Social Studies
i
a mother taking care of
a son who just had a nervous breakdown
there is no way
for a mental asylum
ii
there is this woman who writes poems
translates them from bisayan to english
making the poems
the little burdens of grammar school
iii
there are siblings who quarrel all the days of their life
forgetting the color of their blood
too near and so too far
cutting navels, making fences, choking necks
iv
how did we end? we started with some social sketches
defining what social studies is all about
sweet nothings, and trivial matters
bridging gaps, comparing black and white
and dreaming of rainbows
v
no lust. a friendly chat. something platonic.
a brother to a sister. birds hiding some wings.
oral intercourse.
social studies. a little poetry. a human craving.
empty. full. empty. lull. wanting to go.
but staying still.
vi
oh my, i tell myself finally as we say goodbye
i still have work to do. something legal piles up.
an issue on international law. some circular reasoning
begging the questions. i lied.
in fact, i am still here.
vii
back to poetry. some metaphors are popping out
the ceiling speaks. a lizard shows its tongue.
speaking. come, come, catch me, i am a meta4,
this is absurd. the ceiling sings.
viii
8. this is the number that climbs up.
complete and round and round like two moons
up and above. over each other.
a monkey. a cat without ears and a hidden tail.
free thoughts. use the period. breathers.
ix
nine lives. do i get nine lives after twelve years
of writing poems? no it is not just twelve.
i am 49, and i will turn fifty, on the nth poem.
jalousie songs. palm trees opening leaves.
roots i hear roots ripping my robes.
x
this will be the last. ten. put an o. and you know what i mean.
the white people do not understand the power of (o) ten.
they do not speak the brown language. Or the black one.
stiff and hard and long. nothing lousy. or lusty. just clean fun.
a play with words. what can words do? did you say you cry?
this is the last. and you know very well. i have to go. i made
promises. i have Frost. And Neruda too. and yes, what about
myke O?
social studies. nothing about the P.... I'm finished.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Related quotes
Moonyeen
frail lady Emily Dickenson
That is moonyeen
the girl of the night of chat
the student of the law website
asking questions
about some directions
what to do with her life
where to go
why
she is asking why
she is asking me why
i am making all things hard for her
as i threw questions of law and facts from a pile of law books
while i keep on writing my poetry and enjoying every situation
she has to read her
political law
her constitutional law with utmost logical objectivity
she is asking why i have made life hard and harsh for her
why i am cold and damp setting high standards on her legal studies
as i enjoy my craft of writing poems everyday
for days she is sad and would not chat
she shuts herself to all her difficult questions
while i
have sweet conversations with myself
i know her predicament though
she burns her candles with the law
while i sit peacefully under the cool shades of the trees
reciting all these love of life this zest for living
on the other hand moonyeen had to study her law
submit to the definitions of justice and equity
i have had all of that unjust stuff for years those dusty law years
and they serve no other purpose but for me to earn my living
to support my poetry and my love for this silly stuff
nonetheless makes me fully human fully alive!
these poetry which at the end will render
a disposition
who ever told you that life is fair?
whoever told you in the name of all our laws that life is fair?
that is the question assigned for moonyeen not just for this semester
but for the whole span of her lifetime
while i make my poems and read them all alone for myself.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Social Plague
It's a joy in the life of being me
Social changes
The blackest dust can cover their eyes so they can't see
Social stages
The children modify their own monopoly
Social changes
The KKK wants their own STV
Social places
You must understand that I'm made this way
Don't give a damn if you can't change
Your little narrow mind today
I can't wait for the changes
You can't understand my rage
This thing's going on too long
I can't understand it
Social plague now
2000 strong, they back up white supremacy and I can't take it
I can't take it
Can't prove a thing, one day they'll see
That I'm staying
Within this shell there lies a menace to the core
We can't change it
That's the day when there be no more
Social changes
song performed by by 24-7 Spyz
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I Also Know The Language Of Numbers
they manage to express themselves in some equations
to find what they still do not know, such as their x's and y's.
for years, i sleep with the number One.
Wanting to get away from the hazards of the Zero,
Found help with the Number Two
who took away some tens and hundreds from me
In favor of Sixteen.
Well, anyway, Number One as always is Patient.
And passionate about my Algebraic State.
As a number, I do not bleed.
My root is numb. My world is always accurate
Down to the nth digit.
I had another One, Like Three and Four
but they always end up to Null.
In the calculus of the heart, things are always moving.
A change of one thing is also a change of the other.
Finally, i get tired of this world of numbers.
