Somewhere In The Middle Of This Journey
somewhere in the middle of this journey
is the chaos of our presence
we like to dislodge and vomit of this
nostalgia of where we come from
we like to go back to the womb
and regret having grown our legs
we blame the hands of the midwife
we want to pinpoint who slapped us
we like to hear the sound of vengeance
of our first cries
did we cry for help? did i cry because
i never asked to be put here?
or did i cry because i am just making a lot of nonsense
about my innocence about despair?
i get some names of fathers and mothers and siblings
i write them on a page of a book and i ask what if they were not there
what could have been? what could i be part of?
i shout, i am an individual, i am not a part of this relating places
i am not a connection of the branches and roots
i stretch my hands wanting to touch and get hold of a rope
there is nothing there to put my neck in shame.
we get some comfort to the miseries of others.
we become brave from the stories of their sorrows and misfortunes.
we read the stories and the poems of those who know what is wrong.
what is pain, what is so distressing.
soon we learn this game. This art of shrugging our shoulders and then
putting the payment on the table, not drinking the glass of beer.
Leaving the table and not saying any word at all. And this we tell ourselves,
i am courageous. I am silent. I grow alone. I die alone. I am beautiful.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
Some Stories
some stories
about ourselves
are also the stories of
themselves
and then we write
these stories and
pretend that these are
but some short stories
from our mind
now in different names
and places
we read them and then
we wish that some of
these short stories
are not true at all
sometimes for those
we want to be
we want to believe
them to be true
wishes and hopes and
regrets, what if? what if i
chose that rather than this?
we poets write about pain
and joys and we tell sometimes
that we only fake them
deep inside we are silent
we prefer just to be left alone
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
How I Wish That We Become Friends
i have read your stories
and poems,
and then i wish we can be
friends
much is common between
us, and i want to tell you
that i am always a
part of those poems, and stories,
there is always a link
between us
categorically on the source
of sorrow, the spring of
hope
i have seen your trees
emptying leaves
birds shedding off flumes
i want to take a ride on your
bamboo raft
to go the place that i also
know
but you are a cloud
and i am a pebble
i gaze at you wanting to
hold you
in that moment but then
you are always gone
always leaving
not telling anymore
anyone
where to?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
A Round Table
we have this round table
and we put all our hands
on it when we eat and
drink and just talk for
hours and hours and
listen. And we ask what
is happening: Karding
broke a leg and Delia
is looking for the money.
Always it is the money.
Always she is short of
the money. And there
were jewelries hanging
on her neck and arms
and fingers, and we all
ask at this round table:
what is happening?
Nothing, don't mind at
all, this is just a part of
the round table, some
wine glass that broke
and must be swept at
once. We keep away the
sound of a crying pig.
We eat pigs here at this
round table. Then we shifted
the talk about our dead
parents. We pray. We
remember we keep on
saying this. We finish eating
the pig. We drink a very
cold water. Our throats
are irritated and we step
out of the room wanting
to pull away our tongues.
when we come back the
round table is empty.
and we laugh about a
joke that we remember.
our childhood games
the river, and the boat
that father made for us.
we turn off the tv and we
begin to talk about the
beautiful flowers in mother's
old garden, the secret one.
