T2
the green tiles of the garage
reinvent this old house
it is more livable now
the hammock newly washed
the shoes newly brushed and
the table newly painted
this house has reinvented itself
into something more admirable
decent, confident, renewed,
this could be a start
as you must begin to recreate
what you once was too
do not be just yourself
go beyond what is admirable
reinvent your mind
dye your hair, polish your nails
scent your soap and
wash your hands.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Oh We Are Very Happy This Christmas (a Poem For The Childless Couple)
oh you ask?
we are very happy this Christmas
the house is crowded
with lots of food and desserts and drinks
all laid on the table
on an ambiance of mistletoe
and candle lights
we are many here
in this big house: Liza, my wife
myself, our five dogs
and three newly acquired
dalmatian puppies.
you see, this all family.
merry Christmas!
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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This Newly Loving Game
I had some time this morning that clarified my mind
The thoughts that drifted past me were of a quiet and gentle kind
I'm not saying I'm in love with you, I'm just saying that I find
That thoughts keep drifting past me of a quiet and gentle kind.
The feelings that I'm having are not easy to explain
It’s been some time since I've been in this newly loving game
It's all slow moving on now and I really can't explain
The rules that we should follow in this newly loving game.
I took the time this afternoon to write my thinking down
And all the time I wondered why and let my mind go round
Around and around the time we've spent and what I feel I've found
It took some time, I wondered why and said my thoughts aloud.
Then I ripped up the paper and I threw it on the floor
The words that I had written were like trying to keep a score
I'd tried to use my reasonings as I had done before
And the marks upon that paper had no meaning anymore.
The way that all this seems to me is not easy to explain
It’s been some time since I've been in this newly loving game
It's all slow moving on now and I really can't explain
The rules that we should follow in this newly loving game.
I spent some time this evening thinkin' of just who I am
What I like about me and what is it that I can
Offer up to someone who, when all this thing began,
Was not needing of lover nor even of a man.
Yes, we do have common interests and we can talk for hours
We share a love of poets and a questioning of power
We hold each other closely even though we're wondering how
This thing that we are making could be completely ours.
The feelings that I have for you are not easy to explain
It’s been some time since I've been in this newly loving game
It's all slow moving on now and I really can't explain
The rules that we should follow in this newly loving game.
There is a lack of time for us and some hurt within our hearts
And that got me on to thinking that our paths are really hard.
The time I took to think today was 'bout us being apart
And the way we are beginning yet not knowing how to start.
The feelings that I have now are not easy to explain
It’s been some time since I've been in this newly loving game
It's all slow moving on now and I really can't explain
The rules that we should follow in this newly loving game.
poem by David Keig
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The carpenter's hands are bleeding blood
The carpenter's hands are bleeding blood
His hearts a house made of sandalwood
He carves and smooth's it to fit a tawdry groove
A dovetail joint he shares with you. And you approve.
But still you complain; his soul it has a splintered
-Stairwell, where nothing ever is newly charted…
You say; he gazes with knotted eyes spiralling outward…
Into a space of stars, sawdust sutured.
His carpenter's hands are bleeding blood
His forefathers arms cradled in lave dust
He is now at a distance from the sharp end of the plane.
If only he could, uproots, uncouple just one carriage from the train
Derail the distance in that discontentment, love, once again!
But still you complain; his work has no honesty?
Or shame, she cries like a gull, whose ocean has no-sea-wave.
His hearts a house made of sandalwood
Is but flotsam; is but some malnourished driftwood.
A splintered
-Stairwell, where nothing ever is ever newly sculptured…
poem by Mark Heathcote
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The network is opening up some amazing possibilities for us to reinvent content, reinvent collaboration.
quote by Tim O'Reilly
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Vision
Obscurest night I lay asleep
After the cold sun had beaten me to death
From the holy night a voice echoed
Beholding my lifeless body to walk and talk
In a vision certainly like a dream
I meet death on his way
With three friendly accomplice
Whose wolfish eyes cast a jealous glance at me
Stand aside! They bide me
Like a sea turtle I strove to dry shod
Masking there face like newly ushered thieves
Ready to devour any thing on their way
As the spoilt brat of lazy rich men
Their protrude stomach blithe with satisfaction
Being so admirable like a plague
One by one the entered
The little tinny house near the old grave
Across the mountain close to the river
Were the lonely old woman lives
Disgrace witchcraft she was accuse
Cloaked with a beam of light
Close to her heart the bible laid
Like a little child ready to be baptized
With there tinny legs the match around her
In silence the earth slumbers
Hail! Her soul they lift
Into the chariot the summon
Like the rich old man and his new old shoes
She smiled with tenderness
As a baby born on a beautiful festive night
Beholding such sight I wept
Dripping hard on my chest my tears flow
She cheated death too long
Now she's carried shoulders high
As a king newly coroneted
They walked away into the darkest night
Watching every step they take
The boneless bone after the evening meals paved way
Off and off the soar away from the ground
In this silent night as a classroom on a Friday night
They dragged her away
poem by Samuel Donkor
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Building A House Of Your Own
to a newly wed couple
building a house is poetry
each nipa shingle is a memory
put on top of another to make
a roof, an imagery of protection,
each wall is respect for privacy
each beam is stability
each door is a security
each window an eye
the house is the nest of this
new found love
and then a baby is born
giving them hope
as they both shower their affection
and as love grows there
like a well tended tree
as time strengthens their company
the house you know
has become their home
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Banda Aceh 2
Sun of Banda Aceh burn the
my Body pore
Flaking husk
Second moment [of] my footh
Have to step non-stoped
Circle to knock each door
Rousing grandmother
What fall down the body
Because hot weather sting the
Old husk of its bone bandage
Looking of Window and door
Bunged up
From empty house
Without dweller
dusty and Silent here and there
Non-Stop by step
Turn and knock at
Where met by the slipper, shoe
Natty align in front of door
What is friendliness of people who medium
Besotted joke and loughing,
What is thy house?
