Thank You For The Picture You Sent Me
i received it yesterday the picture of two persons
(lovers as you term it)
on top of a hill
you and her
she wears her dark sunglasses and her hat while you
were proud of your thick black glossy hair
a not so receding hairline but
looking still young and
manageable
she looks younger and happy
her hands are holding the rails
a little distant from your lean muscular body
you hide something too in those covered eyes
the usual thick tinted sunglasses
she said
nothing happened between you and her
but you claim otherwise
i look at the picture again scrutinizing the element of closeness
searching for the innate marks of intimacy
the evidence for that usual terms of endearments
at all angles and noting carefully the colors and shapes of your smile
and her poise
and then i jumped into a conclusion
whatever it is, i keep it to myself.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Nothing's Changed...
this afternoon i was driving my car
back home. And i was thinking something
that may change my life
totally.
i wish i can tell you since you are part of the
picture. Your face is a painting of so many words.
Life with you has been tinted. The colors simply
disappear at the first sigh of the coming of my night.
sometimes, i stop the car along the shore
and there is little hut there where i can rest and sit for a moment.
as usual it is the sea that keeps on talking.
there are so many reasons, so many
why i do not have to tell you about this.
and then i drive my car back home and meet you.
another beginning
of another life, and as usual the conclusion is that
nothing must be changed.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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for your Tito Rey
behind the two of you
is the Statue of Liberty
the man with the yellow shirt
and short hair is acting for an explanation
but you do not mind it
you look at the camera and give
the best smile that you can
muster in these hard
trying times
i enlarged the picture
and focus on the smile
and honestly i think
it is
fake
p.s. the tinted sunglasses
is more of a metaphor for hiding the
obvious truth in your eyes
that life is not easy
and every cent has an equivalent
deprivation.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Outlaw Blues
Aint it hard to stumble
And land in some funny lagoon?
Aint it hard to stumble
And land in some muddy lagoon?
Especially when its nine below zero
And three oclock in the afternoon.
Aint gonna hang no picture,
Aint gonna hang no picture frame.
Aint gonna hang no picture,
Aint gonna hang no picture frame.
Well, I might look like robert ford
But I feel just like a jesse james.
Well, I wish I was on some
Australian mountain range.
Oh, I wish I was on some
Australian mountain range.
I got no reason to be there, but i
Imagine it would be some kind of change.
I got my dark sunglasses,
I got for good luck my black tooth.
I got my dark sunglasses,
Im carryin for good luck my black tooth.
Dont ask me nothin about nothin,
I just might tell you the truth.
I got a woman in jackson,
I aint gonna say her name.
I got a woman in jackson,
I aint gonna say her name.
Shes a brown-skin woman,
But I love her just the same.
song performed by by Bob Dylan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Daily Life
the procedure is the same all day
repeating and
always repeated
for making a difference is
a risk
altering the pattern simply
gives birth to
pain and so one goes all over
again
start with a picture of oneself
then the other
perhaps a model or the object
of your
physical desire and stay there
for a while
somehow you wish you move
to a higher level
like something emotional or
self-redeeming like something
higher than oneself
the spiritual but you come to the
conclusion that the environment
is simple enough
all images or tangible walls
and wooden bridges below the boats
keep on sailing even without you
in it
you hold on to what is
routine
there is no fear here
the formula keeps on working for you
a self, a picture of yourself, another
picture of the other
then you wrap your body with
your arms
and it is so comforting
no sweat
things shall begin again as usual
you step outside the
door and
mix as usual with the crowd
where no one knows you
and you know no one
at night you arrive on a room
nothing's altered
the smell is the same
and then
you open the window
there are no stars
all city lights
damned.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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for JJ....
strictly speaking
by my own standards you fall short
of beauty: thick lips,
chipped cheek bones,
poke marks,
falling hair, receding hairline,
short feet, chunky hands,
unaligned eyebrows,
less eyelashes,
but look at you in the mirror
those cat eyes
looking for birds
of prey
ever ready to fight for
your rights
and the rights of the
marginalized, the oppressed
the poor and weak
by all means,
whatever physical defects you have
resetting standards,
now, i must agree
you are the repository of
invincible beauty
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Dianne, Mercy And John
i do not know how to describe this
since i am not a fashion designer
neither am i a make up artist or a
director of a cabaret show, but let me try
let me say, i do not know them in person
so i do not know their names
i got this picture somewhere and i claim
no knowledge about who and what
but let us pretend that the one in heavy makeup
is Mercy: thick red lips like red strawberries
i could have said apples, a huge neck like that
of a lioness, giraffe is sexier,
the cape is gray and silky so i will not say
that it is more of a sail for a boat
the breasts looks more like a chest
perhaps to make it appear buxomy
air is exhaled.