Numb Senses. I go back to Philosophy, and Social Studies.
The lives of the Pop star, the soap opera at night,
the latest rumor that Michael Jackson is murdered.
The latest scandal of a certain closet queen matinee idol.
Lots of these, simply to take me away from
the Numbness of it all.
Meanwhile, i am taking lunch with a rebel.
I am stepping into the passionate world out there.
The military is jealous. And of course, I am cautious.
The cheese, and the rat, and the trap and the
Aerobics exercises. Look at the cat, it is making sense
of its ninth life.
Take care. Sleep tight.
Find your code book and decipher the words.
What can i say? Sleep well, You still have other things
to do,
To justify your poetry
and Your Lousy existence.
Exequator Zorro.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Poems About Poems About Poems
Poems about poems about poems-
More poems and more poems and more poems-
Poems poems poems poems poems-
How many poems?
How much poetry
Until there is no poetry at all?
But only 'words' and 'words' and 'words'
Until one goes far away
Where there was never a poem before-
And suddenly hears
“Let there be Light”.
And Poetry perhaps
Is born again.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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An Introduction To A Poetry Book
Poetry Is More Than Mere Words,
i agree
mere words do not make poetry
it is the mixture
of night
and day
and day
and night
when
you think of yourself
and the other
when the night
dragged
so slowly
and you forget
that
morning has arrived
like
an unwanted visitor
of you party
it's a profound expression of what's inside oneself.
oh yes, it is always the inside
that matters
myself wanting to get out
from the cave
of innocence
and assume
the form
of a bird
wanting to fly away and never come back
since
there is no home
anymore to
speak of
It's an impressive play of words with meaning and
depth through which the author shares his feelings,
thoughts,
and
ideas.
i agree, it is sharing
above all, reaching to others who take the same
walk with you
angst
depression
joys
bliss
nu mbness
and feelings
of guilt
a confession
Through poetry, he conveys his innermost self -
putting them into vivid
and vibrant verses
that tell stories,
express sentiments,
and speak of lives.
In this kaleidoscope of poems,
he gives focus on everything
and anything there is,
making this poetry
as diverse as life itself.
Enjoy
these poems, and
you'll find yourself inspired
to write your own.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The History Poems Have Not Been Written
The history poems have not been written
The poems after Milosz
The Wallace Stevens poems will never be written
I can’t come close
I have tried the Blake poems
But of course I am not near them either
I would like to the ironic intellectual poems
I might be able to do them
I could do a kind of surrealistic association mind poem a prose poem
But I don’t like that very much
The poems of Jerusalem have not been good enough
Poems of propaganda are awkward and unacceptable
The small poems that tell of my life
They are for me the chance at real poetry
And I will continue as best I can with them
The American poems I have not yet found the idiom for
I can be epigrammatic in Emerson Thoreau fashion
But not with the hard New England observing eye
Borges poems I love
And the stories of mind and literature
Making the drama of a life of a storyteller
Interest me
But I doubt I could truly do them well
Imitation can only take one so far
And through it one may lose one’s way entirely
I can really do only what I am
Not the Dickinson poems nor the Hopkins poems nor the Wordsworth poems nor the Keats poems nor the Amichai poems nor the poems of many others whose poetry I love
The Biblical poems have been tried
The poems of cosmic and scientific reflection
I could try to improve them
There are too many different kinds of poems to write
And I cannot write almost all of them
This is another poem about poems and poetry
I have written many for a long time now
Perhaps I need to go elsewhere and write in a new way
A way I have not dreamed or even remotely understood possible before.
The poems of the unknown poetry await me
I will go on but I am not sure now I know in which wa
poem by Shalom Freedman
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So It Will Be Taxes For The Meantime
so these weeks and for more other weeks perhaps
it will all be about taxes: allowable deductions, exemptions
and assessments, and avoidances and
perhaps evasions
be careful
be careful
do not be too gross in setting aside the poems from those
stack of notes and in depth-studies
something might go wrong
in your stock of metaphors
you need balance
have poetry during breaktime
and some more poetry before going to sleep
but i find poetry more useful
before i start my day with taxes and new laws and circulars
and even before i bang
my gavel
the poems seem to make the
reminders: this is life, this is humanity,
there is God and every man and woman and children
are his children and flock and friends
be careful
be careful
your poems shall judge you in time
and their Furies shall soon come and pull your hair
or the nymphs shall take you to the green valleys
by the side of the cool rivers
your conscience speaks to you
at night
your pillows your blankets
soon they will speak
what time is it? it's still 6: 36 in the morning here.
you see? i know that you know that i am true to what i am saying.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Private Poetry
Every poem, Every poetry,
Where are all the poets?