Non, this house board with
Non, this non day;
When Teuku and Tengku have foe
And is ing each other door
Its house at all points
This also non day,
When evening
When we
Sit easy going in chair Cafe
What bertebaran of totality town angle
This about our being
With the space and time racing
Non about bringing suit debate
And bring suit the strength in party
Local and national,
Non that our intention
But about our house
What start brittle,
window which openly,
floors of wood board
what clatter if stepped on
because its stanchions
is groggy
or wallboard broken
by age growing older
we will not again
meeting old house of us
what its pillars is groggy
our belief
history will be besapttered of blood
because all
will omit the memory
when all smoothed down equivalent ofland; ground
changed by the building newly
filling balmy space
during racing
racing in the loud sound of hammer
compiling each; every our house brick
glue informed againstly is love,
reconciling with history handicap
past
to get our future
to breath in the fresh air
our house
hotly newly.
poem by Prasetya Utama
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The leeks
newly washed white,-
how cold it is!
haiku by Matsuo Basho
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What Keeps Us Alive Really
there is this sense of rottenness
we keep it
but we do not want to be outdone by it,
it stinks deep within us
but we keep always believing
that this cannot harm us
we go on
day by day on the common routine
the ways that make us
livable in the house of our heart
there are nails of the past
and the hammer that keeps on
bogging
we are never destroyed somehow
but like stairs
we are built and heightened
to become a big house
where others too live
there is this sense of brokenness
somehow
we start from there
and on and on the casualness
the smile that you see
every morning that we meet
we keep telling
i am alive and i am still intact
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Auntie and Hand Washing
You made your way from the john
to the dining table
and Auntie said
have you washed your hands?
yes
you said
are you sure?
Auntie asked
looking at you
with her fixed stare
and the black mutt
under the table
gazed at you too
I washed them this morning
you said
let me see your hands
Auntie said
and so you held out your hands
and she turned them over and up
and held them looking at them
you're meant to wash them
after going to the toilet each time
she said
not just
when you get up
in the morning
she released your hands
and you looked at them
as if they were suddenly there
before you for the first time
so you had best wash them
Auntie said
before I dish up your dinner
and so you went back
to the wash room
and turned on the tap
and taking soap
between your hands
you washed and rinsed
and dried them
on the white towel
on the rail and went back
to the dining room
and showed your aunt
that's better
she said
now go sit down
and wait for your dinner
and the black mutt
put its chin on your lap
waiting in anticipation
for titbits from your plate
and Auntie called out
from the kitchen
remember to say your prayer
before meals
and you said ok
and muttered
thank you for what I'm about to eat
may there be few vegetables
and lots of meat
and the mutt's dribble
wet your thigh
its jaw lingering there
giving you
its dark eyed stare.
poem by Terry Collett
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A metaphor in search of a poem perhaps
Like a favourite vase,
newly washed, saying
I'm beautiful as I am,
empty yet shining,
what will you fill me with?
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Sunlight on white paint. For the New Year.
The house across the way is newly painted white.
Right now, that’s all my being seems to need:
this winter morning, sharp, cold, bright and clear,
the morning sunlight pours across white paint;
contains a thousand messages, in me
interpreted.. or simply left to be..
this moment, that’s as much as being craves:
this morning’s glory; and I, born for praise..
even as I write, I watch the sun’s
white paint brush move across the house’s front
and tell the eye of reason that this world
is turning, basking, in this morning sun;
already sparkling on the Bondi waves
as if the world had just been washed anew;
cast early dawn’s pearl light on Taj Mahal
as if the sun itself could never tire of beauty;
Italian villa forecourts just hosed down,
the air all fresh to meet the warming day;
the gardens of Carmel, eight hours from now,
will paint their flowers fresh with mist and dew;
as every carefree holiday yourself
recall, as proof eternal of pure soul..
and here - the witness of my silent mind
needs nothing, need go nowhere else to find
its very self, this moment without taint:
immortal sunlight shining on white paint.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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A House Of Joy!
