So Much Time Has Been Wasted
to be honest with you
so much of my time has been taken by this
foolishness
so much effort
squeezing my brain and stretching my bones
and pinching my ears
and biting my fingernails
this poetry
but what can i do?
i am hooked to its whims and caprices
it imagery and
logical imagination
got no regrets somehow
i still love this 'imaginary garden with real toads in them'
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Real And Unreal...
in the imaginary garden
the real toads are croaking
in that imaginary room
a real person is
thinking
in that imaginary thought
some real things
are broken.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Metaphoric Garden...
all the while, literalism
is wished. Why bother with some
allusions? One can be direct
to the point and be
understood point-blank,
no holds bar, black is black
and white is white,
a spade is a spade is a spade,
the cause is that which the cause
is caused,
bluntly, candidly,
what the heck is this
going around the bush
and figuring out
what is hidden through
symbols and
concealed through some
metaphors....
but my dear, this
is the realm of what we want you to know
and on the other hand
we also want you not to know
so well....
and that is, precisely
this thrill, remember those imaginary
toads in the
real garden?
or those real toads in the
imaginary garden,
feel them, they are all here,
hear them, but my god, by god,
you cannot see them
here... not yet....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Soliloquy #3, On Imagination
so i may not be flushed out from the system
like any fecal matter
i comply with what you ask of me
i am now a flower
and behind me are blue clouds
and on my stalks
are leaves
no thorns, no worms
for you do not like them
now it is your time to love me and keep me
forever
you must pretend that you are not a worm
that you are not a relative of the thorn
now it is your time to become a bee
now you must buzz around this garden in our minds
now you must pollinate me
it is all in the imagination
imaginary bee imaginary flower
how perfect can our imaginary world become!
kiss me in my imagination
shape your thoughts like the lips of a lover
now all too hungry for my love
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Few Advices To A Nephew Studying The Science Of Psychology
you say you want noise
so much noise in fact
in the middle of the night
to bury the boredom reigning in yourself.
i wonder if you have consulted the gods and goddesses of poertry.
if you have gone at the entrance of its temples.
one does not need noise to expunge boredom.
one needs only silence.
you tell me i am different. Sort of telling me you are different
and you belong to the wonders of your youth.
i am telling you, you are wrong my dear nephew.
you have taken so much noise, and you are lost.
you have disregarded the voice of your heart
and the furies will take the revenge.
the noise will take you like the Pied Piper of Hamelin
to the sea with all the rats and there
they will drown with you.
Take your time. Have fun with so much noise.
When this fails, and i know it will, please come back
and drink the lovely potion of silence.
This is the beginning
of poetry.
Some things are so real, in this poetic imagination.
As she once puts it: an imaginary garden with real toads in them.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Poetry is the art of creating imaginary gardens with real toads.
quote by Marianne Moore
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Trouble Gets Double Treatment
When,
A stretching ends.
A yawn begins.
When that stretching ends.
When,
A thought process...
Accepts mediocrity achieved,
To be one's best.
And this,
Unconsciously...
Stirs the acceptance,
Of a restless nonsense.
Trouble gets...
Double treatment,
That...
Upsets.
Those,
Who protest...
Growth.
And,
Regrets...
A foolishness,
One...
Protects!
YES!
Trouble gets,
Double treatment...
That,
Upsets.
Those,
Who protest...
Growth.
And,
Regrets...
A foolishness,
One...
Protects!
When,
A stretching ends.
A yawn begins.
When that stretching ends.
With taxes applied,
At the max!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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You Must Accept As I Tell You
you must accept as i tell you
that your absence for days
did not made my heart grow fonder
inside my imaginary garden
all the real toads are croaking.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Imaginary Diva
Late last night I had a dream
And it was then I seen her
She didnt need no diamond rings
Fancy cars, versace things to please her
Shes my perfect girl
And I call her my imaginary diva
Every girl she passes by
Just cant deny that they would love to be her
All the guys comparing sizes
Tucking shirts in, fixing ties to please her
Shes my perfect girl
Exclusive to my world
No you cant get her
Shes my imaginary diva
Shine on imaginary diva
Shine on into this world
Join us in our imagination
Help yourself believe in all you have heard
All you have to do is close your eyes
Forget real life and fantasies
Erase bad thoughts start to replace
Create your own amazing place
Shes a real time girl
In my imaginary world
Take a good look at her
Shes my imaginary diva
Shine on imaginary diva
Shine on into this world
Join us in our imagination
Help yourself believe in all you have heard
So listen up this so called classy ladys
Sipping fizz in vip bars
She could teach a thing or to
To you, your outfit, attitude and visa
Shes my imaginary diva
Shine on imaginary diva
Shine on into this world
Join us in our imagination
Help yourself believe in all you have heard
song performed by by Westlife
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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For You My Friend The Great Lover Of Truth
when the doctor comes out from his room and tells you
that you have cancer
and at stage IV
would you rather think that this must be a lie?
