The Lingering Concerns
some books open up
and show their pages
like tongues
and you watch them
as you begin
to salivate like a
mad dog,
there is nothing new in
there
except the ears and the
words that dissolve too
in a distance
those that you like to go
back again
and grapple with
or perhaps even embrace
and shed tears again
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Related quotes
Books
The universe (which others call the library). . .
-Jorge Luis Borges
Books which are stitched up the center with coarse white thread
Books on the beach with sunglass-colored pages
Books about food with pictures of weeping grapefruits
Books about baking bread with browned corners
Books about long-haired Frenchmen with uncut pages
Books of erotic engravings with pages that stick
Books about inns whose stars have sputtered out
Books of illuminations surrounded by darkness
Books with blank pages & printed margins
Books with fanatical footnotes in no-point type
Books with book lice
Books with rice-paper pastings
Books with book fungus blooming over their pages
Books with pages of skin with flesh-colored bindings
Books by men in love with the letter O
Books which smell of earth whose pages turn
poem by Erica Jong
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Blank Pages
Blank pages
Blank books
Lie with only drowning white
No pretty messages in the sand
No clocks to turn a hand
Blank pages
Blank books
Looking into an empty void
Like staring at purgatory
Words with no meaning making up a story
Blank pages
Blank books
Stay staring at the celing
Empty without effort
Nothing without words
poem by Autumn Winds
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The writers room
The writers room
~
the walls lined with books
a thousand written worlds
open pages litter the floor
ready to begin a new journey
light cascades through window
across the unused bed
a room alive does not sleep
pictures and tokens spread out
points of memory and inspiration
shelves climb to the ceiling
hoarding words and lives
a writers room, paradise
a place to sit read and write
inspiration comes from life
and life is about discovering
all that is beautiful
however ugly it appears
look through the pages
of an open mind
poem by Matthew Holloway
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I Wish I Had A Nickel
(g) they tell me little darlin,
That to- (c) morrow youll be (g) wed,
You thought that you would hurt me,
But you (a7) hurt yourself in- (d7) stead,
Ill (g) always be the same old pal,
Just (c) as in years gone (g) by,
Ill (c) just set back and (g) watch you,
While you (d7) set alone and (g) cry.
Chorus:
(g) tears fallin (c) down your pretty (g) cheeks,
Tears you cannot hide and (a7) tears you cannot (d7) keep,
(g) **they** are tears of sorrow and (c) tears of de- (g) light,
I wish I had a nickel, for every (d7) tear you shed last (g) night.
I just dropped by to tell you that I wish you happi-ness,
I hope that youll forgive me for in-truding like this,
I hope my dear your happiness will follow through the years,
Ill just set back and watch you, while you shed those bitter tears.
Repeat chorus:
song performed by by Hank Williams
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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for K....
BEWARE, the end is about to touch you
what you have in your hands
none shall be taken when you are finally taken
what you keep in the house shall dissolve like ice
all your secret stories revealed
all your hidden books open themselves like arms of the mad woman
all your accounts exposed
you are dirty, your are sick
and you are dying....
we are ready with the prayers for the dead
we have picked the best flowers for your coffin
we are not at all cruel
despite....
we are forgiving, we shall understand,
even death does not deserve you
much less
hell.
we shall shed no tears for you
it will serve no purpose.
we will not tell those who mourn for you
that you have done us evil.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Liberty
On my books and poetry,
On my desk and on the computer
On the sand and on the beach
I write your name
On all the pages I have read
On all the blank pages
Stone bloody shed or ash
I write your name
On my greedy, tender friends
On my comrades, beloved country,
On my clumsy hands
I write your name
On my health and wealth
On the risk which disappeared
On the hope without memory
I write your name
And by the power of one word
I begin a life again
I was born to know you
To name you.
Liberty
poem by Lawrence Hiung
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2/7/12
You are not the tears I shed
and I am not the words you speak
as we are not these things that make us
Separate/together
What is the sum of us
words and tears
The whole seen in fragments
Like the items thrown haphazard into an overnight bag
for a weekend tryst,
forgotten, put aside
Only to be discovered later in the back of my closet
the scattered remains of what was/is
words and tears,
You and I
whole/apart
pieced together, the archeology of love
the shards of memory
Lost and found
And I am not the tears you shed,
as you are not the words I write
Yet we are perhaps these things that make us
Together/separate
And You Will Shed Tears Of Joy
My love so intense
like fragrant musk’s incense
Would
permeate you
hypnotize you
anesthetize you
And you will shed tears of Joy.
My love so hot
like blazing sunspots
Would torment you
torture you
tantalize you
And you will shed tears of Joy.
My love so calm,
like soothing divine balm
Would comfort you
caress you
heal you
And you will shed tears of Joy.
My love so high
like majestic sky
Would shelter you
protect you
comfort you
And you will shed tears of Joy.
My love so forgiver
like pristine pure river
Would cleanse you
purify you
rectify you
And you will shed tears of Joy.
My love so divine
like Old bottled wine
Would energize you
galvanize you
divinize you
And you will shed tears of Joy.
