The Daily Poems
these may just be words
letters that one need not read carefully
as they are not instructions
or manuals for daily living
not something edible to eat
not a ball to play with on late afternoons
when you have nothing to do
not a bar of beauty soap for your face
not a lotion for your skin
not a piece of cake or a fried potato
for your breakfast table
neither is it a cup of hot coffee
they are not necessities of life
yet somehow
the daily poems of our lives
make us live
a day more,
an hour more of promise
a moment of more tolerance
another year of patience with ourselves
a night of nice sleep
under the stars.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
438
To Choose Between A
Hot Breakfast Ready On The Table
And Finishing Another Poem
I Choose The Breakfast
Together With My Wife
This Poem Can Be Suspended
In Time
And Become Another Unfinished
Act Of Creation
By A Man Wanting To Fill This
World With Poems
After A While
When I Have My Fill And When
I Make Some Nice Conversations With My Wife
And My Dog Beside The Table
Looking At Me
For A Piece Of Fried Pork
When The Sipping Of Coffee Is Over
When I Finally Wipe My
Chin With The Sky Blue Napkin
When I Consider
Eating As Finally Over
As Promised
I Will Come Back Again
And Finish This Poem
And There Is Something
Nice In This
Act Of Creation
You Feel It
It Is Warm Like The Hand Of
A Beautiful Woman
It Is As Hot As Ever
Like This Wanton Desire
Lovely,
As Lovely As You Love Each Letter
Of The Word
Of Your Poetry
I Am Feeling It In The Bone
Of My Soul
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Breakfast Is Ready
(7: 45 in the morning)
to choose between a
hot breakfast ready on the table
and finishing another poem
i choose the breakfast
together with my wife
this poem can be suspended
in time
and become another unfinished
act of creation
by a man wanting to fill this
world with poems
after a while
when i have my fill and when
i make some nice conversations with my wife
and my dog beside the table
looking at me
for a piece of fried pork
when the sipping of coffee is over
when i finally wipe my
chin with the sky blue napkin
when i consider
eating as finally over
as promised
i will come back again
and finish this poem
and there is something
nice in this
act of creation
you feel it
it is warm like the hand of
a beautiful woman
it is as hot as ever
like this wanton desire
lovely,
as lovely as you love each letter
of the word
of your poetry
i am feeling it in the bone
of my soul
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Daily
you wake up early
you wash your face
you use soap and water
you wipe your face with
a white towel near the sink
hanging
you dress up
you take breakfast
you chew your food
you drink your coffee
you read the papers
hear the news on tv
you go to the garage
warm up your car
you open the garage
and speed your way to your office
you read the whole day
you talk less
you take your lunch
and you cat's nap
you work the whole afternoon
you read a lot
you write
you are tired and ask your driver
to drive you home
you open the door of your house
you sleep with your shoes on
you sleep for some hours
you are hungry
you go to the kitchen and eat
the food made ready for you
by your housemaid
you are alone in this sequence
you turn on the tv
and the whole night you feel
you are the lookout
for something that is about to happen
you ask yourself, what is this all about?
you tell yourself, you do not know, it is just your daily routine
for years and years, and it goes on and on and you have no
way of stopping
they call it life
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Caring Less For The Loquacious
seated, formal, behaved,
and stopping to read the
morning paper,
the tv is on for the
usual morning news,
the cup of coffee is on
the breakfast table,
the usual rice and sunny
side up fried egg
and dried fish to
with your wish for
the wholesome thing,
salt and sugar and
something sour
like a piece of
lemon to accentuate
your need for a variety,
in front is a woman with
curly hair, big earrings like
a mystic,
she speaks in crystal ball
reminding you
of your inevitable
pain in the future,
you are her slave and
you listen,
though you are not
interested,
(shit, shit, you have these
words hammering in
your mind)
finally, you take a glimpse
of her mouth,
they look like scissors,
her nose looks like
a wrench,
she looks older
than you think,
cranky like an old
rice mill,
you like to get rid
of her,
you know this woman,
her name,
and her being a
part of you
even for life,
you create a certain distance
like Mars and Pluto,
farther away, you settle on
the orbit of earth,
this marble planet, known
for its coolness
and tolerance for
evil.
you're not quitting,
you love that dragon inside
your hot, creamy coffee,
and then you smile, and tell yourself,
after she had spoken
her piece,
it is a beautiful day
it is a real beautiful life out there.
