The Riddle Of The Matriarch...
clueless
everything in the room is made neat
you feel what clean is
those cup boards and
plates
not a dust
not a mark of dried water
just perfect
clueless i think of you
but there is a distance that knows
how far roads can be made near
how a house can be
reachable despite the length of the hills
the height of skies
you have know
the stained spot
no one bothers to call it its own name
everyone has that inkling
to clean it by itself
even me
there was never a time
at dawn
and evenings are too visible
and mornings are too preoccupied
and busy
it is like a rock in the middle of the road
cars change directions not to hit it
people who see it
do not have the power to remove it
but all wanted it removed somehow
a pain in the eye
no one dares and it is always there
and it will always be
a bruise on the cheek
even during your death
when you give that last smile of concern
you did not mention
a syllable about it
i know you were so hurt
it is me all those times beside you
and still you never said a word about it....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Roy C.
he was not coy he was open
and he knows how to use words to make you
feel at home with his own
angst,
his name was Roy from Subic Bay
and he knew how to play the flute like a member of the heaven's choir
he was sociable and mixes will all the sectors
of the people
he was clean and spoke well about the necessity of being clean
and shaven
we envied him and we wanted to be like him in all aspects
and these made us lonely all the while
as we lost contact of the uniqueness of ourselves
we were lost along the way and we stepped out from the enclosure.
we came to know later
that Roy was gone and could not be accounted for.
how was that? we still ask that question all over again.
now i am 50, clueless and
realistic.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Clueless
I really don't have clue
All things I do and bad things
I do and keep it a secret can come out at any moment
The guilt built on inside hurt
Clueless
About life and things
Whatever throw and come my way
I let it make me fall down and break into pieces
I get blame for not listening and
Doing the right thing
Clueless
About what I really want to happen and see come true
I need to let my heart decision
I need keep my ears open and
Watch out for people and things
Time and years flying by so fast
I can't be
Cluelesss
Anymore and not let anyone/anything bring me down
Clueless
poem by Christina Phan
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Now I know what is wasting!
Flowing away the water
Clueless was the river
You came as a dyke
And held………
Which gave the meaning of
Flowing ………
Now I flow,
Now I blow
Like a wind
Like a water in the river
Now I know what is wasting ……!
Lots of things polluting the air
Big clueless was the nature
You came as a rain
And washed away…..
Which gave the meaning of
Purity and holiness ……
Now I am holy
Now I am pure …
Like a pain
Like a dew of the morning …..
My tongue was tied
Clueless was I
You came as a twister
Now I can sing the songs delicious
You touched my finger
Now I can make music melodious
I am very thankful to you
As you thankful to nature.
poem by Abdul Wahab
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Basement Kiss
Lucy Grace can't show her face down in the North End Road
For in Belgravia
Rumours have been whispered and suggestions have been made
Did you sell your friends out when the heat got too intense?
You say you like the danger but it's only a pretense
You say you need the money
When everybody knows you can always fall back on your inheritance
Did you bruise your arms on those false alarms
Did you bruise your pride on his smile so wide?
Only fingertips from forbidden bliss
Did you bruise your lips in this basement kiss?
Who's that sneaking 'round the door?
You can't come here no more
Can't you go home again?
She used to sit alone for hours
Spend her evenings watering dried flowers
When her mother came to stay and finally went to bed
Lucy Grace was in the front room shooting through your head
She tried to take your breath away and give you something else instead
Next year she'll serve her function in that Audrey Hepburn hat
It still won't suit her much but she'll get over that
She'll be pale and feign indifference as they're handling out the prizes
Spilling Daddy's pearls of wisdom
And her ugly sister's tranquillizers
Why were you so tardy putting up your guard?
When you hurt so easily and you try so hard
Did you bruise your arms on those false alarms
Did you bruise your pride on his smile so wide?
Only fingertips from forbidden bliss
Did you bruise your lips in this basement kiss?
song performed by by Elvis Costello
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Today... 'The Deliverer
'Who shall deliver me? ' Was my great cry
because this sinful man deserved to die.
There out of Zion came the blesséd One
God's precious and Only Belovéd Son.
Great Deliverer from the gates of hell
of Gentiles and children of Israel.
For God has made a covenant with them
to remove their sins and not to condemn.
And that covenant has included me
He's removed my sin and iniquity.
This sinner impossible though it seemed
by the Deliverer has been redeemed.
For You have promised to present me Lord
washed and made clean by Your precious blood.
Without any spot and so clean and pure
You are my Lord and great Deliverer.
Don't be ignorant of this mystery
He has removed all godlessness from me.
Israel shall be saved and Gentiles too
let's not harden our heart as others do.
