The Black Dog
early morning when
the door of the house is finally opened
the black dog enters
missing his master
the owner of the door of the house
it wants to speak
but since it has no power over the words
it simply wags its tail
puts his head on the lap of the master
and from this gesture
one can see
that everything is well said
by it...
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Related quotes
The Cause of Enmity between Snake and Man
Snake, the first owner of fire.
Dog, the robber of fire.
Man the last owner of fire.
The snake gave birth first to fire.
Thus fire, the first born of snake.
Thus snake, only owner of fire long ago.
One cold evening
The man dying of coldness
The dog seen it master dying of coldness
It went to snake house and begged
The snake, the mother of fire to let
It tail get warm of fire
The snake cordially welcomed the dog
The dog twisted it tail on fire
The tail caught the fire
The dog jumped over the snake in door
Ran quickly to it master, the man
The man took the grass and wood
And lit up the fire
The fire lit up in man’s house
And it extinguished in snake’s house
The snake come to get fire back
But the man attack the snake
The hostility between man and snake
Began then
poem by David Aoloch Bion
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The House With Many Doors
the house i love is a house
with many doors
the usual house you have
a front door and the back door
when one enters and there is nothing
to hide, one simply takes the back door
and be gone to the woods,
i can be imaginative at times
one door must open to the earth
another door must open to
the sky
and now, i must find a way
how to grow wings
or if destiny is too cruel
i must grow sharper claws
for digging the rocks of this
earth
now you must know that i have
many choices
up or
down.....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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For Donna
when he
left you
and you
lose your
mind
when the house
get so
damn lonely
when you
finally decide
to come home
the same
white dog
waits for
you
by the door
wagging
its tail
for its
only master
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Early In The Morning
Early in the morning and I cant get right
Had a little date with my baby last night
Now its early in the morning (early in the morning)
Well its early in the morning (early in the morning)
Now its early in the morning
And I aint got nothing but the blues
Went to all the places where we used to go
Went to your house but you dont live there no more
Now its early in the morning (early in the morning)
Well its early in the morning (early in the morning)
Early in the morning
And I aint got nothing but the blues
Went to your friends house but she was out
Knock on your fathers door and he began to shout get out there boy
Early in the morning (early in the morning)
Early in the morning (early in the morning)
Early in the morning
And I aint got nothing but the blues
Went to doogie chain to get something to eat
Waiter looked at me and said you sure look beat
Now its early in the morning (early in the morning)
Early in the morning (early in the morning)
Well its early in the morning
And I aint got nothing but the blues
Well its early in the morning
And I aint got nothing but the blues
Well its early in the morning
And I aint got nothing but the blues
song performed by by Van Morrison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Poem Corrected
outside
the morning is very cold
as i open the
door
our dog is there
lying on the
rug
the way he wags
his tail
convinces me
that he may now
enter the kitchen
of the house
he gets his favorite
bone
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Softie moves smoothly
It's an early gloomy morning.
And it seems Sun forgets to rise!
The single's door is open.
A black cat mewls on the doorstep
And a gadfly enters and stays for a while.
The next door maiden comes in to give the newspaper.
You can hear a faint cry inside the house
And the penniless old man is no more.
He belongs to the pauper's graveyard
And the funeral is over quietly.
The doleful maiden writes a memorandum.
'At last he left leaving the black cat his will for me.'
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Easter Scene
a woman in an early morning sweeping some trash
away from the house
a heap of garbage
thrown on the road for the garbage truck to pick it up...
whistles her way inside the house
locks the gates
enters the door
and opens all the windowsof the house
meeting a brand new day
filled with warm sunshine
and cool air breathings
from the yard's green trees.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Twelve
a woman in an early morning sweeping some trash
away from the house
a heap of garbage
thrown on the road for the garbage truck to pick it up...