Hiding out, Hiding away.
In the beaches, forests,
In the caves and rooms,
In the islands and temples.
Make their private poetry,
Every now and then,
Here and there,
Over here, Over there.
Somewhere, somewhen,
Someone, somebody,
No one, No body,
Some here, some there.
Somehow, not matter how,
Everywhere, every when,
Every turn, every look,
Every search, every research,
There is a private poet.
Making a private poetry,
Writing private poems,
Writing lovely poems,
Writing profound poetries.
For the world and all
To ponder,
To reflect,
To open our heart,
To hear and listen;
What poets have
To say and write,
In a private poetry,
For the world to read
And treasure.
poem by Lawrence Hiung
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It Is A Habit
writing poems
when you really write poems
everyday and every moment of your life
even when you're in the middle of your
bread and butter eating thing
or even when you are defecating
writing poems becomes a habit
even when you sleep even when you dream
writing poems becomes a part of your system
you eat poetry you vomit poetry
you digest poetry you poo poetry
you breathe poetry you sweat poetry
you love poetry and you live with your poetry
and at the end you die with poetry
and your epitaph says: here lies the poet,
choked with poetry.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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There Are Days No Poem Can Be Written
THERE ARE DAYS NO POEM CAN BE WRITTEN
There are days no poem can be written
Grief and worry frighten the poem away
Yet the poem lives hidden
For our darkest moments our loneliest fears
Too need their poetry.
Poetry is a way of saying all we need to say
It is our deepest feeling most deeply expressed
It is all we are
The whole of our being
In words.
When a poet dies
Words die
When I will die
All I am will no longer be able to write
One more poem.
How afraid I am in the night
And how dark in the early morning before I rise
But now that I am here
Writing this
A bit of hope begins in me
And I can dream that
When I walk out the door
a few minutes from now
A new day will begin.
How many days I have left
How many poems to write
I do not know.
It is not light yet
And the darkness is still here
But I will feel the morning again
This morning
Thank G-d
You have given me so many poems.
A few small words
help me believe
I truly am alive.
.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Making Poetry
Why did I make a poem?
It's more than you can imagine
It's not about black or white
Because the power of poetry that I'm dumbfounded
Look at the whole Bible, everything is poetry {not, but a holy book down from Allah is the truth}
Abstract ideas of science are all from the poem
Idealism actual human life is poetry
I'm just trying to be honest...
Creating poetry for me is more than anything
Not me want to be Jesus or Muhammad {but imitate their pious}
But I do not know what my purpose {paradise}
Only the most important is to produce poetry
I just write from the unreal world
Introduce something to people here
Are they willing to accept it or not does not matter
Since the poetry of the poem is the image of eternity
Who continue to fly and only revealed to the seeker
Poetry for me is more important than life
More important than my beloved
More important than my brother
Because the poem can represent any
Why did I make a poem?
When you reject the poem in your life
It has a form of poem to poem
Actually you can not escape from poetry
But you did not realize it, be aware of?
Indeed the poem is really real
Do you not believe how strong poetry
Look at all the countries in the world today
All poems must have an ideology
Ideology of all States is poetry
Do you still deny its power?
From now on, deep down consider
The poem is more than just blank words without the influence
(30 April 2002)
poem by Irvan Hermawan Saichu
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People Everywhere: Social Music (Original 11 03 2009)
PEOPLE EVERYWHERE: SOCIAL MUSIC
Original 11 03 3009
People everywhere over here over there people
In poor bread lines people in pony drawn carriages
People on a chariot with a rumble seat people on a
Climb on a mountain steep people on a dime on a
Corner on Wall Street –street people -people everywhere
Everywhere there’s a drummer. Where you going?
Everywhere you go you go with a beat you go with
Where the music is… where the music is “social man
What’s jazz? ” People everywhere just social that’s all
New Orleans people social all the way up river to
Kansas City on up to Chicago don’t make no difference
If your name is Santiago Obama Bergson Rothschild
Bush just social People -Montrose New York City
People social all the way to Rio Paris Johannesburg
Brazil Belize over all the bridges –London Suez
Toronto Montreal people in a dim café -social
People in church every weekday and everyday
Everywhere there’s a temple play -Joe’s Place
People social man -music social don’t make no
Difference where you get together whoever is playing
Just playing so you keep on playing with everybody
Playing -people play social music man –man or
Woman don’t understand just don’t stop playing
People everywhere want to be there to see it -up here
You playing social music -understand -just don’t
Stop playing -people everywhere get hungry lose
Patience -people everywhere not playing social music
When you stop playing social music people every-
Where stop –trying to figure out why everybody
Stop playing social music -nothing social about
Playing a whole lot of music -nothing truly social
In a lot of music -the next thing you know a short
Spell and before long you got wars breaking out
Stop playing and its hell -that’s not social any more.
