The Poem That Makes You Alive
from the office the paper works pile up
like a mountain where you walk only a few steps
where it is so steep
and you want to rest on the grass because you feel like
you are dying in a minute
and they understand why sometimes you have to stop
and get some air from the window facing the sea
when you go home for lunch
with your wife
your shoulder hangs a little bit down
like a hanging plant from a branch of an old tree
your eyes are drooping
and you lose your appetite
not the food but for life itself
you have been doing things by compulsion
this bread and butter thing
this normal course
this work that is dictated upon us
society moves like a clockwork
office like a jail
the world like a cell to you
you keep your computer open
after lunch you sit in front of it again
punch the letters and tell the screen
this is my life
this could have been my work
writing poems, this poem and the rest of the poems
this makes you alive
without milk without the cradle without the bottle
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Related quotes
My Daily Bread
you do not believe when i tell you that i write everyday
it is routine to me
so my poems
are like
breathings
inhale
exhale
a poem
here a poem there
writing has become like a beating of my heart
so every beat
every pulse
is a poem made
like one kind of a factory
mass production
of breathing and beating
i have developed sort of too much familiarity with this kind of poetic activity and it has become so
so ordinary
and so much familiarity comes my contempt for my daily poetry
it is nothing extraordinary
it is like washing my face
brushing my teeth
cutting my nails
going to the office
teaching my class
reading books
walking the dog
taking a morning walk
lunch with my wife
listening to
lawyers argue
their cases
in court
all these are so ordinary
routinely clockwork
and they are nothing
they are
my poems
my daily bread.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Man Or Machine
Auto, bus, walking and sweating dermis,
somehow on time I reach my office.
work needs to be finished on time so I sit infront of computer.
breakfast time, toast, butter and tea glass,
hurriedly I eat, unaware it may appear boorish and crass.
work needs to be finished on time so I sit infront of computer.
lunch time, dosa containing rice, dal and yeast,
the way I eat can put to shame any wild beast.
work needs to be finished on time so I sit infront of computer.
till evening, I am tired, drowsy and dozy
but I skip the plan to go outside to have some tea.
work needs to be finished on time so I sit infront of computer.
My head aches, my eye burns
but I continue work amidst yawns.
work needs to be finished on time so I sit infront of computer.
Just before logout, I work with great pace,
with time I contest, compete and race.
work needs to be finished on time so a computer sits infront of computer.
Copyright reserved by the author
poem by Md. Asadullah
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Moving round
The world is the paper
The sea is the ink
And I'm the sea
Full of thought
And emotion
And writing poems
On the paper-world.
The tree the bird
The cloud the air
The light the earth
Are ingredients of poems
I'm writing the poem
My poem moving round
The life's circle
You are to read and read.
poem by Gajanan Mishra
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89
ask me
ask me what i wish for in my life
ask me what i do everyday
i will have lots of answers, my wish to be with you at the end
as she once wrote it, was a lie, my wish to hold your hand when
we meet again, as she once confessed was also a lie,
my wish is a lie, i will tell you now, my wish to love you forever,
still a lie, ask me then what is it that is true?
it is only me that is true, from the very beginning of my birth
it is only me
that is true, loving myself, working out to love myself first, so that
i may love you as my first wish, then you must ask me what i do
everyday,
office work,7: 30 to 11: 30, back to office work,1: 30 to 5: 00
it is not me there,
we talk, it is not me there in that conversation,
it is all work, it is all this obligations to my earth,
i owe my birth,
but i go back in my hole, this home, one day, and everyday,
face the computer, plant my feet on the floor, glue my bottoms
on the chair, bind my finger on every letter of the keyboard
where i heave some sighs,
hurl my words, run the lines that never stop, and mimic some great
men and women,
i sit all night shunning sleep, i write, ask me what is happening,
i am making myself a self, now look at me carefully,
i may be true at least when i begin writing
the first word in this
poem,
ask.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Ask Me
ask me what i wish for in my life
ask me what i do everyday
i will have lots of answers, my wish to be with you at the end
as she once wrote it, was a lie, my wish to hold your hand when
we meet again, as she once confessed was also a lie,
my wish is a lie, i will tell you now, my wish to love you forever,
still a lie, ask me then what is it that is true?