whistles her way inside the house
locks the gates
enters the door
and opens all the windows of the house
meeting a brand new day
filled with warm sunshine
and cool air breathings
from the yard's green trees.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I Do Like His Dog
Surly looking and hung over after a night on the grog
I cannot say I do like him much though I do like his dog
His golden retriever on seeing me wags her tail
Of making a new friend of every opportunity she does avail
She does not have him to thank for her nice personality
The man and his dog look at life differently
Out walking the retriever after a row with his wife
Hung over and feeling quite hard done by life
But his female dog of people not in any way indifferent or shy
A great love of humanity she seems to enjoy
With her surly master as she walks down the street
She wags her tail at everyone she does meet
The dog and her master different as chalk and cheese
But then dogs than us far more easy to please.
poem by Francis Duggan
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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
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Feel Like Talking
“There is a talk about you at the house,
Sit down for it is not a tale but a sad pity;
Your master is a liar, and you have no goal,
So happen like a lad of distress to gain pity,
Like the one lodged in the throat.”
At this snatch was a key to discussion,
For the master was a scoundrel always;
The master refused the lad and so innocence
Arrives, with queer things, queer ways,
Like the pity of a lifetime at the house.
“Flit out of doors so that you arrive,
Feeling able as you do, like a fine lad”;
The keys turn the door to alleviate the suffering
And then knowledge arrives to mock,
Feeling the fire of the mansion and everything.
poem by Naveed Akram
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The White Poodle
the white poodle rushes inside
the living room
this early morning when i
first open the door
for the air and light
to come in
as i stand by the window
to see the world again
it wags its tail
asking for a little attention
which i so willingly give
and then
with all affection it sits
near my feet
i put my hand on its head
and it rubs its head
warmly on my palm
as usual
we mark this day
with friendship
and then another day unfolds
like a bud blooming for happiness
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Consent
i
only knock
you are the owner
of the door
of the house
if
you open it
then i
enter
but you close
the door
and the windows
of your house
airtight
and so
i turn my back
and walk
away
if you change
your mind
however
i am just
a stone
throw
away...
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Letter From A Stupid Woman
(A Letter to a Man)
(1)
My dear Master,
This is a letter from a stupid woman
Has a stupid woman before me, written to you?
My name? Lets put names aside
Rania, or Zaynab
or Hind or Hayfa
The silliest thing we carry, my Master - are names
(2)
My Master:
I am frightened to tell you my thoughts
I am frightened - if I did -
that the heavens would burn
For your East, my dear Master,
confiscate blue letters
confiscate dreams from the treasure chests of women
Practices suppression, upon the emotions of women
It uses knives…
and cleavers…
to speak to women
and butchers spring and passions
and black plaits
And your East, dear Master,
Manufactures the delicate crown of the East
from the skulls of women
(3)
Don't criticize me, Master
If my writing is poor
For I write and the sword is behind my door
And beyond the room is the sound of wind and howling dogs
My master!
'Antar al Abys is behind my door!
He will butcher me
If he saw my letter
He will cut my head off
If I spoke of my torture
He will cut my head off
If he saw the sheerness of my clothes
For your East, my dear Master,
Surrounds women with spears
And your East, my dear Master
elects the men to become Prophets,
and buries the women in the dust.
(4)
Don't become annoyed!
My dear Master, from these lines
Don't become annoyed!
If I smash the complaints blocked for centuries
If I unsealed my consciousness
If I ran away…
From the domes of the Harem in the castles
If I rebelled, against my death…
against my grave, against my roots…
and the giant slaughter house….
Don't become annoyed, my dear Master,
If I revealed to you my feelings
For the Eastern man
Is not concerned with poetry or feelings
The Eastern man - and forgive my insolence - does not understand women
but over the sheets.
(5)
I am sorry my master -If I have insolently attacked the kingdom of Men
for the great literature of course -
is the literature of men
And love has always been
the allotment of men…
And sex has always been
a drug sold to men
A senile fairytale, the freedom of women in our countries
For there is no freedom
Other than, the freedom of men…
My Master
Say all you wish of me. It does not matter to me:
Shallow.. Stupid.. Crazy.. Simple minded.