you step inside your car, drive for work,
and let life manage your life somehow.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Breakfast That We Cannot Eat Together
this is the breakfast that we cannot eat together a fish fried in an oil
with so much heat, like ' who cares? ' a rice not well cooked which says ' it is the maid again! ' a coffee which has gone cold which says ' you come late again! ' a egg which is not sunny side up a ham that does not roll a dirty table with an unwashed table cloth which says 'change it yourself! '
how can i eat all these?
i am late for the office and i have to go.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Meat & Potato Man
Meat and potato man
I like my steak well done, my taters fried
Football games on monday night
Its just who I am
A meat and potato man
I like my coffee black
Oltv shows
My women hot and my beer ice cold
Its just who I am
A meat and potato man
I dont like caviar, sushi bars,
The irs or phony stars
Im a haggard fan
A meat and potato man
I like my fishinholes, lightninbugs
Flatt nscruggs, and my womans love
Its just who I am
A meat and potato man
I like my wrangler jeans, cowboy boots
Cornbread and beans and country roots
Its just who I am
A meat and potato man
I dont like politics, hypocrites
Folks with poodles dressed like kids
Im a hounddog fan
A meat and potato manyeah, thats what I am,
A meat and potato man
song performed by by Alan Jackson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Meat And Potato Man
meat and potato man
I like my steak well done, my taters fried
Football games on monday night
Its just who i am
A meat and potato man
I like my coffee black
Oltv shows
My women hot and my beer ice cold
Its just who i am
A meat and potato man
I dont like caviar, sushi bars,
The irs or phony stars
Im a haggard fan
A meat and potato man
I like my fishinholes, lightninbugs
Flatt nscruggs, and my womans love
Its just who i am
A meat and potato man
I like my wrangler jeans, cowboy boots
Cornbread and beans and country roots
Its just who i am
A meat and potato man
I dont like politics, hypocrites
Folks with poodles dressed like kids
Im a hounddog fan
A meat and potato manyeah, thats what i am,
A meat and potato man
song performed by by Alan Jackson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Breakfast
A dinner party, coffee, tea,
Sandwich, or supper, all may be
In their way pleasant. But to me
Not one of these deserves the praise
That welcomer of new-born days,
A breakfast, merits; ever giving
Cheerful notice we are living
Another day refreshed by sleep,
When its festival we keep.
Now although I would not slight
Those kindly words we use, 'Good night,'
Yet parting words are words of sorrow,
And may not vie with sweet 'Good morrow,'
With which again our friends we greet,
When in the breakfast-room we meet,
At the social table round,
Listening to the lively sound
Of those notes which never tire,
Of urn, or kettle on the fire.
Sleepy Robert never hears
Or urn or kettle; he appears
When all have finished, one by one
Dropping off, and breakfast done.
Yet has he too his own pleasure,
His breakfast hour's his hour of leisure;
And, left alone, he reads or muses,
Or else in idle mood he uses
To sit and watch the venturous fly,
Where the sugar's pilëd high,
Clambering o'er the lumps so white,
Rocky cliffs of sweet delight.
poem by Charles Lamb
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It Would Be So Nice
It would be so nice
It would be so nice
It would be so nice
To meet, sometime
Everybody wakes, and in the morning
Hot tea and cant stop yawning
Pass the butter please.
Have you ever read the daily standard?
Reading all about the plane thats landed
Upside down?
And no one knows what I did today
There can be no other way
But I would just like to say
It would be so nice
It would be so nice
It would be so nice
To meet sometime
It would be so nice
It would be so nice
It would be so nice
To meet sometime
Everybody cares about the weather
And everybody should know better
What a waste of time
Everybody lives beneath the ceiling
Living out a dream that sends them reeling
To a distant place
But no one knows what I did today
There can be no other way
But I would just like to say
It would be so nice
It would be so nice
It would be so nice
To meet sometime
It would be so nice
It would be so nice
It would be so nice
To meet sometime
It would be so nice
It would be so nice
It would be so nice
To meet sometime
song performed by by Pink Floyd
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Exquisite Candidate
I can promise you this: food in the White House
will change! No more granola, only fried eggs
flipped the way we like them. And ham ham ham!
Americans need ham! Nothing airy like debate for me!
Pigs will become the new symbol of glee,
displacing smiley faces and 'Have A Nice Day.'
Car bumpers are my billboards, billboards my movie screens.
Nothing I can say can be used against me.
My life flashes in front of my face daily.
