Symbolism Of A Cigarette Ads
there is this brown room
with closed windows
two men are smoking down
seven feet below
the soil level
up there is a view of the
priest with violet vestige
spreading the holy water
as they all watch
with shallow sadness
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Dropping By Your House This Morning
i dropped by your house this very early morning
the windows are closed
but the door is half-open
and i could have given in to this little curiosity
that cats keep on their paws
and soft feet
or hands if you may
but i didn't. there is something in the houe
that says
you had a bad day and that night you did not have
a sound sleep
the roses are wilting and a flower pot falls on the ground
broken
the soil splashed like spilled water on the grass
there is no sound of the wind
from the storm last night
i just dropped by. I respect you. The door of the house
finally closed
i did not see the hands that closed it.
it maybe yours
or someone else's
the rug has spoken. You want to be alone.
to keep the faint light left
in that little room. the curtains fall. the lights
went off on that very early morning.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Smokin The Herb Again
Yo yo yo, yo, yo yo what
Smoking
Were smoking, were smoking the herb again
Were smoking, were smoking, were smoking the herb again
Were smoking, were smoking, were smoking the herb again
Were smoking, were smoking, were smoking the herb again
Damn, I really wish I could find my sack man
Must have got eaten by pac-man
If I had it I could smoke again
Smoke with my friends to the very end
But now Im trying to comprehend
Whens the next time that Ill smoke again
I need to know, please tell when will we smoke again
I got a buddy, his name is ted
Hes got a problem going through his head
He doesnt know how to puff puff give
But I like so Ill teach him and Ill let him live
Everyday we teach him right
When he divides, we have to fight
But at the end of the trying day
We says its ok and we puff away
Just the other night, I saw you, you were smokin not sharing and being tight
But thats ok, you are my friend, well smoking until the very end
The lessons that we put out, we order you to try it out
Its nice to smoke, yea thats what were all about
Smoking
Were smoking, were smoking the herb again
Were smoking, were smoking, were smoking the herb again
Were smoking, were smoking, were smoking the herb again
Were smoking, were smoking, were smoking the herb again
Hey, ho, hey ho, hey, ho, hey, ho, hey, ho, hey, ho
I smoke, you smoke, we smoke, they smoke, smoking everywhere
I smoke, you smoke, we smoke, they smoke, smoking all together
Smoking
Were smoking, were smoking the herb again
Were smoking, were smoking, were smoking the herb again
Were smoking, were smoking, were smoking the herb again
Were smoking, were smoking, were smoking the herb again
song performed by by Incubus
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Reasons
watch the water feed the soil
so the circle is complete
see what you have become
is the earth beneath my feet
i'll bring in the stains
your alabaster feet
what's the space between
what you want and what you need
so you'll never be lonely again
never be lonely again
waiting for this love
to bring me close to you
waiting for this love
bring me close to you
who are you
and where are you in my life
i was wondering how much of me
is still alive
i don't even know
if i can swim again
you know how cold it gets
with all your struggling
try to find ourselves
seems real
it gets so hard at times
you know just what to feel
[chorus]
waiting for this love
to bring me close to you
waiting for this love
bring me close to you
i got reasons
i got reasons
watch the water bleed the soil
albinoed by the sun
we will try to keep our feet
in the face of what we've done
try to find ourselves
see this
song performed by by Bush from Golden State
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Life of a Roman Catholic Priest
A priest is nearest Christ;
A priest is Christ at times;
A priest is almost Christ;
A priest is most divine.
A priest is God’s shepherd;
A priest must tend to flock;
A priest must be like ‘rock’;
A priest should ne’er defrock.
A priest communes with God;
A priest draws hope from Lord;
A priest shows love of Christ;
A priest carries His Cross!
A priest is tempted too;
A priest has falls in life;
A priest falters also;
A priest has strength from Christ.
A priestly job is tough;
A priest’s life can turn rough;
A priest has strife enough,
But has to smile and laugh!
A priest helps harvest souls;
A priest has many roles;
A priest has but one goal –
To drink from Christ’s own bowl!