the one at the middle looks like a man to
me with a diminishing hairline, white polo shirt
with gray marks and a black undershirt
i think i once met him in the ship going to
the big city but i can't really remember him
completely. Was he the one who constructed a
dark yellow building in the town? Is he the
postmaster of Chicago? I am sure he is Filipino.
the third one is wearing grays stocking, a gray skirt
and lone hair. I sense it is a wig. The arm has muscles
and the neck has Adam's apple.
They are all smiling. Mercy calls this a cross-over
Dianne says this is it. And John says this is fun
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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On The Same Journey, Discover My Good Humanity...
i have not used words
to conceal my thoughts,
outside this little world
of mine,
i wear those thick clothes
cover my face, wear the
dark sunglasses,
my actions hide me
to protect me from harm
but in this secret hideout
i am using words to
slowly reveal to you
who i am, and where i am
going
what my aspirations are
many have not understood me
their inability to go deeper
beyond appearances, clothes, ties,
underwear, nameplates,
pins, buttons, shoes,
shirts, balls,
and
expressions, gestures &
endearments
these hands and
fingers that sometimes
send the wrong signals,
a body that you can detest
as something that possesses
cruel feet
and crazy nails,
thick skins, and freckled
faces
this i must tell you,
i am not a bad person
i am as good as the other
that you know
my words will speak for me
on this
whiter portion of my
existence
with you, my reader
my listener
i regret all your conclusions
you have settled for the surface
shallow, irrelevant, cowardly.
i wish we can be in the same boat
to this journey,
spend time together, lots of time,
lots of interchanges of words,
perhaps you will begin
to see the good in me,
inside my heart i am as human as
you, one that after all,
needs too to be confirmed
about his goodness,
his inability to do evil
because of the sameness of
our journey
same pains, bearable sufferings,
occasional disappointments,
patent patience
we both do not wish to go
to hell
you say it well.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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After The Scream
after the scream, she takes her needed vacation
in Florence,
takes her silent walks along the boulevard
by the river of Arno,
this is Italy, and the scream had long been forgotten.
it is over she said, my brother is dead, and i am here
working on a plan to survive the pain
of my family
each step is a forgetting.
the sound of her heels on the cobbled stones
must tell another story
something happy, about her love and her coping up
for a new beginning.
her long hair hangs on her thick black coat
the river is a big, wide, long silver
running between two connected
ancient towns of other people's miseries
not hers now. It is over. It is over.
She keeps on telling herself.
she obliges a smile in this picture.
her hands inside her pocket.Her arms
sticking on the side of her
frail, brown body.
Meanwhile, the sun begins
to spread her morning light.
It is time to go.That's what is written
at the back of the picture.
I am looking at it now. I am smiling.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Old Man Beside A Huge Tree
i have seen the picture of an old man
beside a huge oak tree
the picture is old
black and white and the kind of one that is strong
for it will last another lifetime
i have not seen the old man
neither the huge oak tree for real
i have the picture of the old man and the old oak tree
and the younger man sleeping
his smooth skin caressed by the fluffing grass
there is a story there and it is all about
gods and dogs
a film about a director who lost his fame
and fortune
about a young gardener who captures a heart
and made it bleed
at the end the old man met a happy death
the old oak tree was gone
but i have not really seen what is real
i have seen only the picture of what i thought could have been real
black and white
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Take A Picture
Just a picture, could mean a couple words,
But the one I hold dearly close to my heart,
Means more to me than anything else,
This photograph, you I love in black and white.
There are so many things I could say,
Though one word stands out amongst the rest,
It starts with love and ends with you,
The one I want to share with every single moment.
To be with you, at your side, and experience the joys,
Or you in my arms, holding you close to me, as you cry,
We're a team together, we work things out,
So we can both remember these dreams.
