The Door's Grief
ah, the door's grief is not really brief,
it has been there since the hinges were fixed,
though it does not sound like an old man
grumbling, though its creaking sound
is hidden on a dropp of mechanical
oil,
there are those who still slam it
and out of too much fear
its grief lies hidden continually
on every closing
when you open it, it gives a respectable smile
yet you fail to understand
what was suppressed from what was not so valiantly expressed
there is no word for this
even the door cannot describe it
till this moment
when you close it again and again
as it becomes
another wall of the house again.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Related quotes
Respectable Street
Heard the neighbour slam his car door,
Don't he realise this is respectable street?
What d'you think he bought that car for?
'cause he realise this is respectable street
Now they talk about absorption,
In cosmopolitan proportions to their daughters,
As they speak of child prevention,
And immaculate receptions on their portable,
Sony entertainment centres.
Heard the neighbour slam his car door,
Don't he realise this is respectable street?
What d'you think he bought that car for?
'cause he realise this is respectable street
Now she speak about diseases,
And which proposition pleases best her old man,
Avon lady fills the creases,
When she manages to squeeze in past the caravans,
That never move from their front gardens.
It's in the order of their hedgerows,
It's in the way their curtains open and close,
It's in the look they give you down their nose,
All part of decency's jigsaw i suppose.
Sunday church and they look fetching,
Saturday night saw him stretching over our fence,
Bang the wall for me to turn down,
I can see them with their stern frown,
As they dispense the kind of look that says they're perfect.
Heard the neighbour slam his car door,
Don't he realise this is respectable street?
What d'you think he bought that car for?
'cause he realise this is respectable street
song performed by by Xtc
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Terrible Night
In the sweetest moment
of the night,
when sleep and dreams would
relieve and encompass
conscious thoughts.
I heard a sound.
I was awaken by the sound.
The sound came from the
door and it was lighter than
the tick of the clock.
I rested on the wall.
Hugged myself with a
preambulating heart
that has refuse comfort
because of the quiet sound.
The sound came again.
This time it was rapid.
Sinking me deep in fear,
enveloping me with goose pimple.
Suddenly, the sound stopped.
I stared at the door,
awaiting my fate.
For the night is still young and
deep within i long for dawn.
I waited.
There was nothing. Every
thing was quiet, too quiet.
Except sound from my beating
heart and tickling clock.
My eyes were wide open.
I focused on the door while
my thoughts move to and fro
my past and present deeds.
Oh Lord i cry, forgive me.
Time passed by.
The cock crow, immediately
i had a staggering courage.
I walked slowly to the door,
with immerse fear, i opened it.
With great sigh, i was relieved
though i had lost my sleep.
All this while, i have been
denied a good night by my
neighbour's dog, who was
found sleeping close to my door.
poem by Enebeli Ifyprada
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Door
Behind the door what happens
behind the door what's hidden
till you keep the door closed
you are not exposed
Elseone cannot peep in
Elseone cannot step in
other side of closed door
you live behind secured.
If you want door of others
to open for you
keep your door open for
who needs you.
poem by S.D. Tiwari
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So many names
I have so many names
You can call me by any name.
Are you ready to come to me
I am here for you only
To heal you from all diseases.
Open the door of your house
The word the sound enter your house
And you find in every word in each sound
My name is there.
You can call me by any name
That suit you.
poem by Gajanan Mishra
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The Door Of The House Of My Ancestors
this morning i am
confronted with an old door
of the old house of my
ancestors,
the rust that eats the hinges
finally frees the door
at last!
it was enslaved by the haunting
sounds of the sudden
slam
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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the sounds of Sunday
i hear the sound of the cold wind from the sea
i hear the waking call of the roosters
the scratching feet of the dog on some disturbing flea
and i hear her steps towards the door as she opens it
she goes to church
and i hear her gently closing the door and the gate too
closing in on me
i am alone now with all the other sounds of the house
this sound of the growing silence
some voices
rushing to fill my mind
some poems
for the day
it is this silence that feeds me
the trickles of my soul
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Lament
Where are those dazzling hills touched by the sun,
Those crags in childhood that I used to climb?
Hidden, hidden under mist is yonder mountain,
Hidden is the heart.
A day of cloud, a lifetime falls between,
Gone are the heather moors and the pure stream,
Gone are the rocky places and the green,
Hidden, hidden under sorrow is yonder mountain,
Hidden, hidden.
O storm and gale of tears, whose blinding screen
Makes weather of grief, snow's drifting curtain
Palls th'immortal heights once seen.