My passion
emanating from divine station
would shock you
rock you
knock you
And you will shed tears of joy.
My emotions
healing as divine potion
would envelope you
embrace you
embarrass you
And you will shed tears of joy.
My divine eyes
calmer than sky
would chase you
daze you
amaze you
My Baby!
And you will shed tears of joy.
ANJALI SINHA
18-12-2008
poem by Anjali Sinha
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Hidden Thoughts
There is so much I want to say to you
But, you keep me at a distance.
My heart directs my fingers to dial your number, while I fight to resist the urge to press those seven digits that will bring delight to my ears upon hearing your voice.
And you keep me at a distance.
My brain maintains a logical stance while my mouth and thoughts rebel yearning for what I felt when last we spoke,
Yet you keep me at a distance.
My fear of you is healthy redirected emotions yet unspoken
You still keep me at a distance.
If dying of thirst a drink of your smile gazing down on me would help me to peacefully transition into eternal slumber,
Yet you keep me at a distance.
The infinite expanse of the universe is not enough to move me away from you
Still kept at a distance.
Even though not ready,
I am hungry for the taste of your enticing spirit that calls out to me like manna from heaven above,
But still kept at a distance.
My thirst unquenched. Hunger unsatisfied. Thoughts never having evolved into spoken words to caress your ears and ease my yearning spirit sail aimlessly into the depths of oblivion.
But still I am kept at a distance.
Maybe one day, as certain as we are that the sun will rise to open each new dawn, and set to close all that transpired within that day, just maybe,
There will be no more distance.
poem by Terry Holder
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When a Friend Is Dying
When a friend is dying,
then we begin to think
of life's injustice when
the one we love has to
be taken away from us.
When a friend is dying,
then we begin to see
how fragile life is
that at a wink of an eye
it disappears and dies.
When a friend is dying,
then we begin to
collect memories
of the time we've shared
and in our hearts we treasure.
When a friend is dying,
then we begin to fetch
strength and hope
from the scriptures
of our own religion.
When a friend is dying,
we shed tears and find
comfort in the embrace
and presence of all those
who with us also mourn.
poem by Elizabeth Padillo Olesen
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Why The Tears I Shed?
Why the tears I shed?
Hunger is around,
I'm well fed.
Why the tears I shed?
The fire has gone out,
Warm is my bed.
Why the tears I shed?
Love is without sense,
On me lies her head.
Why the tears I shed?
The living is on alms,
Aplenty is my bread.
Why the tears I shed?
Life seeks mercy,
More blessed is the dead.
poem by Pradip Chattopadhyay
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Cry For You
Your eyes are glistening with unshed tears
I've watched you grow through all these years
I can't comfort you, I don't know how
Though I wish to stop your pain right now
You're tears are refused their right to shed
Your thoughts are locked inside your head
You are imprisoning all of your emotions
I watch you just going through the motions
Water from my eyes begins to dropp
Because I can't make your pain stop
You won't show weakness, you'd prefer to be dead
So during your pain, your tears for you I'll shed
poem by Lenore Lee
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Second Hand Books
Books! Books! Books! There are so many different designs.
There are some which, by the author, are personally signed.
Some books have pages with gilt edges, which look all posh.
Some have nice pictures on their covers, which are embossed.
Some books have hard covers, while some have soft.
Some are all dusty, where they’ve been kept in the loft.
Some books have fancy covers; some just have plain.
Some have suffered mishaps, and are now all stained.
Some books are all dog-eared at the corners of their pages.
Some have gone yellow, where they’ve been around ages.
Inside some books, there can be seen a pencilled name;
Someone, who once, on this particular book, had a claim.
Some are obviously well read; their spines are all creased.
From out of a book, amazing adventures can be unleashed.
Some books have pages which are spoiled or a bit torn.
Some have covers which are grubby and look well worn.
Some just have text, while others also include illustrations.
Some are former prize winners; once the toast of the nation.
There are books by famous authors, as well as the lesser known.
Some are former library books which, to the public, were loaned.
There are romances, poetry, classics, sci-fi, humour, and histories;
Gardening, cookery, travel, thrillers, manga, and murder mysteries.
In wooden bookcases, the books are categorised, and are neatly lined.
In a second hand bookshop, you just never know what you may find.
poem by Angela Wybrow
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The Memory Place
Shelves tower over me; crowed with bound pages
of events, people, places, ideas.
Of memories.
Of captured feelings pressed like flowers between the pages;
for people to be inspired by someone else's words.
My eyes caress the titles printed on bright spines
as I run my fingers across
what holds the memories together.
I pick up a book, turning yellowed pages,
the scent of gentle time traveling to my nose.
I close my eyes and smile:
it brings back memories of my own,
but these pages are not for me.
I put back the soft bundle of pages
and continued to search in the Memory Place
until I find my own belonging among the words.
poem by Zoe Guillory
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Gathering Dust
The books on my shelves
are now gathering dust.
I will get back to them
for I know I must.
But not just now,
can’t think of them somehow.
Their pages won’t solace me.
Their words can’t turn my mind.