(see also the additional information in the Poet's notes box below)
They Are Tearing Down My Grandfather's House
(An NLP Editor's Choice Award Winner in Verdant Lands of Spring) They are tearing down my Grandfather's house,
it's made of wood and brick and stone.
The windows they've removed. To them it's real
estate, to me it's my heart being ripped in two.
The realtors, the bankers, the moneymen don't understand.
A house is more than made of wood, a house is made of man. My Grandfather's house is a memory that will
endure after it's torn down.
He's been gone for near thirty years, but his
house had lived on.
I know the world is made of change, and change
is all that's real. But one thing I cannot change,
that is the way I feel. I wipe a tear in the falling rain,
because they are tearing down my Grandfather's
house, and it gives me pain.
I love him as if it were yesteryear,
his wit and smile as warm as the sun.
The house once stood to remind me, but that too
is gone. They are tearing down my Grandfather's house,
it's made of wood and brick and stone.
Yet a house if more than made of wood,
a house is made of love.
poem by David A. Webb
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The Family Room. For Mary.
You put up with it because
as tiresome as it is, and as they can sometimes be,
somewhere there, there's always love.
He may take interest
in something to be repaired
that's mechanical; and
there's cars to wash and clean,
hobby things to sort and tidy.
Some kids are good or disciplined;
but there's never quite the time
in their expanding world
for doing just what you do
for the house..
But in the human heart
there's this locked, dusty room - you haven't dared
to look inside for years - or indeed
since childhood, for some people -
full of junk, of cobwebs,
broken windows, their sashes jammed,
cupboards that won't open, drawers
whose contents stop them opening; even
the birds have stopped their nesting there;
a room of memories that whisper when it's dark
It's the room that's family.
And surprise - the light still works..
A family can sort and dust and wash and clean and tidy it
in less time than they take
to slam the door
yet only you know that it's done, and how it's done.
And you say nothing.
Somewhere, two strangers
smile at one another
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Looking Dark
As the tree covered by his own bark,
The truest and invisible site of our character is 'dark'.
It also covers our life; more than light,
It remains with us even in bright; as shadow,
If it is not there than the life becomes a room without any door and window.
Born in dark, sleep in dark and
Death in dark; emotions also comes in dark......
That's true, we get the techniques to be sharp; only in dark.
What is dark?
It is the most hard mark of life,
Of its own type, and never get removed instead we sacrifice our life,
Because it is not worst or bad but it is the shed which always keep our self out from the worst,
Unless we become lost...
In this untidy world.
Dark has many kinds, it is what?
Answer revolves around the human's mind.
If it is dirty, on one could clean it.
Or if it is clean, everyone could seen; this dream.
Because when the dark becomes visible....
Than human its self got the power of double.....
So please try to see your own dark......
poem by Prateek Khard
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Water
water for water is water, thirst made me dried
eyes tears flow water, leaves skin broken
need water, cure my pain smooth my rough
surface makes it clean
pure and perfect water made so bright, all the
day expose heat dried my sweat, in my face
and lips tears seen in the eyes
all day long I seat in my brow, waiting the sun
down to lead me low, hunger and thirst open
my throat, water spelled drops like a dew
wash my warm body as you can see, the limps
legs and the hands would be easy, where ever
in my body, the water comes refreshing to me
slowly, slowly, fell the cool water beneath
my delicate skin, in my buttock where you have
to stay, hold on, I sit you in my dream, my living
water makes me the same
oh! water, please always watered me in each
new day and fell the real me
poem by Antonio Liao
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Clueless
How clueless many can be, as they ignore the God of eternity,
Not only about things to come, but clueless about God’s Son,
They may even profess Christ, yet God doesn’t guide their life,
Not only is God not their lead, but, His Word, they do not read.
Many today walk without The Lord, as a spiritual life is ignored,
An aspect in the life of everyone, even if they dismiss the Son,
While clueless remains the walk, of even men, who talk the talk,
About God they say they know, Who, in their life doesn’t show.
About spiritual life you can say, many walk on the broader way,
Many walk about life cluelessly, even while living life religiously,
This, without a true knowledge of, Christ, Who reigns up above,
The One, which every eye will see, before they step into eternity.
Many truly walk about clueless, while life for them is hit or miss,
Not knowing what their future holds, as this present life unfolds,
With no thought beyond this life, and no interest in Jesus Christ,
Embracing a religious affiliation; not concerned about Salvation.
But, Jesus Christ clues those in, when God’s Spirit dwells within,
Souls acknowledging the Creator, who embrace Christ as Savior,
No longer roaming about aimlessly, now upon a road to Eternity,
Being led every day by Jesus Christ, on their way to Eternal Life.