it is only me that is true, from the very beginning of my birth
it is only me
that is true, loving myself, working out to love myself first, so that
i may love you as my first wish, then you must ask me what i do
everyday,
office work,7: 30 to 11: 30, back to office work,1: 30 to 5: 00
it is not me there,
we talk, it is not me there in that conversation,
it is all work, it is all this obligations to my earth,
i owe my birth,
but i go back in my hole, this home, one day, and everyday,
face the computer, plant my feet on the floor, glue my bottoms
on the chair, bind my finger on every letter of the keyboard
where i heave some sighs,
hurl my words, run the lines that never stop, and mimic some great
men and women,
i sit all night shunning sleep, i write, ask me what is happening,
i am making myself a self, now look at me carefully,
i may be true at least when i begin writing
the first word in this
poem,
ask.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Another One And Another One
i am referring to a bread and butter
thing, the work that we must do,
when it is finished
there seems to be no
end
it becomes a case of
this one too, and another one and another one,
this is work
obstructions of the heart
hurdles of the running game
a pain in my ass,
but i give myself a break
for every case resolved
for every problem solved,
i take a pause, think a little bit,
see the sky, walk at the upper part of the house
open the window and
see for myself
the world
of planes and birds
of flowers and tall buildings
of playgrounds and yards of grass
and then i begin
to write what i love
another poem from my heart
this one is not work
but play, it boosts my energy
it starts my life
all over again.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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An Afternoon Poem Is Rare
AN AFTERNOON POEM IS RARE
An Afternoon Poem is rare-
Afternoon is long after the first light-
Afternoon is a time of heaviness and quiet
A time of rest-
Afternoon is after the morning work has been done-
Afternoon is the weight of the day-
Afternoon is the time after the day has lost its freshness-
Still there must be afternoon poems-
There must be a beauty that emerges
In its own way,
Perhaps from where lovers meet
Perhaps from ‘ripeness is all’
Perhaps from the anticipation of evening
Perhaps from winter where it is the warmest time of day.
There must be afternoon poems-
Poems that celebrate all that warmth can bring-
Poems of rest poems of sleep-
Poems of waiting to believe
That in the evening
A new day and a new world
Will make life easier again.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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It Is A Habit
writing poems
when you really write poems
everyday and every moment of your life
even when you're in the middle of your
bread and butter eating thing
or even when you are defecating
writing poems becomes a habit
even when you sleep even when you dream
writing poems becomes a part of your system
you eat poetry you vomit poetry
you digest poetry you poo poetry
you breathe poetry you sweat poetry
you love poetry and you live with your poetry
and at the end you die with poetry
and your epitaph says: here lies the poet,
choked with poetry.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Typical of a day
And then
I got up feelin aite
Hopin the day would be beautiful
I washed ma face and had breakfast
Went out of home to ma work place
To ma lill office, to ma lill space
And then
I said to ma self
I'll have to do ma best today
And work harder than the other day
And then
I did ma best, went for a break
Took some rest, had a cappucino and a cake
And then
Back to work, , , and handle as much as I can take
And then
The clock struck one
When all the paper work was done
And then
I had to see some friends
Just for chats and laughs
It's been long since we met
And hanged out together
Like birds of the same feather
We had a great time anyway
And parted sayin we'll meet soon another day
And then
I walked home, ma cozy sweet home
Where I live with ma dog all alone
Where I always come to hear and see
What's goin on this world in my TV
Through CNN and BBC
And then
Gave ma dog, , his lunch or dinner
He can call it whatever
Sat one ma sofa, turned on the TV
Saw this cool but kinda sad movie
And then
I cried and cried and cried
For that movie had reminded me
Deep down inside I was so damn lonely.
And then
I cried some more.
poem by Arsiema Berhane
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We Are Here, And That Is Good Enough For Us...
i never have an inkling
to sit beside the greatness of a
Maya, a Langstone, a Pablo
or Robert
i am but a simple blogger
in this age
of facebook and twitter
and email encounters
let me get it straight
fame is not my cup of tea
all i need is just to be me.