Here's a snapshot of me as a baby. Then
marrying. My kids drink all their milk which helps the dairy industry.
A vote for me is not only a pat on the back for America!
A vote for me, my fellow Americans, is a vote for everyone like me!
If I were the type who made promises
I'd probably begin by saying: America,
relax! Buy big cars and tease your hair
as high as the Empire State Building.
Inch by inch, we're buying the world's sorrow.
Yeah, the world's sorrow, that's it!
The other side will have a lot to say about pork
but don't believe it! Their graphs are sloppy coloring books.
We're just fine—look at the way
everyone wants to speak English and live here!
Whatever you think of borders,
I am the only candidate to canoe over Niagara Falls
and live to photograph the Canadian side.
I'm the only Julliard graduate—
I will exhale beauty all across this great land
of pork rinds and gas stations and scientists working for cures,
of satellite dishes over Sparky's Bar & Grill, the ease
of breakfast in the mornings, quiet peace of sleep at night.
by Denise Duhamel and Maureen Seaton
poem by Denise Duhamel
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Untitled 23
i stab
the fried banana
with a fork
pieces eaten
with joy in my heart
i stir coffee with cream
hot water inside the cup of white porcelain
i hear the ringing
of the door bell
and i do not mind
who is it what is it
i expect no one
this early morning
as i begin to piece together
broken glasses of memories
i dare love no one
and i dare no one to love me
there is an island of coffee with creams
inside the cup of porcelain
no one stirs it
except myself
i feed myself piece by piece with
a fried banana stiffened with bread crumbs
deep fried and well cooked
self, selfish upon itself
on a Maunday Thursday
the silence creeps like soft feet of a white butterfly on my arms
the windows are open
the air is free to go inside and play and be wary about its own molecules
the door is closed
no one is allowed to get in at this hour of my reflection
a day as mirror
a self as shadow cast upon a self upon a self
there is no language from the body
this time
only fools, only fools,
rising above themselves
saving life on some memoirs
a biography of another bigot begotten by this ghoul.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The 'Potato' Poem
I love potatoes chopped up into chunky chips.
I love spicy potato wedges, served up with dips.
I love potato slices which have been fried in a pan:
Of sautéed potatoes, I am the world's biggest fan.
I love potatoes which have been pummelled and bashed
With butter and milk to make a real light, fluffy mash.
Jacket potatoes, I find a bit dry, but with a nice filling
Such as chilli, to give them a try, I am more willing.
With breakfast, I love hash browns or potato cakes,
And I love potatoes mixed up with leeks in a bake.
Crispy, golden potatoes, served up with Sunday roast
Are among the kinds of potato which I love the most.
Mixed in soups and casseroles, I love potatoes diced.
On top on minced beef hotpot, I love potatoes sliced.
Fluffy potato stuffed inside a crispy potato croquette
Is also rather nice, and, for me, it is another safe bet.
I love potatoes cut into crisps: the slices, wafer thin,
And, as a starter, I simply love loaded potato skins:
I do adore a delicious dish of Bombay potato curry:
For me, it is a taste which I won't forget in a hurry.
I like potatoes diced up with creamy mayonnaise,
Served up with salad on really hot summer days.
But I don't like potatoes which have been boiled:
From potatoes, cooked this way, in horror, I recoil.
poem by Angela Wybrow
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Come Back In One Piece (feat. DMX)
Where we go, okay, okay
Don't do me Greasy, okay
Uh, ay yo
You know what a dog needs
Do you really know what a dog needs?
Uh a dog needs a grrr!
What? What? A dog needs a grrr!
Come on
Not just any uh but a real uh
That's gonna hold that dog down
Arf! Arf!
Baby I am what I am, I'm gon' be who I be
Everything from chasing a cat to p***** on a tree
Let me see what I gotta to see
Do what I gotta to do
Dog for life but keep it true
Every once in a while I'll break out the backyard to roam
And get reckless
But I still know that home is home
And when I get there I'mma sit there
Take a s*** there put my d*** there
Do I handle my business?
S*** yeah
I'mma run till I bust my gun and empty the clip
Never come home, I gotta go just gimme the whip
I ain't got time for the lip
Just open the fence
Let me go I'll come back
I ain't got time to convince
Ever since I was a pup
I've been stuck with the street s***
Keep the heat s***
F*** it n**** gotta eat
I past on a weak s***
If it's out there I want it
All at one time
So when it's my time I've done it
[Aaliyah]
I know you'll kill for me
You'll die you me
I know you like to rip and run the streets
But I get nervous sometimes
Ooh baby I can't help to think
You might not make it home to eat
I barely sleep
Could you pick up a phone and call me at home?