Pray that more priests should come;
May priests curb their freedom;
May priest usher Kingdom;
A life for Christ’s welcome.
Fondly dedicated to Rev. Fr. Xavier Claudius,
Beloved Parish priest, ‘Holy Family Church, Perundurai
Copyright by Dr John Celes 25-7-2010
poem by John Celes
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Wistfully Watching
They explore the world
through windows,
church windows,
school windows,
two up, two down windows,
castle windows,
large windows,
small windows.
They see it all,
from blameless to guilty,
from noble to treacherous,
through windows.
From skyscraper windows,
to basement flat windows,
from paupers windows,
and palace windows
they watch, absorb, suck it in.
Later when they have grown
they will remember,
try to empathise,
rationalise
decipher the coded metaphors,
but some day
they will be demoralised
by the windows of life.
There they sit __ wistfully watching __
the children
of our times.
poem by Ruth Walters
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False Lights, Termites, Stones
we are
to them
always
the image
of departure
and so it
seems to
be, as
always,
sadness that
they smell
on our skin
our hair
they imagine
bags and all
the stuff that
must be
there
they hear
the sound of
buses honking
and waiting
they like to
close the
doors of the
house
and see to
it that all
windows
are closed
what they always
see in us
is the look of
misery
of time wasted
of
dripping water
that
dries the moment
it meets
an arid
soil
i sigh to all
these
wrong notions
but i only
have silence
to offer
before their
altars
they are not gods
and i guess
tomorrow
early morning
i simply
have to destroy
them
these plasters of
Paris
these cranky
obsolete
stones
these false lights
termites and
pests of
my wooden world
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Deep within these brown eyes
Deep within these brown eyes,
You can see my sadness,
The tears that roll down my face,
The sadness I feel,
Awkward moment of my silence,
What hurts more that my sadness makes me as if time was going slow,
So far,
This was war,
War that never ended,
Deep within these brown eyes,
I would die for you,
Leaving everything behind,
Never coming back,
Never to be back on this earth,
Don't you dare bring me back,
Under the water I drown in my sorrows,
Die not regretting,
Regrets is all feel,
Blame things on myself,
Bringing me down with these sorrow,
The shame I feel,
How hateful the world has become,
Things was never perfect with me,
Deep within these brown eyes,
You'll see my true sadness I had to suffer alone.
poem by Jennifer Rondeau
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Soil Is A Soul Of Life
Soil what is soil Lord?
soil is life seed
soil is a living organism
soil is a loom
from which you were made
dust you were dust you will be
Soil what is soil Scientist?
soil is a critical
part
of an ecosystem
soil provides
important nutrients
for plants in
an ecosystem
soil helps
anchor
plants
to keep
plants
in place
soil absorbs
holds water
for plants
soil absorbs
holds water
for animals
lakes rivers
to use
soil provides
a home
for many species
lots of living
organisms
soil
regenerates life
dust you were dust you will be
poem by Terence George Craddock
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In A Time Of Dearth
Before me,
On either side of me,
I see sand.
If I turn the corner of my house,
I see sand,
Long, brown
Lines and levels of flat
Sand.
If I could only see a caravan
Heave over the edge of it:
The camels wobbling and swaying,
Stepping like ostriches,
With rocking palanquins
Whose curtains conceal
Languors and faintnesses,
Muslins tossed aside,
And a disorder of cushions.
The swinging curtains would pique and solace me.
But I only see sand,
Long, brown sand -
Sand.
If I could only see a herd of Arab horses
Galloping,
Their manes and tails pulled straight
By the speed of their going;
Their bodies sleek and round
Like bellying sails.
They would beat the sand with their fore feet,
And scatter it with their hind feet,
So that it whirled in a cloud of orange,
And the sun through it
Was clip-edged, without rays, and dun.
But I only see sand,
Long, brown, hot sand -
Sand.
If I could only see a mirage,
Blue-white at the horizon,
With palm-trees about it;
Tall, windless palm-trees, grouped about a-glitter.