I've held your picture as I dream of us,
One day, we'll be holding our picture,
Wedding bells or birthday wishes,
Whichever comes first, I'll always be there.
Be there, when we say our wedding vows,
Or holding your hand as we welcome our new child,
Cheering you on when you go to your new job,
Seeing you smile as life passes us by.
I don't know what else to write or say,
As I look at the picture in my hands,
Putting my pen down and wishing you goodnight,
This photo of you, in black and white.
Not So Usual
This is the most unusual story, of a most unusual girl
she's the paint in my picture, of a most unusual world
she can crawl out the frame while shes hanging on the wall
and shes calling my name
shes not so usual, wo
shes most unusual
shes not so usual
shes so unusual
shes mostly a ghost, the way she watches over me
she complains when I smoke, but then you do the same to me
shes controlling my brain activity, knowing when i go to sleep
she'll catch you when I'm falling hard
shes so unusual
shes not so usual
shes not so usual
shes so unusual
shes not so hooked on the drugs like I thought that she was
and never sucking on the lime, and hardly sipping on the wine
and dispite of her bipolar rollercoastering
I think I can trust, she'll keep me singing differently
and its fine cause shes with me now, most all of the time
trying to saving my life, thinking none of her own
and always kissing me goodnight when i just need to be alone
shes so sweet, so discrete, shes exactly what I need
not even make believe
shes not so usual
so unusual
shes not so usual
so unusual
not so usual, and not to practical either
but shes not so mystical, but not to magical either
but shes not so outta control, and not so used to the flow
shes not so usual
nah, shes a natural
ohhh, shes not so usual
shes most unusual
shes so unusual
shes so unusual
shes gonna use me ohhh
shes not so u...
shes not so u...
not so u...
not so....
song performed by by Jason Mraz
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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So Unusual (Live @ Java Joes - 06.27.02)
This is the most unusual story, of a most unusual girl
she stood painting my picture, of a most unusual world
she can crawl out of frame while shes hanging on the wall
and shes calling my name
shes not so usual
shes most unusual
shes not so usual
shes so unusual
shes mostly a ghost, the way she watches over me
she complains when i smoke, but then you do the same to me
shes controlling my brain activity, knowing when i go to sleep
she'll catch you when I'm falling hard
shes so unusual
shes not so usual
shes not so usual
shes so unusual
shes not so hooked on the drugs like i thought she was
and never sucking on the lime, and hardly sipping on the wine
and dispite of her biopolar rollercoastering
i think i can try, she'll keep me singing differently
and its fine cause shes with me now, most all of the time
trying to saving the light, thinking not of her own
and always kissing me goodnight when i just need to be alone
shes so sweet, so discrete, shes exactly what i need
not even make believe
shes not so usual
so unusual
shes not so usual
so unusual
not so usual, and not to practical either
but shes not so mystical, but not to magical either
but shes not so outta control, and not so used to the flow
shes not so usual
nah, shes a natural
ohhh, shes not so usual
shes most unusual
shes so unusual
shes so unusual
shes gonna use me ohhh
shes not so u...
shes not so u...
not so u...
not so....
song performed by by Jason Mraz
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I Know I Am Not Getting Any Younger
i look at my face in the mirror
and take my comb and start to part
my thick black hair in the middle of
my forehead,
a black dye cannot hide anymore
the white at the bottom of my hair
all of them and i stare at myself
and begin to fear the
hands of the clock ticking
i know i am not getting any younger
and i am eating a lot of oysters
fresh from San Pedro
wanting to recover the lost drives
somewhere in San Isidro Labrador
how can i lose this hardness of my being?
my life has orbited on this belief
that i only live when i am useful
to each of you
i return my hair to its original style
looking so young again
i love this face and i tell myself
it must still sink a hundred ships
till i am gone
till i am forgotten by all of them
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Upon the Wall
The first picture is an old black and white of a young couple just started out their life. If you look close you can see all the hope in their eyes.
Next to that hangs a color picture of the same couple a few years older and a baby has been added to the picture, what joy upon their faces.
Now, the next picture is about seven years after that the couples hair has turned slightly grey and the child has grown, but their look of joy has turned to worry I wonder what problem has arose.
Now the next one is the once young child standing proudly in an arm forces' uniform ready to serve his nation.