Hidden, hidden is the heart,
Hidden, hidden is the heart.
poem by Kathleen Jessie Raine
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The Shuffler
An old man scuffed his feet across the floor
as he headed for the Café’s exit door.
He shuffled along with his walking stick,
a lit cigarette stuck to his bottom lip.
His jacket looked like an open ferry door,
at least two sizes too big, maybe more.
A stoop kept his eyes fixed to the ground,
cursed with old age, and deaf to sound.
A nose dew dropp was moved by his sleeve,
apathetic to all who watched him leave.
He opened the door and again shuffled his feet,
as he became a number on the busy street.
poem by Orlando Belo
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The Ogre Slam-The-Door
There is a certain castle that is beautiful and fair,
And plants, and birds, and pretty things, fill every room and hall,
But alas! for the unhappy folks who make their dwelling there,
A dreadful ogre haunts the house and tries to kill them all.
Some day I fear will find them dead and stretched out in their gore
The victims of this ogre grim, this wicked Slam-the-door!
He's a very tiny ogre just about as tall as you!
He never carries hidden arms, or plays with guns and knives.
And yet he almost splits the heads of people thro' and thro.'
And I think him very dangerous to comfort and to lives.
And he often shakes the castle from the ceiling to the floor.
This awful, awful ogre known as little Slam-the-door.
He gets up bright and early, and he's, oh, so wide awake!
And wo! to all the sleepy heads and invalids who doze,
They dream the sky is caving in, or that a vast earthquake
Has suddenly convulsed the world and ended their repose,
As to and fro, and up and down, still noisier than before,
They hear the hurrying, flurrying feet of ogre Slam-the-door.
Though the Princess of the Castle has a headache, and is ill,
Though the Prince is in his study and wants quiet for an hour,
This wicked little ogre won't be quiet-or keep still
I almost think he sometimes knows he has them in his power.
Alas, alas for all the folks, their sorrows I deplore-
The folks shut in that castle with the ogre Slam-the-door.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Swindle
A request to have a door,
On hinges installed...
Is a great idea,
For one seeking privacy.
But a door on hinges,
That does not close...
Or has a lock with a key,
Is just another swindle!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Sounds
i heard the sound of the clock ticking
some things come
i am remembering these some things
burnt, and melting in my forehead,
i like the sound of the ticking of grandfather's
clock at night, i hear footsteps
and drippings of water
from the gutter to the floor
the window is closed and the wind makes
the sound of someone caught between
door jambs, creaking sounds creeping
on the wall, something is terrible, really terrible
and i turn my body to the left side,
there is this storm, and the strong rain comes
with the grunting wind, and trees are falling
unto each other, i hear leaves and twigs,
and the roof wanting to leave the house,
something is terribly happening on this night
of the suicidal darkness, the shimmer of the river
looks like a stainless knife
who's there? i ask the door. The mirror on the other
side answers, how dare you?
it is nobody. it is just myself, my mouth answers.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I Mourn 17/03/09
I mourn in the morning
And the mourning continues till evening
Still till night
Even a hearty smile has hidden grief
But when the heart smiles through the eyes it shows
And grief the same
Though you could not tell
You would not notice tears falling from my eyes
How could you conceive my pain
But I still mourn from morning till evening
Night falls upon my anguish
And still I laugh with you as though you bring me happiness
Though misery is all you supply
poem by Rachael Hardy
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The Horse Song
i never saw you before
i never sound strained before
now i'm at your door
and i hope you're unusual
very unusual
now i'm at your door
and when you nicely ask me in
i'm staring at your shoes
and i don't wonder why
i feel like a horse
we can stray out on the open range
missing me every day with its hidden claws
spring snow
and when you brush me
brush me with your eyes
i think you've noticed that
i don't want to be a bad guy anymore
i never saw you before
but you're unusual
and now i'm at your door
i feel safe and warm
i feel
i feel
i feel
i feel
like a horse
ha ha ha ha
what's this?
song performed by by Iggy Pop
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Death is a door
Death is only an old door
Set in a garden wall;
On gentle hinges it gives, at dusk
When the thrushes call.
Along the linted are green leaves,
Beyond the light lies still;
Very willing and weary feet
Go over that sill.
There is nothing to trouble any heart;
Nothing to hurt at all.
Death is only a quiet door
In an old wall
poem by Katie Evans
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But There Is A Wall...
I know how to go there
But there is a wall ahead.
A wall of height and might.
How shall I go there?
