En.Citatepedia^®.ro

The Sound Of My Footsteps

i open the door
i enter this house
its windows closed
its chairs set aside
along the corners
of the corridors

the sound of my
shoes making
footsteps
reverberates
in the living room

it is like the lonely
poem you wrote
for me

footsteps taking
the stairs up the
second floor leading
to an empty room

nobody lives here
anymore
you explained
one day
this was a happy home
until all of them
were shot

dead, by the lone
gunner,

what was his name again?
you told me once
his name is loneliness

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Allegory Of The Cycle Of Doors

and so there is this door that appears before you
and you open it
and then when you enter the room
another door appears
this is the cycle of doors that keep on appearing and you
keep on opening
but the room still appears from a distance
always distant
from your eager feet to enter
you say to enter the room i must please the door
but the room moves away just the same
and the door tells you
to keep the room
you have to burn it and when the room is burned
the door finally disappears
and then both the door and the room shall tell you
now be happy
for you now have a house of your own

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Footsteps

Footsteps in the dark
Only love will break your heart
Footsteps, footsteps
Whenever trouble comes around
Or lonely nights lead underground
And far in the dark
Abandoned cars suddenly start up
An anxious sound
As long as I hear your footsteps
In the dark thats all I need
Footsteps in the dark
Only love will break your heart
Footsteps, footsteps
When loneliness induces fear
Like waves against a
Ramshackle pier
When thunder and rain
Scar the windowpane once again
I want you near
As long as I hear your footsteps
In the dark thats all I need
Im longing to see you
I want you, I need you
Like a child who feels afraid
Of the dark at night
Hoping to hear a gentle touch
Turning on a welcome light
As long as I hear your footsteps
In the dark thats all I need
As long as I hear your footsteps
In the dark thats all I need
Footsteps in the dark
Only love will break your heart
Footsteps, footsteps
Footsteps in the dark
Only love will break your heart
Footsteps, footsteps

song performed by by Pet Shop Boys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Monument Of All Our Wrongs

i build a house
no one likes it.

the house is empty
i put some chairs.

someone comes and
says, this house is

lonely, it needs
a sound

it is boring and needs
a paint

i put a tree beside
its stairs

i grow another
fence

i put a lone bulb
on a post

and leave the house
for good

that is what the
house is made

there is always
missing

something is
always wrong

this is the house
of regret

it is the monument
of all our wrongs.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Fogging Up The Windows

the sound of a small child crying
hungry in the night
of a young woman sleepless
waiting for daylight
the sound of church bells ringing
not too far away
the sound of an old man dying
remembering how to pray

the sound of two hearts breaking
a thousand miles apart
of the last tear a fallin'
unseen in the dark
the sound of lifetimes wasted
of a love that didnt last
the sound of memories forgotten
of a time already past

can you hear?
can you hear?
a lone tree a fallin'
a hoot owl callin'

life and death, a lover's breath
fogging up the windows
of an empty room...
fogging up the windows
of an empty room...

the sound of the nails driven
into His screaming hands
the sound of salvation
entrusted to a man
the sound of bodies falling
of buildings swept by flame
the sound of different voices
whose souls are the same

can you hear?
can you hear?
a lone tree a fallin'
a hoot owl callin'

life and death, a lover's breath
fogging up the windows
of an empty room...
fogging up the windows
of an empty room....

poem by Eric Cockrell
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Echo Of Your Footsteps

Every night I hear
the echo of your footsteps,
across the wooden floor.
They seem to be leading
out to the front door.

It happens every night,
since the day you left,
they are there to haunt me,
reminding me
what I should have done.

I should have begged
for your forgiveness,
for the mistakes I made.
Hoping you would forgive me,
and in my arms stayed.

But I didn’t,
and your gone now.
All I have is an empty heart,
memories I did collect,
and the lonely echo of your footsteps.

13 June 2007

poem by David Harris
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In my house

You enter a room to see a park
You close a door only to be led to another stairway

Leading you to another room with nothing but windows
You close a window the rest remains open

You close the windows and another door
In that park in the room where you just entered
Opens

Then you are confused about the roof that opens
To a river to the rocks where another door opens
To a wall with trees and birds and butterflies

This is weird you say, this is really weird
Then from the garage comes a wind that blows
Its horn like a car

I have just arrived offering you an explanation
For all these mess, these uncertainties, these self-made

confusions.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Inside The Room....

we are only two
inside the room
later
we shall mislead
them into
thinking that
we are only
one

we are one now
inside the
room with closed
windows
and locked doors
and they
want to hear the
sound of
the bed
or the floor

we are one now
and you tell me
that
but then
i am not asleep
like the one
at the sky
hanging like a
lone star
still feeling the
vast emptiness
of this space
between us