And let me know you ain't in some heat
And don't go crying, you're grown
You know I'm looking out for you
Cause you be looking out for me, me, me
[Chorus]
Yo you can go with your dogs
If you make this promise to me
You make it back in one piece
So you can go with your dogs
If you make this promise to me
You make it back in one piece
'Fore you go betting it all
If you make this promise to me
You make it back in one piece
I know you up in it all
If you make this promise to me
You make it back in one piece
[Aaliyah](DMX)
And oh boy I know you got to do what you do, ooh-ooh
You're making moves, I'm makin' moves yo we cool
(What? What? What?)
Lay on your paws I got your back if you fall, hey-hey
Nothing's to big, nothing's to small just go ball, yeah
[DMX]
Uh dog tags around my neck the streets are mine
I might leave the heat behind
Cause in the streets I'm fine
That's why n***** sleep till nine
Out by ten back by ten
Sleep till nine do it again
If you love something let it go
If it comes back to you it yours
If it doesn't f*** it you'll never know
You got me I got you, uh
Dog with a dog, ride till we die
If it's on then it's on
[Chorus]
Yo you can go with your dogs
If you make this promise to me
You make it back in one piece
So you can go with your dogs
If you make this promise to me
You make it back in one piece
'Fore you go betting it all
If you make this promise to me
You make it back in one piece
I know you up in it all
If you make this promise to me
You make it back in one piece
song performed by by Aaliyah
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My birthday was different this year
As I was rummaging through
the file boxes my wife had left for me
in the garage
I found a yellow legal pad
scribbled with hand written poems
I had written one night
in a almost crowded coffeehouse
waiting for a poet friend from Chicago
to come up north to read
The poems talked about
how I waited and waited
before too long
several anxious poets
ran up to the microphone
not afraid to trip over themselves
share their delicate poems
about romance and almost romance
detailing having a job they don't like
and it seemed to me
they were also not liking much else about their lives
besides their job they didn't like
My Chicago artist friend as usual
was more then an hour late
which isn't bad considering Chicago
is almost three hours away
so most other places
damn, she would have been early
When I read the poem
I wrote about being at a reading
I didn't want to be at
I realized I was spending my birthday
by myself in a coffeehouse
writing poems
not making much eye contact
with people I didn't even like
although one of the poets
I think Francine is her name
came up to me during a break and said 'hi'
but she didn't remember my name
or knew it was my birthday
and a couple of days after my anniversary
or that I was getting a divorce
that poem I read
was a good sign of things to come
because this year
on my birthday
I woke up with a new friend in my bed
multiple orgasms for her to share
before having a nice breakfast together
of eggs, sausage, hash browns and italian toast
cooked on the George Foreman grill
and things didn't look or feel
the same again
poem by Oscar Mireles
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Mr. Cameron
What if Mr. Cameron was made of Swiss cheese?
Cleaning up wouldn’t be much of an ease.
If he was, that wouldn’t be nice.
Our homeroom would be infested with mice.
This room would be home to a family of rats,
We might start chasing them with baseball bats.
His life would be simple,
His face without a dimple,
The dimple, replaced by a hole,
Austin would use it as a soccer Goal.
Mr. Cameron would be fired,
Yet also, he would be admired.
Admired, but only by mice,
Now isn’t that nice?
It would be weird to have a dairy product as a teacher,
What an unusual edible and healthy to eat creature.
Living in a zoo,
He’ll have nothing to do,
He’s a one of a kind edible pet,
So sell him on the internet,
That’s when E-bay comes in handy.
You can eat him like candy,
Or play with him as if he was plastic,
Be careful though, he’s not so elastic.
He’s a perfect crash dummy,
Since he has nothing in his tummy.
Make him fall into a bush,
Just give him a little push.
He will start tipping,
As if he was tripping,
He won’t explode into a fireball,
But he will not like the fall.
Cheese has feelings you know.
He has no where to go.
Except maybe a hotel,
Or maybe some random motel.
That dairy product of a teacher,
Is not a farting old preacher.
But an edible piece of art,
That will touch anyone’s heart.
He cannot have soup and slurp,
And he cannot drink pop and burp
That’s because he contains no highly flammable gas.
In the end, he was vigorously consumed by the class.