For my mind just wanders
to you, I find.
Books need concentration,
not a vacant stare.
But other people’s stories
don’t take me anywhere.
If I outlive you
maybe then I’ll dust.
I’ll slowly try to read again
for I know I must.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Written In Red!
Pages of history of man kind
Are written red,
Those who thought their blood,
As blue as sky or as blue as deep ocean,
Wrote the pages in Red and every page is full of bloodshed!
Hungry people weep for even glass of water,
And even for that they had blood to shed,
Innocent plants or innocent grass die,
When two elephants fight for supremacy!
They never care how many innocent may die!
Great heroes are made on the number of men they despatch to hell,
Saying patriots have heaven in their fight!
They are heroes like matadors at the cost of blood of an innocent bull!
Otherwise they are as you and me except that cruelty,
Men the made several men to shed blood, in the name of woman,
May it be sita, may it be Padmini
Or may be Helen of Troy,
All men were treated like toys
By a that a few mad boys,
To have their woman back,
Or defend their action,
All religions have their history written in red,
May it be books that are from God,
Stained with red, God signed it with blood,
Put the rubber stamp of quality with bone and flesh,
Every nation is having its own fountain of blood shed!
power hungry need only to shed crocodile tears,
Or just present awards and reward,
Those who safeguard
and died to save them!
May it be Ashoka, may it be Idi Ameen
or may be Churchil, or may be Gandhi,
Or may Lincoln or Changez Khan
Only they were famous due blood shed!
May it be history of continent or that sub continent
Only a story written in blood, On human skin and with bones as pens!
May it be any ' -ism ' or may
Politics in spain or Britain,
Equally dangerous are these..
Power or woman,
Ambition or nation,
Whether terrorist or counter terrorist venture
Police or politician,
Every history of massive wealth,
Or a piece of land
Religion or culture, blood is That red ink with pages of history is written only in red!
poem by Ramdas Bhandarkar
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Against The Evidence
As I reach to close each book
lying open on my desk, it leaps up
to snap at my fingers. My legs
won’t hold me, I must sit down.
My fingers pain me
where the thick leaves snapped together
at my touch.
All my life
I’ve held books in my hands
like children, carefully turning
their pages and straightening out
their creases. I use books
almost apologetically. I believe
I often think their thoughts for them.
Reading, I never know where theirs leave off
and mine begin. I am so much alone
in the world, I can observe the stars
or study the breeze, I can count the steps
on a stair on the way up or down,
and I can look at another human being
and get a smile, knowing
it is for the sake of politeness.
Nothing must be said of estrangement
among the human race and yet
nothing is said at all
because of that.
But no book will help either.
I stroke my desk,
its wood so smooth, so patient and still.
I set a typewriter on its surface
and begin to type
to tell myself my troubles.
Against the evidence, I live by choice.
poem by David Ignatow
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Just When The Rain Stops
just when the rain stops
something within you stops too
the misery of being
confined in the small prison of
your thoughts
you find a window
and this wide door and you grope
for the key
to open something closed
days ago
you breathe the sea breeze
and take some salt of
life and you
release your sighs like
an earned ire
you take freedom finally
letting go your fingers and hands
your feet dance
go, go, go
your books on the table make the
cheering squad
out there
nature wants to be read
the books close finally
their pages like tongues
hide behind the thick glossy
hardbound cover
you are not a fool finally
touching the maps drawn
by the falling rain
welcome to the world
the trees tell you.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I'll Wait When You Finally Say, You Don't Love Me Anymore
i will not be dumb but i will be very patient
i know how to figure out
to decipher glances and appearances
the way your finger moves when you hand me
my clothes the way you find disgust in my underwear
but i will not waste any of the words i have saved
for the years i will keep them locked with key
your dreams are no longer my dreams
somehow we no longer look in the same direction
as we used to
gazing in the stars at night and giving them names
when we say
i love you and i love you too
some stars fell and you tell me they are but meteorites
ordinary occurences, and they do not mean any wishes
i can tell the changes in the skies
i can tell the coming of the storm and i am always prepared for them
there will be no surprises
when you will call me by my name and you say you want
a heart to heart talk
something to shake me but i will listen attentively
you will have no questions
just mere declarations about the river that dried
about the fish that died and you counted them all
there are no stars to light this darkness
this room where the air is free to go from window to window
i will wait when you will finally say
what i already know and i will be patient
then you must go and then i must as a solemn duty
close this door and never shall i open it again
i will not watch you go and dissolve in a distance
i will not cry, i am saving my tears for the right occasion
the tears of joy and this happiness that finally
in my solitude i still love myself
(you will never know, how i have waited for this moment)
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Hide Away
You hide your face in a book,
You dry your tears on the pages,
You hide away in your fairy tales,
And we don’t know how to find you.
You were alone, so very alone,
And we were there to guide you,
But you ran from the world,
And you hid in the pages,
Of your fairy tale books.
Mary, we miss you,
It’s time to come out now,
Time to show your face to the world,
Mary, we miss you, and we wish you,
The best of luck.
poem by Amity Willows
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