I know how to make a door
To make me go there
A door of width and length.
How shall I close it after I go?
I know how to close my door
To stop others from following me
For they must`nt be where I am to be.
How will all judge my gains otherwise?
I know there is a wall
Which has to be built over and over
Even over the door I make.
How will others follow me suit then?
I will reach there first
And none else will reach there next.
I shall have a wall rebuilt for ever
Once a door is made for me....
poem by M.d Dinesh Nair
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A New Door
i remember
this door was made
12 years ago
the day when i married you.
we chose clear lacquer
to keep its original
mahogany grain
we keep the gloss
and we were never
at loss.
there were loud slams
oh, i hate to remember
but there were also gentler closes
of this door
with all the tender intents
of not having to disturb
a single soul.
then the hinges begin to rust
and the door creaks and
screams getting louder
like the madness of the one
who fears
that love is finally gone.
the termites came
and the frames get hollow as
time pierces it
showing the emptiness
inside it as though
it was mere kind
of a seashell
the knob is finally broken
and the key to open it again
was lost
then we come back to our senses
after twelve years
the door has to be replaced
with a new one
this time white in paint
the hinges glossy copper
the knob in shining silver
and the key fits in without any sound
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Rain
Come on, where are you, long lost sun,
the rain looks finished, I’m sure its done.
I spoke too soon, its coming down again,
it’s even swamping the house’s drain.
The rain’s surging force as it hits the ground
creates a noise like no other sound.
Our wheelie bin is being beaten like a drum.
Oh, where has that hidden sun gone?
I can’t even see through the windowpane,
it’s covered with huge drops of rain.
Look at it streaming down that outside wall,
the guttering looks about to fall.
There it goes; it’s shattered against the ground
but the rain has dampened its crashing sound.
I keep looking for that cloud break in the sky
for the sun to push through, or at least have a try.
That man on the street looks soaked to the bone,
with no coat or umbrella to shelter him home.
I can now see clearly through the windowpane,
the sun is bursting through the clouds again.
At last, the time has come to go out for some fresh air
the clouds have gone, so there’s no need to despair.
I won’t need to take the umbrella or even my coat,
and I’ll certainly won’t need a rowing boat.
Less than thirty metres from my front door,
and there’s another heavy downpour.
Looking up I just cannot understand why,
there isn’t a cloud in the sky.
poem by Orlando Belo
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Making Lvoe With Her Own Bed
you are just near me
but between us is a door
and between that door
is another door, and so
when you say a word
i have to figure out what
you really mean,
when i open the door
there is a glass wall and
i thought it was you
humming,
it is cold tonight
i am closing a window
out there
i see a black bird perched
upon a branch,
it is cold and i am shutting
myself for any
kind of significance like
what if the bird dies?
what if the bird is you
disguised as a bird?
tonight i cannot sleep
something bothers me
all these thoughts bother me
there is no note
that you are coming back
from that long trip
away from home
was it Sarah who said
that she is making love with her bed?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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St. Peter and the Angel
Delivered out of raw continual pain,
smell of darkness, groans of those others
to whom he was chained--
unchained, and led
past the sleepers,
door after door silently opening--
out!
And along a long street's
majestic emptiness under the moon:
one hand on the angel's shoulder, one
feeling the air before him,
eyes open but fixed...
And not till he saw the angel had left him,
alone and free to resume
the ecstatic, dangerous, wearisome roads of
what he had still to do,
not till then did he recognize
this was no dream. More frightening
than arrest, than being chained to his warders:
he could hear his own footsteps suddenly.
Had the angel's feet
made any sound? He could not recall.
No one had missed him, no one was in pursuit.
He himself must be
the key, now, to the next door,
the next terrors of freedom and joy.
poem by Denise Levertov
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Untamed Grief
What comes out of grief dissected, I ask
When it’s mutualised for its pain to mask
Does it settle down like blown dust?
Or disappear like sun rays at dusk
What transcends from grief suppressed?
Does it fly away like a raven?
Or it stealthily searches for another haven
In the subconscious of the beholder
What proceeds from grief deferred?
Does it abscond like the morning dew?
Or it keeps on gnawing like a tumour
And denying a soul of all humour
What incarnates from grief embellished?
Does it pierce like a sword?
Or it exterminates softly without a word
Grief is the reality of life
But shouldn’t eternally blanket a soul with strife
And though every life is garlanded with petals of grief
The stint of its tears ought to be brief
So the taste of living can always be rife!
poem by Valerian Mwenda
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