Lee Mack copyright 2009. ISBN # 0615318347. Do not reproduce without permission.
poem by Lee B. Mack
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I could have done other useful things than writing a poem
Sometimes I have regrets writing poems
Love poems, poems about virtue and heroism
Poems that explain myself, that justify
This nothingness
That fill this emptiness,
What are these but signs and metaphors of
My weaknesses,
Symbols of my hopelessness
Ciphers of my uselessness
To life’s dreams, unfulfilled, stars that I have not
Reach or even touch with the words in my lips
I could have danced, and danced so well
Sweat things out shedding sighs and skins on the floors
I could have played a role, acted my way out
Exiting through the doors of author’s characters
And feel this sense of
It was her it was him it was not me
Sometimes I feel
To be a poet is to be dumb and dead
To demand nothing but this honor
This laurel this principle
That I cannot eat that I cannot sell that I cannot
Make use of,
Useless poetry, trashy, nothing but bad breathes
Of my being
Foul and nauseating to my sense of
What I dream what I want to be
To be this great, respected man of power
One that commands rather than take orders
From someone claiming superior feathers
I have long wanted to stop but here I am again
An addict to poetry destined for rehabilitation
In distant cruel word processing centers
Just like you, here I am again, not stopping
My fingers always wanting to type the words
My mind always listening
my heart always mouthing
Words, words, words, these words
This poem
This poem is born and I am its tributary
I am this poet now without a face without a name
I am but a mouth, fingers to my hand
Always not stopping, how can I tell you why?
When I myself, do not really know. I am this poem
With an unknown author, I am this poem just written
Taking shape like a candle lighting,
Flowing from your thoughts
Taking the forms of beings unknown to us
We claim we understand we claim we can live with
You are now lost asking the way
You could have done other things than reading this poem
Precisely this is what I really feel. Do you feel it now?
Yes.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Trying To Find A Job
Trying to find a job at fifty-three
Too old to work, too young for social security
They all want someone in their early twenties
That will go to work for mere pennies
I've got a twenty-five year old mind
But most employers don't want that kind
Going for interviews and they don't call
They think someone twenty has it on the ball
So I sit here and write poems all day
When my house works done I can play
You can't make money writing words
I enjoy it so, but this is for the birds
There is only so much house to clean
Can't get a job, because I'm not a teen
I have a good life, don't want to complain
I guess at my age, you're not to supposed to have a brain
I think I'm going to have to retire
After all it's not me they are going to hire!
poem by Donna Nimmo
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46
she, too, dislikes it, because it gives her the feeling as though
her head is taken off, makes her body cold so no fire can ever
warm her again. One does not look on poetry as a closed work, the poems go on and on
at all times on one’s head, and snip off a length.
You mush remember the homely definition,
Poetry is the best words in their best order, words in their nth power.
Bony ideas, bloody nerves, held together by the delicate
Tough skin of words…
Words…words...
I agree, I have never started a poem where I know the ending
Always the ending is unpredictable.
Poetry is your personal
Expression making it public, a revelation, a revolution of sort, you throw a pebble to the world.
In essence, poetry is an emotion, said, written in measured motion,
And that motion is an art.
Drip pity, drip pity, drip drip drip drip
Like a dripping rain, from a leaking roof, while one sleeps
To its rhythm.
A wording of highest thoughts, appearing as a
Remembrance, it does not really mean anything, it is simply magical…
But be.
You make a poem, but the reader recognizes it as his own,
But there is no accusation of thievery or plagiarism
A sea animal, evacuating to land, and now wanting to fly in the sky, that is poetry.
Making familiar things rare, as though they are
Not familiar anymore.
Giving habitation to airy nothing.
Giving nothing to everything.
Giving a nobody a nice home like he is now a somebody.
The invisible, made visible, and the visible made invisible.
A quarrel within himself.
In his tranquility, he recollects powerful feelings, and give in
To an spontaneous flow of giving.
That is poetry. Giving, and always giving, no taking, nothing taken.