A house full of just played toys, ,
Just fed bowls, just torn papers,
Newly added drawing to the walls,
What a pleasure to the eyes and souls,
The kids are there in that house,
Growing as inquisitive as they have to be,
Let them play in their own house,
Don't control them in the name of rules,
Young mothers, don't toil too hard to please,
All the notorious oldies of the world,
Teach your children the morals and to be bold,
Enjoy your life with your children and husband,
Unkempt house is not an eyesore,
When the kids are growing to be old,
Unkempt heatt is a real curse,
When the old and young comfortable with.
poem by Veeraiyah Subbulakshmi
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Shifting the House
He lived in my heart for a long time
When life was in its metre and rhyme.
When the house became shabby
He was reminded of his old hobby.
He searched out a house newly raised
Day and night its beauty he praised.
Then one day he took all his luggage
And left the house bag and baggage.
He was welcomed with open arms
He got lost in its fascinating charms.
He enjoyed a long passage of time
As long as life was in its rhyme.
Insted of house now he became old
Over the change he had no hold.
Now the house wanted to shift him
Because the light of his eyes was dim.
Wrinkles are not to be cherished
Now he was only to perish.
According to the misery's demand
He was proper for dust or sand.
He wa kinly sent to a house of clay
It was the dropp scene of life's play.
As it was a house most shabby
To change house was his hobby.
He was waiting for a good shift
That may prove a good gift.
poem by Prof Niamat Ali Murtazai
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On Thing With You....
before you arrive in the house
you always announce your name
makes me wonder
what is the reason for this?
do you wish not to catch me
with my philandering?
do you see to it that you will
never know
what i have been doing?
you do not like to confront the
pain of knowing?
and so when you come
the mess is already cleaned
every chair and table on their proper places
blankets with stains of my infidelity
are changed
with the newly laundered and ironed ones
the pillow cases are soft and scented
and the bed as usual
are like my arms ready
to serve as your home again
for my heart has no other wish
despite my sins
but to provide you shelter
whatever may be the case.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Scarce Had My Mind Received
Scarce had my mind received with wonder
The thought of newly fallen snow -
Seeing the ground lie white -
When the scent of Tachibana flowers
Arose from fallen blossoms.
poem by Sugawara Takesue no Musume
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I realize that when I moved out of my father's house I shocked and frightened him because I needed a room of my own, a space of my own to reinvent myself.
quote by Sandra Cisneros
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Reinvent The Wheel
(Walt Aldridge/Brad Crister)
Seems like everywhere I look
There's another version of the same old book
And someone telling me it's new
Every song on my radio sounds like one I heard a long time ago
Different windows, same old view
Yeah
Uh-huh
All the clothes in the magazines I could swear I've already seen
In my closet years ago
Hairstyles and super-malls, you've seen one well you've seen them all
Tell me something I don't know
But in a world that's mostly imitation
It's hard to recognize the real
It takes a brave heart to resist temptation
To take the easy way and reinvent the wheel
(Yeah)
A friend of mine finds Mr. Right every other Friday night
At a smoky singles bar
And she can't seem to understand why life don't go like she plans
She goes on whishing on a star
Yeah
But in a world that's mostly imitation
It's hard to recognize the real
It takes a brave heart to resist temptation
To take the easy way and reinvent the wheel
(Yeah)
But in a world that's mostly imitation
It's hard to recognize the real
It takes a brave heart to resist temptation
To take the easy way and reinvent the wheel
(Yeah)
Reinvent the wheel
Reinvent the wheel
song performed by by Alabama
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Morning Flash
it comes as a flash.
A body.
At first it is just lines and curves.
There is no minding at all
about anything else.
Then follows the scent that
compliments
its newly acquired
existence
its desirability enhanced
by the warmth
of morning hues
by the window of the house.
The scent brings in some
memories of
youth
some places of the heart
like a grassy hill
and an
abandoned hut
faraway.
After a while it is not just
the body
but the tongue
and palms.
The mind starts to creep in
like a cloud
and sunshine from
the south.
IT demands something more
It is not just these memories
and feelings
those touches of hues
and colors and
scents
and eventually taste.
And then the movement.
It coils around you
This psyche
This soul and then you go deeper
into a form
of regret.
This is not the body that you like
But the lines and curves
of some long forgotten
circumstances that want to be
repeated
too often
but can never be
Because there is only one body
one soul
and it is not there
anymore.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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New Aceh Sunlight
Aceh sun
sunshine burn my husk
is brittle
from open plane door
high wind, dry befall the face
homesick of native land
I walk among they
parrying homesick by myself
new leave taking the children
and wife
but I hold up because wishing to tread
at land; ground cleft newly
trying to trace the face
on the chance of newly
peace from endless conflict
your humanity
of the same nation
poem by Prasetya Utama
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