or when you find out that your wife is having an affair
with another man
and decides to leave you
alone
would you rather say that you prefer a lie?
or when your younger brother sailing on the seas
is kidnapped by professional pirates in Somalia
asking for a big amount for ransom
and you have no money to use to help him
would you still prefer this truth?
or when your father is hostaged by the rebels
and will be the next to be beheaded
and the government still does nothing
would you rather think that this is but a big joke
and not the truth?
think my friend, you were looking for the real toads
in that imaginary garden
these are these toads croaking now
in the middle of the heavy rain
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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What's the real meaning of Poetry
Poetry, Poetry, Poetry
what is the real meaning of you?
is it the sonnets, the haiku's the imagery
no one will ever know.
Poetry, Poetry, Poetry
I know the real meaning of you
to express my feelings and thoughts on paper
to be able to publish you.
Poetry, Poetry, Poetry
you tell me the meaning of you.
poem by Nadia Potenza
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Old-Fashioned Child.
He was born old; they who got him were grey,
And quaint as things that long had seasoned here
When that he came — a too true vintage of
The lateness of the brewing blood and brain;
Even as in their whims and ways he had
Existed, an imaginary thing,
Twin-lived in him and her e'en long before
They were united in the dream of love.
And therefore comes it that his young life wears
So old a countenance, that he in sooth
Is so too grown-up in his ways and whims;
Unlike the youngling of an early pair,
Who's ta'en the freshness of their favour on,
And is as frisky as the youth of love.
poem by Robert Crawford
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Poetry
I, too, dislike it: there are things that are important beyond all
this fiddle.
Reading it, however, with a perfect contempt for it, one
discovers in
it after all, a place for the genuine.
Hands that can grasp, eyes
that can dilate, hair that can rise
if it must, these things are important not because a
high-sounding interpretation can be put upon them but because
they are
useful. When they become so derivative as to become
unintelligible,
the same thing may be said for all of us, that we
do not admire what
we cannot understand: the bat
holding on upside down or in quest of something to
eat, elephants pushing, a wild horse taking a roll, a tireless wolf
under
a tree, the immovable critic twitching his skin like a horse that
feels a
flea, the base-
ball fan, the statistician--
nor is it valid
to discriminate against 'business documents and
school-books'; all these phenomena are important. One must
make a distinction
however: when dragged into prominence by half poets, the
result is not poetry,
nor till the poets among us can be
'literalists of
the imagination'--above
insolence and triviality and can present
for inspection, 'imaginary gardens with real toads in them', shall
we have
it. In the meantime, if you demand on the one hand,
the raw material of poetry in
all its rawness and
that which is on the other hand
genuine, you are interested in poetry.
poem by Marianne Moore
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In Search Of Metaphors And Images To Express Yourself In A Poem
it is the expression that matters most.
it is the relational flow from the writer to the reader
the bond that is created anew, just like an ordinary conversation
one fine day.
why can't poetry be simple and direct? that is the question that poetry
asks
to itself, in itself.
the poet in us can be lost because of so much demands for the absurd,
this metaphor fits, this imagery is perfect, what is it?
you do not accept the sun and the moon and the stars.
cliches of their poetry. You do not show compassion for his feelings
of being abandoned
simply because there are no images that tickle your senses.
even if he jumps with joy, you do not relate to his joys
simply because the images are bland like
burger without the black pepper.
it is enough that one bleeds, one wants a listener, one wants to open
up to the world
Like a bud turning into a flower
(oh forgive this lousy metaphor
i am not a good poet somehow at imaging
at imagining.
Am not a camera.
My eyes are clumsy at details.
And my ears are not sensitive to sound of
beautiful words. They even hide behind my head under my hair.
And there is no compulsion for high highfalutin
Ivory towers of similes from the gods and goddesses of
Literature)
Why can't poetry be just an expression? Just that. A dialogue.
This one, this monologue.
It is enough that you write from the heart.
It is enough that you are true
(oh forgive me, can i be really
true to you? Do i have to be naked and tell you that i am beautiful?
Do i have to master the art of metaphorisms
to be your poet
for the night?)
Or is it that poetry is simply our hiding place
From this world of pain?
Or our chapel for our prayers
Or our playground where we can be children again?
I am tired of squeezing my brain in the quest of the perfect metaphor.