(Copyright ©11/2011)
A Camel's Dream
When he deserted me
I deserted water
When I deserted the water,
it lost its shine crying.
Trees were growing dark in their places
in the woods; that evening he came to take me
with him clearing the thick glow of the sunset hues
then came he to make a path a kind of road
At the end of the road
I became the back he can ride
deserting many things I so long have to long for
while I look at the village
through those green trees
with my deep eyes
I saw him waiving at me
to bid me goodbye.
I was already entering the desert
and a portion of his road became the whole
the entire road for me.
For the borders of the nation he ruled
were the horizons of the four directions,
the sand hills I walk on with him on my back
were always the initial spot I had departed.
Numerous mornings and evenings met
on the rooftops of the sandhills where the
next morning and the sun crossed.
Originally what he wanted from me
was some amount of water he could use,
always in the shape of the water
I obeyed him.
At the same speed as the sunlight speedy
falls on the ground, stars fell.
With the power of the star-falls
the water soaked itself down to the ground
and then to
the roots of the sands.
Whenever his forehead shined
with full of heavenly words
and thirstied,
I dug up the roots of the sands
where the water gathers and kept it
in my body.
When the sun rose,
everything except the sands were
under the power of the sun;
when the wind blew,
everything along with the sands were
under the windy flows.
There I took out the water from my body
and washed his dry face.
When he loved me
I had a large amount of waters.
When he was communicating with someone
in heavens,
I listened to the music the sands were making.
Many trees were there with no shadows,
and the worlds I look through those trees were
always moving forward.
Through those trees the wind blew.
The thicket-bushes were weeping
and there came about some animals
who loved the bushes, and the one
who rides on my back
lets things to be ruled ruled
lets things to die dead.
He stands the trees and the animals
that resemble each other on their spots
then he passes by.
In the mean time he took out the water
from my body numerous times
and drank it to cleanse his body.
His songs made the sand hills
create echoes to echo
to ring through the regions afar.
When he finally changed the desert into the sea,
at its open entrance
I began to grow old all alone.
Though I wanted to serve him on the sea
he walked away from me
onto the sea.
Many years have gone by
and come along and
for me not to serve him on the sea
meant to go back to the desert, and
the sea had turned into the desert back again.
At its entrance to the sea,
I could not become a small boat for him.
All day long, I was lonely;
all night long, lonesome for days.
When he left me, I deserted the water,
I deserted again the act of deserting
and by deserting it, I no longer was left
to exist.
poem by by unknown author (22 June 2003), translated by Sangnam Nam
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Sorry
No wonder
Everybody commits
Silly mistakes
I am no different
Than others
I too committed
More than many did
It is time now
To confess
In addition, feel sorry
For all undesirable
I did
Unnecessary arguments
I made
The feeling of many
I hurt
The lies that
I spoke
False commitments
I made
The people I betrayed
It is an honest confession
To all of them
Whom
In any way I have hurt
I want to repent
Pay for my sins
By doing good
To many
Remove the word hate
From my dictionary
Make the crying one’s
Smile
Say a big sorry
06-02-2012
112-23-02-12
poem by Nirantar Dr.Rajendra Tela
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The Cluelessness Of An Affair
i was there
she said and found it
allegedly she
when she arrived there
she lost herself
clueless as to what happened
to her
but that was it when she saw him
naked in the garden
doing his own thing
which he said was also a way
of discovering himself
and losing it
just the same
they were in this together
and then
they parted without really knowing
why
she was just herself
and so was he
we who heard about it
remained clueless
but who would care?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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No Exceptions Made
And now...
The clean up!
Like none ever done.
Some will not be in it for the healing of it!
Many will sit in bitterness.
In divisions that they are accustomed.
They will not accept,
A participation without choice.
There is a clean up that is going to be done!
By everyone.
There will be no exceptions made!
All of those you see,
Looking from the windows,
Inside the house?
If they wish to eat and sleep in comfort...
They will work the fields,
And yield to discipline!
They, them, those and others...
Will sweep the dirt,
Everyone let collect.
'This' will become your reality!
'He will never be 'my' president! '
I doubt if that is a concern of his.
He prefers the title...
Chief Delegator!
What is his concern...?
Everyone will do their chores!
Complete assignments.
And 'earn' their right to complain.
Including you!
You see those obstacles?
Those hurdles to be jumped?
Those problems to be solved!
They are tremendous.
Embrace them!
Consider them yours!
The best way to get familiar...
I suggest?
Less protest.
This is the 'change' you can believe in!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Dirty Jim
THERE was one little Jim,
'Tis reported of him,
And must be to his lasting disgrace,
That he never was seen
With hands at all clean,
Nor yet ever clean was his face.