I, too, dislike it at first.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Poets on Poetry: a collage
she, too, dislikes it, because it gives her the feeling as though
her head is taken off, makes her body cold so no fire can ever
warm her again. One does not look on poetry as a closed work, the poems go on and on
at all times on one’s head, and snip off a length.
You mush remember the homely definition,
Poetry is the best words in their best order, words in their nth power.
Bony ideas, bloody nerves, held together by the delicate
Tough skin of words…
Words…words...
I agree, I have never started a poem where I know the ending
Always the ending is unpredictable.
Poetry is your personal
Expression making it public, a revelation, a revolution of sort, you throw a pebble to the world.
In essence, poetry is an emotion, said, written in measured motion,
And that motion is an art.
Drip pity, drip pity, drip drip drip drip
Like a dripping rain, from a leaking roof, while one sleeps
To its rhythm.
A wording of highest thoughts, appearing as a
Remembrance, it does not really mean anything, it is simply magical…
But be.
You make a poem, but the reader recognizes it as his own,
But there is no accusation of thievery or plagiarism
A sea animal, evacuating to land, and now wanting to fly in the sky, that is poetry.
Making familiar things rare, as though they are
Not familiar anymore.
Giving habitation to airy nothing.
Giving nothing to everything.
Giving a nobody a nice home like he is now a somebody.
The invisible, made visible, and the visible made invisible.
A quarrel within himself.
In his tranquility, he recollects powerful feelings, and give in
To an spontaneous flow of giving.
That is poetry. Giving, and always giving, no taking, nothing taken.
I, too, dislike it at first.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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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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431 To A Friend Who Died As Poet
I Have Seen The Power Of Your Poems
Those That
Make The Blind See
The Mute Finally Speaking About Beauty
The Deaf Hearing The Songs Of Love
And The Crippled Finally Dancing To The
Rhythm Of Your
Lines
I Am Amazed And So Convinced
About The Magic Of The Poems That You Wrote
When You Were Once Alive
Before They Buried You On A Shallow Grave
With Their Anger
And Hatred
They Were Not Able To Cut
Your Tongue And Tear Your Mouth
And Break The Bones
Of The Body Of
Your Poetry
Now Let Me Ask You
If These Poems Come From
The Deepest Chamber Of Your Heart
Are Its Roots Your Pains And Unfathomable Sorrows
Or Is It Grown From The Seeds Of
Your Bliss
That When Summer Comes They Bloom Into
Sunflowers?
I See You In Your Images Smiling
And I Can Hear That Suppressed Laughter
On The Lake On A Clear Morning
What Is This All About My Friend?
Tell Me, For They Do Not Like
My Sadness Neither Do They Share
My Joys And Happiness
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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To A Friend Who Died As A Poet
i have seen the power of your poems
those that
make the blind see
the mute finally speaking about beauty
the deaf hearing the songs of love
and the crippled finally dancing to the
rhythm of your
lines
i am amazed and so convinced
about the magic of the poems that you wrote
when you were once alive
before they buried you on a shallow grave
with their anger
and hatred
they were not able to cut your tongue and tear your mouth
and break the bones
of the body of
your poetry
now let me ask you
if these poems come from the deepest chamber of your heart
are its roots your pains and unfathomable sorrows
or is it grown from the seeds of
your bliss
that when summer comes they bloom into
sunflowers?
i see you in your images smiling and i can hear that suppressed laughter
on the lake on a clear morning
what is this all about my friend?
tell me,
for they do not like
my sadness
neither do they share
my joys and
happiness
for what i write is nothing
but air.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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0060 Melanin
Melanin is a polymer, most often of
two molecules with very long names,
indolequinone, and dihydroxyindole carboxylic acid,
which are in all of us, affecting
skin and hair color and even
present in the eye and its color
and the brain too; the word
comes from the Greek for ‘black’
It is believed that all of us whose ancestors
lived near the Equator, and
that could be all of us yeah
originally had black skins,
inherited suntan if you like
but that those who moved up north
got whiter – which helped
to absorb Vitamin D from the sparse sunlight and
stave off rickets and such.
All pretty cool so far, right?
My clever schooldays friend
later researched melanin
finding in the course of his studies
that a rubber factory in South America somewhere,
tires I think not condoms
used a compound that accidentally turned
black-skinned workers into white
which caused some social consternation
So, are you wondering where this poem
Is going? Or is it a bit too obvious?
Well, I’ll stop there, and
you can follow it up yourself.
No point in spelling it out
In black and white.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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