If I could strain toward it,
And think of the water creeping round my ankles,
Tickling under my knees,
Leeching up my sides,
Spreading over my back.
But I only feel the grinding beneath my feet.
And I only see sand,
Long, dry sand,
Scorching sand -
Sand.
If a sand-storm would only come
And spit against my windows,
Snapping upon them, and ringing their vibrations;
Swirling over the roof;
Seeping under the door-jamb;
Suffocating me and making me struggle for air.
But I only see sand -
Sand lying dead in the sun.
Lines and lines of sand -
Sand.
I will paste newspapers over the windows to shut out the sand;
I will fit them into one another, and fasten the corners.
Then I will strike matches
And read of politics and murders and festivals
Three years old.
But I shall not see the sand any more,
And I can read
While my matches last.
poem by Amy Lowell
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Jackie Brown
Is this your life, jackie brown?
Poorly educated and forced to live on the poor side of town.
Is this your daughter, jackie brown?
This pretty little girl
In the worn out clothes
That have been hand-me down.
Is this your wife, jackie brown?
With sad blue eyes, walking on eggshells so you dont see her frown.
Is this your family, jackie brown?
Dream of vacationing on a mountain stream
And giving the world more than it gave you.
What ugly truths freedom brings
And it hasnt been very kind to you.
Is this your life, jackie brown?
Is this your meal, jackie brown?
Barely enough, Ive seen people throw away more than this out.
Is this your home, jackie brown?
This three room shack
With no running water
And the bathroom out back.
Is this your grave, jackie brown?
This little piece of limestone that says another desperate man took
Himself out.
Is this your dream, jackie brown?
Going nowhere and nowhere fast
We shame ourselves to watch people like this live.
But who gives a damn about jackie brown?
Just another lazy man who couldnt take what was his.
One helluva life jackie brown.
Forevermore, jackie brown
Amen and amen - jackie brown?
song performed by by John Mellencamp
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Voices
EACH small gleam was a voice
-A lantern voice-
In little songs of carmine, violet, green, gold.
A chorus of colors came over the water;
The wondrous leaf-shadow no longer wavered,
No pines crooned on the hills
The blue night was elsewhere a silence
When the chorus of colors came over the water,
Little songs of carmine, violet, green, gold.
Small glowing pebbles
Thrown on the dark plane of evening
Sing good ballads of God
And eternity, with soul's rest.
Little priests, little holy fathers
None can doubt the truth of your hymning
When the marvelous chorus comes over the water
Songs of carmine, violet, green, gold.
poem by Stephen Crane
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Each Small Gleam Was a Voice
Each small gleam was a voice,
A lantern voice --
In little songs of carmine, violet, green, gold.
A chorus of colours came over the water;
The wondrous leaf-shadow no longer wavered,
No pines crooned on the hills,
The blue night was elsewhere a silence,
When the chorus of colours came over the water,
Little songs of carmine, violet, green, gold.
Small glowing pebbles
Thrown on the dark plane of evening
Sing good ballads of God
And eternity, with soul's rest.
Little priests, little holy fathers,
None can doubt the truth of your hymning,
When the marvellous chorus comes over the water,
Songs of carmine, violet, green, gold.
poem by Stephen Crane
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Winter In and Out
To chase the cold away
Someone puts on sweater
Someone burns the dry leaves
And somewhere hearth becomes a fetter.
While one sits beneath the Sunshine
One finds the closed room better.
Seeking a bit of warmth many windows are open;
One looks through Facebook and another follows on Twitter
Covered in the mist of loneliness, some await phone calls
The heart only knows which touch can make it better.