it is all about loneliness
all about arriving home with no one to talk to
or taking your dinner alone
under the light of a bulb
and the chatter of TV series
it is not about romance even
there is none
it is the other side of reading books
and dog-earing a page
because your eyes are tired
and you need sleep because tomorrow
is another routine, of a walk to the office
filling up forms, disrobing yourself of
the excitement of earthly existence
lunch, and the quiet of officer dividers
and taking naps like cats
evenings without meanings
blankets without human warmth
pillows like clear consciences
guilt like fecal matter flushed
on the morning bowl
we all live this way
we do not complain because there are no solutions in sight
we do not work for a fulfillment
we work to pay our bills and be just like the rest of this
wave of humanity
arriving and leaving like foams of sea on the shore
then like you, we write, poems or non-poems
we keep holding to words, hoping that there is a cure
to this paper existentialism
we write for nothing at all
we know we are duped by websites that earn money for themselves
we do not care
we are passionate, we contribute the success of others
we make them happy, we do not count how much feeling have we
invested
we do not know, much less do we really care to know.
we're here, playing our noise, we do not crave for responses
we exist, we make you feel that we exist.
who knows? we are not alone, we also have the rest
wave upon wave, sunset upon sunset, all the days of our lives
till we die, and this page shall be blank, and then we are
deleted.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Life Life Life
what is life...?
today
what is life...
donkey...
is live good...
dog also live
very best...
on the street...
but...
i am live
each every day
drink nasty water...
eat nasty food...
not breath eazy...
everythink think sin...
work at work 's
at donkey
enjoy my sholder
lunch bag...
and lap top
at home to office...
in every month
payment day
i am dog...
with on money...
money on with me...
life is this...
ok
what is life...?
asking my mind
i am say
i don't no....
poem by Otteri Selvakumar
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The Only Dreams I Have In Writing Now Are Poems
THE ONLY DREAMS I HAVE IN WRITING NOW ARE POEMS
The only dreams I have in writing now are poems
Poems and more poems-
I write them in the morning and in the evening
At all times of day
Whenever I can make them come to me
They calm me and make me rest
They bring a sense that I am still alive
They justify me an amuse me
They give me hope
The only dreams I have now are poems
And poems keep me alive
As long as they can.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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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
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For The Rest Of My Life
for the rest of my life
i will take the same routine
home, office, school,
home office, school,
a straight life confined
in a certain space
too confined and too
tight for my soul
and too boring
for my body
home, office, school,
school, home, office,
you ask me if there is
something wrong with
my life? there is nothing
right in it, everything has
always been wrong
and everyday has always
been an attempt to correct
it, but nothing
nothing has fit into it
to cut the routine to
break me from the
chains of everyday
nothing comes and nothing
goes, i think, that is how
it is meant to be,
i think, i simply have
to imagine, make some
figments of stars, and moon
and sun and mountains
and seas and valleys
and castles and princesses
and kings and queens
and too they become routine
too, some poems and stories
some people that do not
actually exist, some imaginary
earth, imaginary creatures
they are all here, in this routine
of imaginations, of poetics
of illusions and allusions,
these lines, my life, these routine
and all my excuses, you and I.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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If I Can Go On Writing Poems
IF I CAN GO ON WRITING POEMS
If I can go on writing poems
I will be happy-
If I cannot go on
I will lose something of myself-
I wonder how long I will be able to go on
Days? Years? How long exactly?
I write happily now
A poem I know I can post-
Without that I might be less happy about it-
If I can go on writing poems
This will be a sign I still have hope in life-
When I am stopped or stop
Will it mean I am finished
As a person also?
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Elegy for a Poet
I hark back to the days when I
Began, in pen and ink,
To scrawl some petty poems,
How to feel, and how to think,
And people seemed to like the way
My simple little rhymes
Would trace a basic pattern
Through the heartache of their times.
So I continued writing; then
I typed my manuscripts,
I hit the keys so hard that
All my paper fell to bits,
But still I persevered, until
Computers stole the scene,
And little plastic keyboards
Put the words up on a screen.
But all along I used the name
Of Earle E. Everett,
I used it in the magazines,
And on the Internet,
My work was always copyright
I'd scrawl that little ©,
To keep the rights forever
For my family and me.
Then recently, while surfing through
A site I'd never seen,
A poem that I'd written years ago
Came on the screen,
I read it with nostalgia then,
I sat and read it all,
But written at the bottom was
The name of - 'Charles McFall'.
I looked in vain for something
That would say that it was mine,
That poem was a grape I'd plucked,
New fallen from the vine,
But nowhere did it state the name
I'd always seen there yet,
No sign that it was written by
The poet Everett.
I sat there stunned, and fearful
And angry, fit to burst,
I mailed the new Webmaster,
And I must admit - I cursed!
I said that stolen copyrights
Would take him straight to hell,
But there was no reply, the site
Was 'Unavailable.'