we agree. we miss it.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Our Own Kin
our own kin
name tags on my chest
genes in my flesh
our own skin
bearing our own family names
tattoos of our
marked existence as part of this
and that
roots
on our feet
and vines in our hands
wherever we go
we are us
our own kin our own skin
our identities as sons of these fathers
and mothers
as favorite grandsons
hope of the family tree
integrated
not grafts
but twigs and tendrils
despite our hatred
of the roots
we still are
leaves and
branches
how can we get away
from these that made us grow
into treetops
overlooking the mountains
of our lives
somehow there will be change
to norms
new laws for family ties
the right to take myself
from a name
to have my own house
inside my body
to get rid my veins of the
bad blood
to remove their nails
embedded on my toes
and fingers
somehow
know me as i am
and not a part
an extension of whom and
where
i have my on why you know
listen to me.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
I Have The Touch
The time I like is the rush hour, cos I like the rush
The pushing of the people - I like it all so much
Such a mass of motion - do not know where it goes
I move with the movement and ... I have the touch
Im waiting for ignition, Im looking for a spark
Any chance collision and I light up in the dark
There you stand before me, all that fur and all that hair
Oh, do I dare ... I have the touch
Wanting contact
Im wanting contact
Im wanting contact with you
Shake those hands, shake those hands
Give me the thing I understand
Shake those hands, shake those hands
Shake those hands, shake those hands
Any social occasion, its hello, how do you do
All those introductions, I never miss my cue
So before a question, so before a doubt
My hand moves out and ... I have the touch
Wanting contact
Im wanting contact
Im wanting contact with you
Shake those hands, shake those hands
Give me the thing I understand
Shake those hands, shake those hands
Pull my chin, stroke my hair, scratch my nose, hug my knees
Try drink, food, cigarette, tension will not ease
I tap my fingers, fold my arms, breathe in deep, cross my legs
Shrug my shoulders, stretch my back - but nothing seems
To please
I need contact
I need contact
Nothing seems to please
I need contact
song performed by by Peter Gabriel
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Soap
you wish i were true
to every word i wrote in my poems
like sadness
that i must be sad when my poems
talk about sadness
like separation and disgust and pain
that i must suffer
with the poems i write that i must have despair
and pain too
and disgust
for every word of disgust written in every word
in every line
how cruel of you
how cruel of truth
how can i justify my death when i speak only of death
and in the very poem
where i write the word
death
there is soap
there is this box of untruths in pandora and when i open it
they must spread and you may refuse to believe
me again
but it would be very cruel of you
to make these poems
all these poems be my life my only life
and lived
and day by day lived in accordance with the
mouths of these poems
empathy
is the word, it is like i am putting my feet in another person's
shoes
then i write, and i could have written about this word: happiness
joy, bliss
ecstasy, light, and amazing glory
i choose not to,
i think, i have too much of it, and i do not share it for now
there is no necessity
and i cannot really help
with so much loneliness and sadness out there
with them i stretch my hands to hold them and feel them
and they all become
myself. it is not soap then, and there are no bubbles in the skies
there is no child playing amazed by the bubbles that burst and by the
bubbles that
are so abundant.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Hardest Part Is The Night (live, Japan)
In the heat of the street of the city
A young boy hides the pain
And he walks so tall, trying to hang on
But he knows he's going down again
I know he's going down...
Darkness fades he's the prince of his city
In a place where they all know your name
You can see in their eyes life so paralyzed.
Your just a pawn in a losin' game
You lose at life it ain't no game
Hear their cries
The hardest part is the night
(In the night, hear their cries, in the night)
Stay alive
The hardest part is the night, it's the night, it's the night...
All alone in a place where the lonely
They all have to walk through the rain
And they dance on the edge where you only
Only pray that it has to end
That the night ain't no friend
Hear their cries
The hardest part is the night
(In the night, hear their cries, in the night)
Stay alive
The hardest part is the night, it's the night, it's the night...
(X 2)
These four walls they could tell you some stories
About lying and dying and fame
There's a price that you pay for the glory
About losing and choosing and pain.
Hear their cries
The hardest part is the night
In the night, hear their cries, in the night
Stay alive
In the night, stay alive, in the night
song performed by by Bon Jovi
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
These Hands
Given by God -are these hands!