How sad,
Too bad
poem by Anders Lim
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I Am My Poem
When you see me,
you see my poems.
For when i breath, i breath out ballads.
But vers libre express my heart.
Should i write in complicated
and rhythmic words to make
my poems deep and beautiful?
My life is complicated already.
Should i write in simple and
enticing words to make
my poems attractive?
My life is not that simple.
Like stream to the river
down to the sea,
so is my poems from my
soul to my spirit down to my body.
You may disapprove me
but come and take a walk
within my soul and see if
you can live there for a moment.
So when i write, must i
invite you to read.
Read if you want to.
I write because the chamber
of soul finds relieve.
poem by Enebeli Ifyprada
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After All Hymn
After all I am human
And I get mad sometimes
Sometimes it is hard for me to think of something else in
Order to get rid of my anger
But I think I have to replace it with poetry
Poetry is my life
And I live writing poetry
Is poetry just a scribbling that doesn't make sense?
No
Poetry are feelings that are wrtten on a piece of paper or in the computer Scream
Poetry makes sense because every word I carefully select
And there are other words that might pop out of my mind
That I connect with the words in my heart
Do I use strong words in my poetry?
Yes I use strong words
Do I offend my readers with the words I pick?
That Is something that I try not to do
AAafter all
I am human and I do make mistakes
But after I make mistakes I try to move to the next step so I never get Stuck with my mistake
Yes poetry is my voice that is a message that I am trying hard to give to My readers
There are so many different styles of poetry
Haiku, rhiming, and free style
But I always stick with the free style of poetry
I find that it is the style that sooths me just fine
After all
I try very hard to live a modest life that is very plain and simple
From the one I lived 16 years ago
What is wrong to live a life of luxury to me?
First I need to have the money to live a luxurious life
The second part is that I don't want anything to do with a luxurious life
Because I am happy living my simple life
And I hope to live that simple life forever
I want to have dreams only and I don't wish them to turn into reality in My Life
Because I know that my dreams will be dreams
No I can't sell my dreams
Because my dreams are only fantasies that I face every night when I sleep In my bed
And after all I will always be human
poem by Aldo Kraas
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Sonnet 56: Fie, School Of Patience
Fie, school of Patience, fie! your lesson is
Far, far too long to learn it without book:
What, a whole week without one piece of look,
And think I should not your large precepts miss?
When I might read those letters fair of bliss,
Which in her face teach virtue, I could brook
Somewhat thy leaden counsels, which I took
As of a friend that meant not much amiss:
But now that I, alas, do want her sight,
What, dost thou think that I can ever take
In thy cold stuff a phlegmatic delight?
No, Patience, if thou wilt my good, then make
Her come, and hear with patience my desire,
And then with patience bid me bear my fire.
poem by Philip Sidney
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Jim and Darlene
Two lonely birds
perched
in their coffee house
abode, sit anonymously
daily reprieve
from the hustle and tussle
of a busy day
a two seat table, a lovers way
Jim with a horrific illness
Darlene, his partner
loves Jim, none the less
a pleasure to meet these two
a daily gift
both God sent
to me and my troubled heart
we speak of life treasures
life pain and heartaches
from a tsunami in India
to California quakes
never realized
that a coffee, muffin and doughnut
could bring a mans heart back
to where it began
love and friendship
all part of
GODS' plan
poem by Matt Mondschein
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Love Is Devout
The daily fight.
The human souls ignite.
The fire burns in the twilight.
Stars so bright.
God please, give me your might.
Your strength. I promise I'll wait.
Does my heart have what it takes.
The true divine.
Drinking some red wine.
Celebrate life, celebrate death.
Celebrate this worlds mess.
Only confess when you truly need forgiveness.
The daily fight.
The human soul ignite.
The fire burns in the twilight.
Stars so bright.
God please give me your might.
Patients, sir I salute you for having such courage.
On the brink.
Can you feel the energy surge.
Splurge, control yourself,
and you want the most for
it could make you into a forever haunting ghost.
So carefully tip toe.
Cause eggshells are just below your feet.
And you could slip as you run you know.
Waiting can be constant agony.
Its driving me right into the clouds.
Come hell or high water
I shall be devout.
You are forever mine even as time passes by.
I don't care how or why.
There will be no compromise.
Love lasts even after you die.
The daily fight.
The human soul ignites.
The fire burns in the twilight.
Stars so bright.
Oh oh tonight god please give me your might.
poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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