It does not concern me anymore..
For whoever writes about her concerns…
in the logic of Men is called
a stupid woman
and didn't I tell you in the beginning
that I am a stupid woman?
poem by Nizar Qabbani
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Key
Key (popular poetry, however, suggestions invited)
I am the owner of a wonderful flower
In between colourful petals
Lies sweet honey
Over following
I just need a
Spark
But you hold on with the ignition key
I am the owner of a mysterious box
Inside it lies golden treasure
Wealth of seven Kings
Joy and pleasure
Locked
You need just to open with your master key
A river with hidden current flowing in my house
Waiting for you with love and peace
Wide open
Push the door and enter
And feel free
I just need
The veto power on the return key
Copy right @ abdul wahab 4th November 2012
poem by Abdul Wahab
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Rizal
i agree
education is the key
when the door if
finally opened
in fact a long time ago
and
we already had
333 years in that
Spanish convent and
43 years of
that Hollywood experience
another door has been
closed
and still
the key has to open it
one door leads to
another
same key
the young keep on getting
that key
another door is close
more keys
each key has become
more expensive
and some have thrown
that key away
meanwhile the Authority
is asking
that doors outside the country
be opened
export labor
brain drain
that is another key
problem
on the other
hand
it is not the money
it is the open mind
resilient to
poverty
taking time still to laugh
at those hard times
i agree
despite the irrelevance
it is still
the rightful key
the door is open
and we are inside it
no one
no one can take this house
again
from us
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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At The Veranda
her hair is black and curly
and she is so tight
and young and you
do not speak to her
as she waits for
her lover at
the veranda of
this house
you stand on a door
half open where your
eyes take the
luxury of looking
at her
she blushes and
pretends
that she is scrolling
a name in her
cell phone
you pretend you
look at the stars
crowding a black
cloud up
the silent sky
she steals a look at you
she wants you
but she is here
at the master's
bedroom
and her name
has always been
fear
he looks at her again
and winks
in the mirror beside
her
'she is fast asleep' he said.
she has no answer
she smiles.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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No One Is There (revised)
i go home
and i open the door of this house
there is silence that greets the face of emptiness
the grass is but a green canvass
sprinkled with dead leaves
shades of brown and shattered sheen of lights
from the setting sun
a burst of orange, a slap of red,
gray colors hover,
black invades and triumphs
tonight, another round of applause
from lonely hands
my feet stamp the dusts
off my skin
the dog wags its tail
i close the door and shut the windows
i turn on the light
dimmer
i begin listening again to
the departing winds.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Kiki The Pug
She waits so patiently at my front door
Always waiting for my arrival from work or the store
And when I arrive home she yaps and wags her tail
As though she is the huntress, and I am her quail,
She wants for nothing, but just to be at my side
And happy she is and her excitement she can't hide
All day long with me she wants to run and play
I know never from my side will she ever runaway,
She patrols my house during the day and night
Chasing away the critters that come into her sight
She'll sit at my side as though waiting for my command
And she always comes to attention, whenever I stand,
When the night arrives and I finally go to bed
She goes to her pillow and lays down her sleepy head
She waits for morning, just to be at my side once again
Her purpose to me is love, companionship, and comedian,
If people ever ignore me as though I am not there
I will look down at my side and I will see love and care
Indeed, Indeed truly, she is mans best friend
And she and I will be together, until the very end.
Randy L. McClave
poem by Randy McClave
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The Cat And The Dog In The House Of Their Master
today the cat and the dog of this house
have a holiday of their eternal quarrel
and jealousy
none speaks a bad word for each other
none of them
initiates an argument about whom
of them the master
loves better
none of them
speaks ill about the other neighboring cats
or dogs
the dog does not speak about the bone
the cat does not speak about the rats
both of them are silent and sad
and none wants to speak
beside their master
sick and dying.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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