One can do many things -with these hands
With love one can help a strangers' hands-
Allay and comfort the elders' gnarled hands
Clean sweep and mop with these hands
Decorate and embellish with these hands
Cook and serve food to all with these hands
Clasp a loved one with these hands
Applaud one with pleasure with these hands
Dig the soil and form a garden with these hands
Hold a book to read with these hands
Write and post a card with these hands
Type a poem to cheer someone with these hands
Draw a picture and sew clothes with these hands
Paint a beautiful scene to amuse with these hands
Play a game of volley ball or cricket with these hands
Swim the waters and row a boat with these hands
Pick the harvests and fruits with these hands
Feed the animals and birds with these hands
Seek the warmth of dear ones with these hands
Feel the soft petals of a flower with these hands
Fold the palms to pray with these hands
Given by God - are these hands!
poem by Chandra Thiagarajan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
On That Same Hour Of The Night
on that same hour of the night
while you
were drinking your beer
alone
and taking big bites
of your beef steaks
and releasing
your stress
on some sticks of
imported cigarettes
on the other side of the table
too
sit two other friends
talking nonchalantly
like the sound systems of
the barrio
the wave their hands
shouting their names
telling me
that these times
they too know how to still enjoy
life and forget
and that i am always too far away from them
in my own kind
of indifference
in my own way
to disregarding
other people's selfishness
and they ask me if i have not forgotten them
their names the place of their origins
their true faces
and how the scars and violence have changed them
how they now learn
to look the other way around and bury themselves
in the small pleasures of smoke and alcohol
defining for once
what is despair
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
I Have The Touch
The time I like is the rush hour, cos I like the rush
The pushing of the people, I like it all so much
Such a mass of motion, do not know where it goes
I move with the movement and ... I have the touch
Im waiting for ignition, Im looking for a spark
Any chance collision and I light up in the dark
There you stand before me, all that fur and all that hair
Oh, do I dare ... I have the touch
Only, only
Wanting contact
Only, only
Im wanting contact
Only, only
Im wanting contact with you
Shake those hands, shake those hands
Give me the thing I understand
Shake those hands, shake those hands
Shake hands, shake hands.
Any social occasion, hello, how do you do
All those introductions, I never miss my cue
So before a question, so before a doubt
My hand moves out and ... I have the touch
Only, only
Wanting contact
Only, only
Im wanting contact
Only, only
Im wanting contact with you
Shake those hands, shake those hands
Give me the thing I understand
Shake those hands, shake those hands
Shake those hands
Pull my chin, stroke my hair, scratch my nose, hug my knees
Try drink, food, cigarette, the tension will not ease
I tap my fingers, fold my arms, breathe in deep, cross my legs
Shrug my shoulders, stretch my back, but nothing seems to please
I need contact
I need contact
Nothing seems to please
I need contact
Tac-tacatac, tac-tacatac
I need contact
Nothing seems to please
I need contact
Tac-tacatac, tac-tacatac
I need contact
Ah, tac-tacatac
I need contact
Nothing seems to please
I need contact
I need contact.
song performed by by Heather Nova
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Sprinkle Your Love
The glazing sunshine
Afternoon
Under that tree
Tree with dry leaves
Visible roots
Dry earth
Give me water
To drink
And sprinkle your love
On the bareness of my heart
The sky and some patches of white clouds
I stretch
Hold my hands
The hands dry like the branches of that tree
Hold my hands
For these hands
May grow some leaves
And fruits
Like the hope
I have
From the tree
My love
Do not despair
There is blood
Still running in my veins
poem by Sadiqullah Khan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
I Was Not... When I Purchased
I, in front of beautiful shop
Surrounded by a friend's call
Came to purchase
With all my motivating will.
Searching for purchasing center
With my hands on nearby shoulders
Seeing friends' face fixed near me
Seem to be sown together.
Went inside and saw it
Suspected for comfort
Went near with my friends
Touched and checked its toughness.
It's long as giraffe's neck
It's slim as flamingo's neck
It had four legs as alien
It had a bend like duck's neck.
It's colored blue as sky
It's striped as zebra
I saw it and began to cry
But it seemed to be lending hands to try.
I took it to be my friend and tried
And moved my legs to take a step
Both of my friends' shoulders moved away
And said with care' hold the stick properly'.