Then there's the next picture it is a coffin with a flag draped upon it, and the old couple now standing and crying beside it.
I can only imagine that their child now lies in that coffin.
The final picture is similar to first except instead of black and white this has color, and instead of hope the old couple eyes are filled with despair from the harshness of life, and all they have left is the pictures upon the wall.
Wallflowers
count the wallflowers? 1,2,3,4,5,
6...you can't count these wallflowers
they stick their lives on walls
not letting go
their deepest desires
lying on their teeth
covering their faces with
thick veils
and hats and masks
heavily tinted sunglasses at noon
and
funny, even at nighttime
at the bars
their bodies wrapped with leather
and wool
they do not dance with life
they fear taking the wrong step
or be laughed at
they are the spectators of the show
they say they are enjoying it somehow
no, they are stuffed toys,
on their comfort cabinets.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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About The Bird With A Bleeding Heart
I was the one who taught you once about the bird with a bleeding heart.
How it raised its head, opened its eyes and stared to places beyond its reach.It has kept its dignity in the middle of its pains.
It managed to fly back to its nest and still sang its usual songs in the morning.
At night, like you, it did not sleep, and had a good look at the stars.
It was you who was seated at the last row at the last column of the chairs of the room.
Unlike the rest, it was you who listened most.
You wore a thick, heavy tinted sunglass, and you stared to every movement Of my eyes and lips as i was telling the story.
I had a good glance at you. You shed a tear and then you hid it in your hand.
Time flew. Swiftly.
I received the letter that you sent. You thanked me.
There is no return address, but let me tell you now as you read this poem.
This is our journey together.We are no longer afraid to cry.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The love and the rain
It was raining and the dark covered every where
The silent nature was watching over them
But they why were so sad and silent
Maybe they were two separated lovers
Here is a little blond girl
With her curly hair covered her shoulders
With sorrowful eyes she were looking around
She was searching for her lost love
The boy had so bright lovely eyes
His eyes were searching for his lost love
He was so sad standing there like a poor
Waiting for the return of his sad love
The rain got worse and the wind begun to shout
The clouds above strongly slept each other
But two lovers were standing still there
Looking to each other innocent and endless
poem by Sossi Khachadourian
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Because Love Begets Love
you hide the shadow of a man
inside your bra
it is not funny your bra bulges like
a bone
someone hides a woman's breast inside
his pants
tits on his pockets like pebbles on the beach
there is something bitchy over there
it is laughing
someone wears a heavily tinted sunglasses
imagination thinks about someone else
hands are traitors too and feet never run away
from a confrontation of lusts
we know we have secrets and we are comfortable with all
these
without the need of telling
why
we understand
we simply want to survive the heat and
the cold
the days that torture us
torture as no more
we love these secrets and of course
these secrets love us too
love begets love
in discreet cold and comfortable places of the heart
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Ennui (whatever)
there are four corners of this room
(as usual, us usual,
we are here again, both
on a togetherness
since the early days of our
union)
i want to go away, remember the flight
of the little bird, away from its mother's nest?
but i can't, your tears are holding me
like a mother,
and so how can a son get away?
how can a lover go away and be stripped
from its beloved?
the vinyl floors are dusty
the curtains unwashed for weeks
the door creaks like a man complaining
for its usual work
to close and open
to open and close
the door has always been closed in here
there is no exit
but i shall not scream, that is too much for this
harrowing experience
there is no tv, no ref, just the sound of an AM/FM radio
that i bought from a cheap department store
i hold your hands
that is enough for me now.
i stare at the ceiling, and then i get so weary and i close my eyes
asking shelter
in the colored world of dreams.
are you happy now?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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California
by Bob Dylan
I'm goin' down south,
'Neath the borderline.
I'm goin' down south,
'Neath the borderline.
Some fat momma
Kissed my mouth one time.
Well, I needed it this morning
Without a shadow of doubt.
My suitcase is packed,
My clothes are hangin' out.
San Francisco's fine,
You sure get lots of sun.
San Francisco is fine.
You sure get lots of sun.
But I'm used to four seasons,
California's got but one.
Well, I got my dark sunglasses,
I got for good luck my black tooth.
I got my dark sunglasses,
And for good luck I got my black tooth.
Don't ask me nothin' about nothin',
I just might tell you the truth.
song performed by by Bob Dylan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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