I have read what they have written.
I pretend i like them. They sound so well.
They must be poetry. Real poetry
Those that garner plaques.
Prizes from the jury.
Honestly, I do not understand a thing. Those poems of my idols.
But I read them just the same.
Hoping that I am in and be counted as one of the stars in those
Metaphoric Heavens.I watch every meteor that drops
to the ground. Their tails.
I am not a star. I am just a pebble.
And it is enough for me.
The poem says, just write me.
Don't squeeze your brain to have metaphors
To draw the images.
Just be yourself, and for God's sake if you have something to say
Just say it.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Fakes Are In Demand
Mona Lisa is mere imagery;
Cinema is an imaginary.
So are story, poetry and history.
To make believe is their strategy.
Imitation, replica, duplicates,
And fakes are make belief for the real.
Make belief serves us giving second chance
That life denies us. They’re in demand.
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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When All The Illusions Are Gone
stripped of our illusions
what are we?
stones on the river
dry leaves on the pavement
rusty fan on storage bins
dilapidated cottages
abandoned houses
desert, bush, turtles
with their backs taken
rabbits without ears
crocodiles without their
teeth
if we let that be.
but there is no need actually of an illusion
because we are real, we touch ourselves,
feel the warmth of our bodies
i try it by simply being myself
less my caprices and whims
less the ambition and the dreams
reduced in the most simple of simpler terms
to the core of it all, i am a happy man
knowing now the limits of my
domains, settling for what is there
nothing more, nothing less
it can be done, illusions are gone.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Poetry Is Movement Without Effort
Poetry is movement without effort
Poetry should take you to places far beyond what your eyes can see
Take you to places where you can be free
Poetry is movement without effort
All you have to do is think and feel
and it will move you
and make your experiences real
poetry can cause pictures to form in your mind
speak a thousand verbs, a thousand nouns, or a thousand rhymes
all written for you to experience on a personal level
poetry is a journey
to self discovery
out of a thousand doorways to roads never walked travelled or taken
poetry can cause your eyes and your heart to awaken
remind you of a friend’s love remind you that your never forsaken
because while you live you can experience life to the full
poetry is movement it is a tool
for cataloguing things seen and unseen
for poetry can be the very fabric from which we dream!
poem by Daniel Hooks
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Imaginary Choices
Imaginary!
I can imagine your blessed innocence,
You muse and speculate in your imagination.
Ahh, what a relief to believe that I truly have a choice in this!
Your imagination gives me hope.
Your certainty strong,
Your judgment steadfast.
If I had your imagination, I could blush at my silliness
Give myself a swift kick and stern reproach.
They are just choices you know!
Here in the safety and innocence of your imagination.
Whence did that deviant despair blow back into my soul?
Now I’m feeling sad, a lightly sort of pout
Tuck me back in your steadfast imagination.
For my hope has run dry it seems it was only imaginary.
poem by Sarah Hughes
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I Can Never Get Out Of This
This flesh, its demands, its whims
And caprices,
I despise, this flesh, but how can I
Ever get out of this flesh,
When this flesh is in me,
Wrapped by my skin,
And loved by the senses of my mind
The taste of wet, the whispers I hear,
The smooth touches I feel, the
Sensual sights that I see,
How I promise to be true to
The longings of my pure soul
To pure grace
And sublime wishes, as white as light flinging
Seraphims and Cherubims,
Hands praying in God’s garden,
This flesh
Throbs and thrusts like sin, like demon’s
Favorite poses and twists
This flesh imposes, like these fidgety hands
Arguing again, not wanting to be held,
These hands now ready, willing
For the caprices of my flesh,
These hands shall now touch the secrets of
The night and how my eyes pretend
Not to know,
In such delights, they all now close.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Poet Hunters -Formula
I'm a Poet Hunter,
I don't have a gun,
I can kill a poem,
Just to have some fun.
We are unarmed Hunters,
Won't you join us now,
Use imagination,
We will teach you how,
Open up your good heart,
Love will enter then,
Imagery will follow,
Sounds of ecstasy,
And before you know it,
You'll have Poetry.
poem by Sandra Feldman
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Poetry by Meena Mustafa
My brain is a recorder
It stores all black and white
Each time I write a poem
It throws a different light
It makes the reader happy
At times it makes him sad
The love of poetry
And the poems that I have
Words pour like fountain
Imagination takes its place
On a journey to knowledge
Poetry we must embrace
Poetry is my refuge
And keeps me on the path
Expressions take new meaning
And words pour out at last.
Poetry is a song that sings to the soul
The rhythm of the words that a pen can hold.
poem by Meena Mustafa
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