But for some, the winter is never gone
Like one in a closed room with old tear-wet love letters.
poem by Kingshuk Chakraborty
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It Is......
it is the sorrow
that connects well with
sorrow
one man's misery to another man's misery
makes us celebrate a
newly found day another kind way
it is the bitter drink
that knows how bitter
is another person's
drink
not happiness since it
knows how to isolate itself
as a form of escape and
fought freedom
for it is in happiness that
one gets paired with
selfishness
that non-mindedness about
the plight of the
oppressed
a happy home separates you
from the rest of the sadness of this world
the comfortable light inside the living room
at night
always have a locked door and closed glass windows
as walls
evading what misfortune once was there
forgetting every trauma that was inflicted
upon the wounded hearts the scarred minds
the lost situation of the soul
it is the deepest sorrow
that creates a hole where we all must fall
and finally find
the best home that understands
what sorrow is there that
others have long embedded
in their broken selves
it is the brokenness that knows
what mending is
it is the war that destroys mankind
that makes civilization understand more
what peace is all about
how important must it become
it is this injustice that makes me
a silent water
that seeks the best level of my
existence
with the least possible
resistance there is
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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In My Room
I stand alone and watch the clock
I only wait for it to stop
And in the room locked up inside me
The cutout magazines remind me
I sit and wait alone in my room
And in my room against the wall
There is picture very small
A photograph I took some years ago
It shows a picture of the room I know
I sit and wait alone in my room
Chorus
The walls are white and in the night
The room is lit by electric light
I stand and watch the clock
I only wait for it to stop
The doors are shut and all the windows lock
The only sound is from the clock
I sit and wait alone in my room
Repeat chorus
song performed by by Yaz
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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In My Room
I stand alone and watch the clock
I only wait for it to stop
And in the room locked up inside me
The cutout magazines remind me
I sit and wait alone in my room
And in my room against the wall
There is picture very small
A photograph I took some years ago
It shows a picture of the room I know
I sit and wait alone in my room
Chorus
The walls are white and in the night
The room is lit by electric light
I stand and watch the clock
I only wait for it to stop
The doors are shut and all the windows lock
The only sound is from the clock
I sit and wait alone in my room
Repeat chorus
song performed by by Yaz
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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An Autumn Crown
Watch the leaves turn
yellow, red and brown
Changing the sky too
And putting on autumn's crown
And letting in the joy
And happiness of sunshine
And filling the world with
The light and warmth of wine
watch the leaves turn
Yellow, red and brown
And reflecting serenity and peace
And putting on autumn's crown
And spreading joy and passion
And enthusiasm and hope
And clearing away the dust
And all pain and mope
watch the leaves turn
Yellow, red and brown
And creating a new life
And putting on autumn's crown
And showing you how to reach
The bright horizon afar
And nature glowing with colors
A twinkling like a star
Watch the leaves turn
Yellow, red and brown
Reflecting God's blessings
And putting on autumn's crown.
poem by Seema Chowdhury
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From My Window
A robin perched upon a branch
outside my living room window
His lighthearted disposition
roused within me a reverie.
With eyes closed firmly I conjured
a heretofore different scene:
A naked limb laden with snow
and a cold loneliness prevailed
gazing through a closed, frosted pane…
My eyes opened, the thrush was gone
no trace vestige of abstract snow
though out of sight his song was heard
Cheerio, Cheeriup, tut tut! !
from outside my open window.
poem by Albert Ahearn
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Closed Walls
those closed walls so tightly pressed to my face
so thin i could hear through to the next room
but not thin enough for me to break free
no windows
nor door
i wonder how i got here
alone and frightend
at one point i once enjoyed
but now as i look at this room no bigger than me why would i
these closed walls must be speaking to me or im delousional
but they told me
once free you must change
change how you think
change how you look at things
change how you love
change how you act
for a momment i listened
but i knew i couldn't
i can change my outer apperance
but never how i think
thesefucking walls must think im stupid
i can think as i please
.
never come near these closed walls.
poem by Martel Alexis
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A woman’s arm
A woman young and lean,
With skin fair and lovely,
Stood by me in a bus stop,
Her lateral view in my focus.
How graceful she was!
How more so her arm was!
Especially the upper one in the sleeveless!
Watch the curve of the hand;
The flesh that slides down
Back from the shoulder mount,
Spreading behind the arm pit
And sloping down to the firm elbow,
With a contrast of the shallow concave
Formed in front below the color bone,
By which it sends the profile of the chest
More protruding as if falling.
I left the site necessarily.
January 2005 11.2
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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