do they go?
Moving on their way
A-driving down the highways and the byways
Where do they go?
Moving on their way
Are drivers with their shy ways and their sly ways
You can see the little children all around
You can see the little ladies in their gowns
When you look through any windows, yeah
What do you see?
Smiling faces all around
Rushing down the busy town
Moving on their way (3x)
Ooh? moving on their way (3x)
Where do they go? (4x)
Ooh?
song performed by by 911
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Dreamer Of Dreams
The sun goes down in a cold pale flare of light.
The trees grow dark: the shadows lean to the east:
And lights wink out through the windows, one by one.
A clamor of frosty sirens mourns at the night.
Pale slate-grey clouds whirl up from the sunken sun.
And the wandering one, the inquisitive dreamer of dreams,
The eternal asker of answers, stands in the street,
And lifts his palms for the first cold ghost of rain.
The purple lights leap down the hill before him.
The gorgeous night has begun again.
'I will ask them all, I will ask them all their dreams,
I will hold my light above them and seek their faces.
I will hear them whisper, invisible in their veins . . .'
The eternal asker of answers becomes as the darkness,
Or as a wind blown over a myriad forest,
Or as the numberless voices of long-drawn rains.
We hear him and take him among us, like a wind of music,
Like the ghost of a music we have somewhere heard;
We crowd through the streets in a dazzle of pallid lamplight,
We pour in a sinister wave, ascend a stair,
With laughter and cry, and word upon murmured word;
We flow, we descend, we turn . . . and the eternal dreamer
Moves among us like light, like evening air . . .
Good-night! Good-night! Good-night! We go our ways,
The rain runs over the pavement before our feet,
The cold rain falls, the rain sings.
We walk, we run, we ride. We turn our faces
To what the eternal evening brings.
Our hands are hot and raw with the stones we have laid,
We have built a tower of stone high into the sky,
We have built a city of towers.
Our hands are light, they are singing with emptiness.
Our souls are light; they have shaken a burden of hours . . .
What did we build it for? Was it all a dream? . . .
Ghostly above us in lamplight the towers gleam . . .
And after a while they will fall to dust and rain;
Or else we will tear them down with impatient hands;
And hew rock out of the earth, and build them again.
poem by Conrad Potter Aiken
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The House Of Dust: Part 01: 01: The sun goes down in a cold pale flare of light
The sun goes down in a cold pale flare of light.
The trees grow dark: the shadows lean to the east:
And lights wink out through the windows, one by one.
A clamor of frosty sirens mourns at the night.
Pale slate-grey clouds whirl up from the sunken sun.
And the wandering one, the inquisitive dreamer of dreams,
The eternal asker of answers, stands in the street,
And lifts his palms for the first cold ghost of rain.
The purple lights leap down the hill before him.
The gorgeous night has begun again.
'I will ask them all, I will ask them all their dreams,
I will hold my light above them and seek their faces.
I will hear them whisper, invisible in their veins . . .'
The eternal asker of answers becomes as the darkness,
Or as a wind blown over a myriad forest,
Or as the numberless voices of long-drawn rains.
We hear him and take him among us, like a wind of music,
Like the ghost of a music we have somewhere heard;
We crowd through the streets in a dazzle of pallid lamplight,
We pour in a sinister wave, ascend a stair,
With laughter and cry, and word upon murmured word;
We flow, we descend, we turn . . . and the eternal dreamer
Moves among us like light, like evening air . . .
Good-night! Good-night! Good-night! We go our ways,
The rain runs over the pavement before our feet,
The cold rain falls, the rain sings.
We walk, we run, we ride. We turn our faces
To what the eternal evening brings.
Our hands are hot and raw with the stones we have laid,
We have built a tower of stone high into the sky,
We have built a city of towers.
Our hands are light, they are singing with emptiness.
Our souls are light; they have shaken a burden of hours . . .
What did we build it for? Was it all a dream? . . .
Ghostly above us in lamplight the towers gleam . . .
And after a while they will fall to dust and rain;
Or else we will tear them down with impatient hands;
And hew rock out of the earth, and build them again.
poem by Conrad Potter Aiken
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The House Of Dust: Part 04: 07: The sun goes down in a cold pale flare of light
The sun goes down in a cold pale flare of light.
The trees grow dark: the shadows lean to the east:
And lights wink out through the windows, one by one.
A clamor of frosty sirens mourns at the night.
Pale slate-grey clouds whirl up from the sunken sun.
And the wandering one, the inquisitive dreamer of dreams,
The eternal asker of answers, stands in the street,
And lifts his palms for the first cold ghost of rain.
The purple lights leap down the hill before him.
The gorgeous night has begun again.
'I will ask them all, I will ask them all their dreams,
I will hold my light above them and seek their faces,
I will hear them whisper, invisible in their veins. . . . '
The eternal asker of answers becomes as the darkness,
Or as a wind blown over a myriad forest,
Or as the numberless voices of long-drawn rains.
We hear him and take him among us like a wind of music,
Like the ghost of a music we have somewhere heard;
We crowd through the streets in a dazzle of pallid lamplight,
We pour in a sinister mass, we ascend a stair,
With laughter and cry, with word upon murmured word,
We flow, we descend, we turn. . . . and the eternal dreamer
Moves on among us like light, like evening air . . .
Good night! good night! good night! we go our ways,
The rain runs over the pavement before our feet,
The cold rain falls, the rain sings.
We walk, we run, we ride. We turn our faces
To what the eternal evening brings.
Our hands are hot and raw with the stones we have laid,
We have built a tower of stone high into the sky.
We have built a city of towers.
Our hands are light, they are singing with emptiness.
Our souls are light. They have shaken a burden of hours. . . .
What did we build it for? Was it all a dream? . . .
Ghostly above us in lamplight the towers gleam . . .
And after a while they will fall to dust and rain;
Or else we will tear them down with impatient hands;
And hew rock out of the earth, and build them again.
poem by Conrad Potter Aiken
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On This Night
White sheets fall around the car
For it is not too far
The roads are white, and un-changing sheets of ice surround it
The roads are lightly lit
It is not far now something will happen, something will move
You always knew the car would loose
This battle of the night
You start to loose your sight
The roads are hidden from your gaze
The windows in a soft haze
The wheel moves, you turn trying to stop before the gate
It is too late
The brakes won’t save you know, the car skids to the side
This will be your last ride.
The impact sends you towards the windshield you cover your eyes and head
This is the end you know inside
You’ll never see your children’s smiling faces
Your mind is in a maze
You do not know what is happening you do not remember
All you know is it is December
The month of giving, you shall not give you shall not receive but death shall find were you stand
The car comes to a stop wheels spinning above you, the blood on your hands
The light fades all around you flames dance
The light is now no more, you lay still flames around you in the night, the snow falls on
It does not notice, but fills on your sweet face; you hear the voices above roll on
It is too late
For this night holds your fate
For on this night you shall loose your site
(poem dedicated to: Kai and Susan craig who died in a car reck on their way to denver for Kai to get an art reward R.I.P Kai and Susan)
poem by Bethany Maxwell
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