I was not happy when I purchased
Anyway got third leg to walk forward.
poem by JothiLakshmi Kannan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
393
Do not be surprised now in these dark times
I have no fears
Nothing is late for you to play with me
In this dark room
Or outside where there is no moon
Where the only presence we know
Are our words without our bodies
Our sounds of endearment
There are no eyes not even the nose
Sometimes the hands
When occasionally
You learn to touch me
When mothers celebrate life
Or fathers take pride in their posterity
The names of their children and grandchildren
Their grand place in this world
We cannot take part
We cannot even watch
We turn into moles
They belong to the center stage of life
And the sun shines on all of them
Except us
Did we choose this place
Where the trees do not have fruits
Where the shrubs do not have flowers
Where the root crops do not have any flesh?
Where the vines do not have the perfect tendrils?
We did not
We wanted to live just like them
Or anybody else
We have asked the questions
They do not have the answers
I see your face blankly staring at the window
On this dark night
I pity you
I have the answers but I will not tell you
It is getting late and we need
The sound sleep we too deserve
We have more nice places inside our dreams
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Poems About.
There are poems that you will never see
Marked in a folder titled 'privacy'
Poems of hate and anger and personal pain
Poems about greed and hunger and personal gain
Poems about people I would love to see dead
Poems about women I met
Poems about relationships that have gone bad
Poems about issues with mom and dad
Poems about me, the person no one knows
Poems about places where only my soul goes
Poems I wish I could place in the clouds for all to read
Poems about lust, selfishness and greed
Poems I know will hurt those I hate
Poems I write by complete mistake
Poems I have hidden in my heart and my head
Poems about things that are better left unsaid
Poems I want to share and poems I want to retract
Poems of shame and how others might act
They stay in my psyche, they are a part of me
These poems I write, but you will never see.
poem by Mahfooz Ali
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
My table is now brightly, now dimly lighted. Its temperature varies. It may receive an ink stain. One of its legs may be broken. It may be repaired, polished, and replaced part by part. But, for me, it remains the table at which I daily write.
quote by Ernst Mach
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
He's all grown up
Tiny hands lift
He cries out for mother
She picks him up and holds him close
And rocks in back to sleep
Small hands grab
The dirt feels good in his hands
He looks up at his sister
She picks some up too
Rough hands hold tight
The suit case rolls along the floor
He sits in his seat
And looks out the window
Pale hands pick up a controller
Button's press and c sticks move
His eyes fixed on a screen
He barely moves
Big hangs type
Bulletins, poems, and stories
He writes all night
He amazes his mother
Smaller hands move a mouse
His sister finds his poems
She wonders how he grew up so fast
She realizes he's all grown up
poem by Hannah Heins
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Back To The Middle
She is, twenty five, spent over half of her life
So afraid to speak her mind, its such a shame
cause what a brilliant mind she has
Chorus
And now shes been introduced to confidence
She doesnt see, that she is bordering on arrogance
When will she learn, to come back to the middle
He is, a young black man, grew up without his father
And now it falls into his hands, to protect his mother
cause if he doesnt, well then who will, his older brother lives in fear
Of everything, especially, trying to fill his fathers shoes
Chorus
Respectively, they go to extremes, of masculine and feminine
Chasing dreams, but they keep on falling
cause they dont know no balance
When will they learn, to come back to the middle
Bridge
You must take the good with the bad, and you might hit the wall
Sometimes youll fly and sometimes youll fall
There isnt any way, to avoid the pain
But its getting burned, thats how you will learn
To come back to the middle
Instrumental break
Chorus
Needing to protect your self now that is just a part of life
If you let your fears keep you from flying, you will never reach your height
To get to the top you must come back to the middle
When will we learn, to come back to the middle
Come back to the middle, come back to the middle
Dont make no mind about falling down
cause its when youre in that valley
You can see both sides more clearly
Come back to the middle
song performed by by India Arie
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
O My Pa-pa
Our fathers have formed a poetry workshop.