His friends were much hurt
To see so much dirt,
And often they made him quite clean;
But all was in vain,
He got dirty again,
And not at all fit to be seen.
It gave him no pain
To hear them complain,
Nor his own dirty clothes to survey:
His indolent mind
No pleasure could find
In tidy and wholesome array.
The idle and bad,
Like this little lad,
May love dirty ways, to be sure;
But good boys are seen
To be decent and clean,
Although they are ever so poor.
poem by Ann Taylor
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Isle Of Man
Nice place
Clean water
Fresh air
Blue skies
Like pirates
We tried it
We took what we deserved
Half million
Years later
Wed used up
Our reserves
Were crying
what happened?
We get what we deserve
We get what we deserve
We get instead the isle of man
The isle of man
Ive wandered
Through forests
With our garbage
Waist-high
Cant clean it
I mean it
We get what we deserve
Rainy mornings
Dry evenings
Its growing
On my nerves
Just gases
You fascists
You get what you deserve
You get what you deserve
You get instead the isle of man
The isle of man
Im writing
This letter
So no one
Will forget
Some future
Cave dweller
Will find these notes an isle of man
song performed by by Ministry
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Dirty Jim
THERE was one little Jim,
'Tis reported of him,
And must be to his lasting disgrace,
That he never was seen
With hands at all clean,
Nor yet ever clean was his face. . . .
His friends were much hurt
To see so much dirt,
And often they made him quite clean;
But all was in vain,
He got dirty again,
And not at all fit to be seen.
It gave him no pain
To hear them complain,
Nor his own dirty clothes to survey:
His indolent mind
No pleasure could find
In tidy and wholesome array.
The idle and bad,
Like this little lad,
May love dirty ways, to be sure;
But good boys are seen
To be decent and clean,
Although they are ever so poor.
poem by Jane Taylor
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Goodbye
I hate the word goodbye
It makes the angels cry
But I've been hurt too many times
Now the time for fair well is ripe
I hate the word goodbye
It always makes me cry
But you've also made me cry
You've done it so many times
Though there were times when you made me smile
During the happiest days of my life
When I had to hold forever
You were the best and you made me better
But the bonds broke and you let me go
I was in pain and left all alone
Your face still holds that memory
My heart still holds that agony
So it's better we say goodbye
Its better that the angels cry
Its better that you go your way
And its better that I go mine
It hurts me now to see you stay
And you've hurt me so many times
It's a shame what could have been
It's a shame what couldn't be
But the biggest shame this time
Is the very fact that I tried
Some things just can't be understood
In every sense of the word
And when I tried to comprehend you
It proved to be not of any worth
We once said goodbye
But the angels didn't cry
They always knew it was for the better
Although it wouldn't be forever
It felt like it was
So here I say the word I hate
But I'll say it a softer way
It's time we say goodbye
It's time that the angels cry
Better to cry once rather than forever
You would hurt again all over
And keep me crying forever
So the time for goodbye is ripe
And forever I say goodbye
And though the angels might cry
You have hurt me too many times
Better they cry once rather than forever
Goodbye my love, goodbye forever
poem by Hafeni Nghidinua
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The trip back
The sky is grey
with ominous clouds
that whirls and churns
and there’s thick fog
hanging like a cloak
low over the earth.
The visor of my helmet
is immediately covered
by the impact
of fine drops of rain
and I open it
to be able to see
where I am travelling.
At places I have to leave the road
to clean the lenses
of my glasses
and then the motorbike
again roars with power under me,
but I have only gone a small distance
when the cars come to a halt
and I have to twist through them.
Twenty kilometres further
I come upon the accident
that is blocking the freeway
just where I have to turn off
to Benoni
and blue and red lights
flash through
the fumes of mist.
I turn the throttle open
but at places
the fog banks still hangs low
and mini buss taxis, busses and cars
appear like ghosts in front of me.
At a place a stream flows
strong like a river over the road
and although I lift my feet
and open the throttle more
to give power to the motorbike
a four by four
passes over the middle line
and throws a wall of water
right over me
and if I can get hold of that lunatic
he will surely know it.
The helmet, black leather jacket
and backpack
stops the water,
but my jean
and shoes are soaking wet
and the motorbike eats the road
and somewhat frozen
I drive to get to home,
as if Springs
is just behind the next hillock
poem by Gert Strydom
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A Plenty
memories pour out like
the rains of july
you are drenched
fully wet
you stay put and feel the cold
you do not run away for shelter
cars are blowing their horns
you are in the middle of the traffic
people look at you
with horror
do not expect pity
or concern
there is no sympathy available in the middle
of a very busy road in the city
there is nothing that stays focused on you
on a heavy downpour
memories keep falling
and you are carried away
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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