For weeks, until the early hours
I scanned that little screen,
I looked in vain for Everett,
The poet I had been;
But one by one my poems
On the sites, both one and all,
They ended with the message -
Copyright, by Charles McFall.
I went into the Office, thought
To phone the Inter-police,
For surely they could help me,
Could advise me on the case,
But then I met Security, they'd
Locked the Office down,
They said I didn't work there,
So I staggered off to town.
I thought I'd better phone the wife
I'd left in bed asleep,
I had an awful feeling, and
That feeling wouldn't keep,
I rang the mobile number, and
I said: 'Is that you, Darls? '
She muttered in her sleepiness:
'You'll want my husband, Charles! '
I'm sleeping in the gutter, in
A big old cardboard box,
Some hobo caught me sleeping
And he stole my shoes and socks.
I've given up on poetry,
On writing overall,
You'll hear no more from Everett,
I'm merely….
Charles McFall
23 July 2008
poem by David Lewis Paget
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Wasted Life?
it's home
school home
then home
office
home
office
no other places
to go
no other places dared
some white sandy beaches
for sometime
a trek on a steep mountain
sometimes
visiting old folks
no questions asked
but only feeling also their
sense of
loneliness
or lostness in this vast
field of humanity
poetry
walk in the morning
poetry
noontime breaks
siesta
dinner with wife
and sleep
dawn breaks
stunning thoughts
arresting the self
on what next to do
home
home
home
a boring life maybe
but i think
it is not wasted.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Where There's Smoke, There's Failure
So it goes like this,
Guy meets girl.
Guy buys flowers.
Girl puts them in a vase.
Guy buys a ring.
Girl says yes.
Guy goes to work.
Girl goes to work.
Guy meets girl.
Girl meets guy.
Guy and girl fight about girl and guy.
Guy leaves work for new work and gets an apartment by himself.
Girl moves over seas and doesn't have to work any more because she has a new guy and the old guy has to send her money from his new work.
Guy writes poems.
Guy writes about new girl and old girl and new guy and work and old friends.
Guy wants to stop working and sell poems about the stuff in his life so that he can do other stuff in his life without having to go to real work.
Guy does not yet have high selling collection of poems.
Guy goes to work.
Guy meets girl.
Guy buys flowers.
poem by John W. McEwers
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Junk Rock
Can't be late, can't be late for work again
The boys can't wait, the boys can't wait to get started again
My name is music, i see that the music gets done
My name is music, i see that the music gets done
And the apes can't wait to get started again
Look over there, the monkey on a chair
He thinks he's as smart as a computer chip,
But he hasn't figured out how to work his mouth
Shorty by the door, beating on the floor,
You better not mess with the little thing
He's a real nice guy 'til you get him riled up
Can't complain, can't complain about working with them
My name is music, i see that the music gets done
My name is music, i see that the music gets done
They go insane, we give them drugs and they're normal again
There's a pretty face, the monkey plunkin' bass
All the lady monkeys wanna jump his monkey bones,
But he loses track and his work gets backed up
Monkey on a power trip, monkey with a lot of lip,
Thinks he's in charge of every other monkey,
But he still looks cool even while he's drooling
Lunch is fun, lunch is fun when you're eating wit them
My name is music, i see that the music gets done
My name is music, i see that the music gets done
Then back to work, it's back to work while the orders pile in
Is it live or is it memorex?
song performed by by Utopia
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Care For The Elderly - A Conference
They gather in the Greeting Place
A smaller flock than once expected
Still elated - out from work and office
All around - the empty space
Is pressing on the keen - collected
Taking pointers - out from work and office
Inside the hall there is small trace
Of anyone to ‘stand corrected'
They're all working - inside work and office
Still curtains drift - in finest lace
The certain eyes not disaffected
Hide behind the lace of work and office
And speakers high in group embrace
Speak on and clap in unelected
Fluffy tones of every Higher Office
The higher speakers high disgrace
Is hid below their undetected
Lack of use - their waste of work and office
In keening grief - tears hid from face
A speaker - practical - affected
Brings human life within their work and office
And human thoughtfulness will base
Its Older Care on need selected
From that shown - away from work and office
Its time to fix he High and chase
By methods certain - unsuspected
Out form power - out from work and office
Foregather - follow to their base
See them - incestuous - connected
By wires unseen - inside work and office
27Mar2011 CPR
poem by Charlotte Peters Rock
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