They sit in a circle of disappointment over our fastballs
and wives. We thought they didn't read our stuff,
whole anthologies of poems that begin, My father never,
or those that end, and he was silent as a carp,
or those with middles which, if you think
of the right side as a sketch, look like a paunch
of beer and worry, but secretly, with flashlights
in the woods, they've read every word and noticed
that our nine happy poems have balloons and sex
and giraffes inside, but not one dad waving hello
from the top of a hill at dusk. Theirs
is the revenge school of poetry, with titles like
'My Yellow Sheet Lad' and 'Given Your Mother's Taste
for Vodka, I'm Pretty Sure You're Not Mine.'
They're not trying to make the poems better
so much as sharper or louder, more like a fishhook
or electrocution, as a group
they overcome their individual senilities,
their complete distaste for language, how cloying
it is, how like tears it can be, and remember
every mention of their long hours at the office
or how tired they were when they came home,
when they were dragged through the door
by their shadows. I don't know why it's so hard
to write a simple and kind poem to my father, who worked,
not like a dog, dogs sleep most of the day in a ball
of wanting to chase something, but like a man, a man
with seven kids and a house to feed, whose absence
was his presence, his present, the Cheerios,
the PF Flyers, who taught me things about trees,
that they're the most intricate version of standing up,
who built a grandfather clock with me so I would know
that time is a constructed thing, a passing, ticking fancy.
A bomb. A bomb that'll go off soon for him, for me,
and I notice in our fathers' poems a reciprocal dwelling
on absence, that they wonder why we disappeared
as soon as we got our licenses, why we wanted
the rocket cars, as if running away from them
to kiss girls who looked like mirrors of our mothers
wasn't fast enough, and it turns out they did
start to say something, to form the words hey
or stay, but we'd turned into a door full of sun,
into the burning leave, and were gone
before it came to them that it was all right
to shout, that they should have knocked us down
with a hand on our shoulders, that they too are mystified
by the distance men need in their love.
Tinted Images
I remember tinted images
yellow and stained
in old wooden frames.
The glass was scratched and wavy.
They sat on a table next to a lamp
painted with naked cherubs.
The couch and chairs were covered in plastic.
I never asked why.
One day my father spilled his beer
no one panicked and I understood.
There were stories after dinner
with coffee and cigarettes.
I was young and don't recall them now.
We don't tell stories after dinner;
no one smokes anymore.
I have pictures in polished frames.
My couch is stained and the chairs are worn.
On a table next to the lamp
the one with naked cherubs
are the tinted images in the old wooden frames.
When the lamp is lit
I can see myself in the glass.
poem by Ronald Shields
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Theme for English B
The instructor said,
Go home and write
a page tonight.
And let that page come out of you--
Then, it will be true.
I wonder if it's that simple?
I am twenty-two, colored, born in Winston-Salem.
I went to school there, then Durham, then here
to this college on the hill above Harlem.
I am the only colored student in my class.
The steps from the hill lead down into Harlem,
through a park, then I cross St. Nicholas,
Eighth Avenue, Seventh, and I come to the Y,
the Harlem Branch Y, where I take the elevator
up to my room, sit down, and write this page:
It's not easy to know what is true for you or me
at twenty-two, my age. But I guess I'm what
I feel and see and hear, Harlem, I hear you:
hear you, hear me--we two--you, me, talk on this page.
(I hear New York, too.) Me--who?
Well, I like to eat, sleep, drink, and be in love.
I like to work, read, learn, and understand life.
I like a pipe for a Christmas present,
or records--Bessie, bop, or Bach.
I guess being colored doesn't make me not like
the same things other folks like who are other races.
So will my page be colored that I write?
Being me, it will not be white.
But it will be
a part of you, instructor.
You are white--
yet a part of me, as I am a part of you.
That's American.
Sometimes perhaps you don't want to be a part of me.
Nor do I often want to be a part of you.
But we are, that's true!
As I learn from you,
I guess you learn from me--
although you're older--and white--
and somewhat more free.
This is my page for English B.
poem by Langston Hughes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!