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Abandoned House And The Man Who Drags His Shoes To Make The Necessary Sound

when you arrive in the house
(the house that both of you built 17 years ago)
no one is there
not even the three white dogs

you have accepted this face of loneliness
without a mouth

it is its nature now
gentle in silence

there is nothing to talk about with someone else
when someone else is far away and seemingly taking all the hearts out

the door and the hinges have to keep things for themselves
for in truth, those who left the stairs
they still love

you have the key to the door of the kitchen
and that is where you start the journey towards the living room

you scurry on some little memories
it is like putting some words in your notes
in here and there beyond the margins

but it is not that endless really
for whatever it be
joy or death there's got to be an end
that is the truth of the meaning of
this word

it could be a dead-end
a street of walls
& then actually you are caught
in flagrante
where your only choice
is to go back,
retrace,
remember,
refresh
refrains, refrains
of a
love song

you go back to the room look longingly at the bed
the blankets are dusty and the pillows are stained with so much emptiness
or guilt
scruples
Freudian analysis
Carl Jung's other possibilities
of reconciliation

this is a very soundless world and
every part here is keeping its mouth shut
their layers of concealment are thick
and their canopies of
self-defenses are hard

you feel like this is one kind of a giant shell
and you are inside it
its flesh
all blistering
flesh

you decide to wear your shoes all throughout this scrutiny
this journey into marriage
into childlessness
into what if's

you drag your feet with your shoes on
as though someone is suffering and wanting to die
and you hold the collar
and you hurt the backbone
and in that open window
you imagine that someone may finally
jump like a scared cat

nine lives
thirty-six softest feet

you purposely make a sound with your shoes
tapping and tapping
and tapping
to create those sounds
of the past dances
just to fill an empty room

some thoughts jump out of the window
dressed in euphemisms
as the ceiling creates its own crankiness
its cloudiness

nine cats in you jump out that window
falling softly on the grass below
all thirty-six
dreams

it is nice to see of course
nine unharmed cats like fluffy cotton blown by the wind and gently
softly land on the grass

it is no wonder
why men sometimes invoke the sound of their whistling

indeed it is by this time
very relaxing

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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L8,2212

There is a door which you open

you enter, and then it closes you
behind you
forever,

there is no force here,
but only volition,

you enter it
with all the warnings,
that the
possibility that it will close forever
has been told to you
over and over
again,

somehow, you do not make it a problem
you like a closed door, and you hate it
when it opens,
you love it when it is closed forever,
the room is nice
there is a certain loveliness
in there,

it has shiny floors,
it has a bright ceiling,
the lights are lovely,
like stars
in an open dark sky

the air is fresh,
the walls are comfortable

who wants to take an exit?

no one.not you.

when the door knows this, it will open
forever,
it decides to open for you
and it will tell you to go out and be
an outsider again and
be gone
for good,

you insist that you own this room now,
that a closed door is not a serious matter
and there is no way that you have to
go out
or be ousted,

the door has a stair with strong hands
and it will drag you out
it will pull your hair and drag your body
like hell

the door has learned its lesson
when the room is not a prison to someone else
there is no use keeping him there forever
for in truth the reason of the door's
existence
is to make you feel the prison and to suffer

and you know your lesson too well
there is no prison to a mind that is an open window
there is no suffering
to a lover of suffering

you see, it takes a little reverse psychology
for closed doors to open
for men to know that suffering is not suffering
at all
when one loves is tripping

when one thinks
otherwise
when one loves whatever happens

when one accepts
the one that is there and not look for something
that is always missing

why go for the unreachable?
why suffer for long?

life is life, and death is death
you are here, grab this here.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Face On The Cutting Room Floor

Shes history
No one would give her a star on the walk
Shed have a hundred if pillows could talk
Where have I seen her before?
Shes the face on the cutting room floor
Its no mystery
Acting in school at the tenderest age
Lit up the room when she stepped on the stage
Came to la for some more
Shes the face on the cutting room floor
She had visions of contracts
And thousands of people in line
To see her;
Knocking on door after door after all of this time,
Now shes not sure
Up in hollywood
Stayed with an agent she met in a bar
Laughed when he told her hed make her a star
Where has she heard that before?
Shes the face on the cutting room floor
One night he told her that shed never get anywhere
In her clothes
Thats what it takes to play movieland musical chairs
Now she knows
Goodbye hollywood
Leaving tonight on the 2:30 hound
Sunrise or sunset she wont be around
But theyll replace her with so many more
Shes the face on the cutting room floor
Poor little face on the cutting room floor

song performed by by Nitty Gritty Dirt Band
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Lonely, ,

Lonely and alone I am
my soul's always lonesome
in a crowd of loneliness
it sounds sad and lonely
hiding loneliness alone
the lonely lone alone

Lonely is a single traveller
on a dark and winding road.
Lonely is the burden
of carrying a heavy load.

Lonely is a beautiful song
that no one's ever heard,
and lonely is the wait for death
by a broken winged bird.

Lonely is the emptiness
inside my hollow soul,
and lonely is the sound of the wind
blowing through its gaping hole.

Loneliness is second only
to the darkened void of death
and loneliness is taking
that 'Right' to Hell
when I should have made a 'Left'.

Lonely is the sound
of an infant
who sadly cries in vain,
and lonely is his addict mother
shooting poison in her veins.

Lonely is the boy
who will never become a man
and lonely is the brink of disaster
upon which I know I stand.

Lonely is the poem
which has gone on long enough
and lonely is the sympathizers
who say I've, 'had it rough'.

Lonely is my life
lived without family or friend
and lonely is the last word of this poem
because it's always at the...

End.

poem by Deep Dark Soul Poet
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A Stare

a stare is like a stair
it has steps
and there are feet
walking,
and leaving,

you stare at me,
and i see stairs, where you walk
and climb and stop at the middle
and then take the stairs layer by layer

that is what you like to do, to look at me
as though i am this room where you build the stairs
and you want to go inside my room and lock me up

and take all of me with your tongue and hands and
mouth. You mouth me. And i receive the life you have.

and then your stare subsides. the stair is gone.
the room vanishes. I am free. And you are inside me

your stare has become the memory lingering inside me.
i become a bird and you are inside my wings.
Your stairs become my feathers. Your stare
becomes my eyes.

in love, we make the stairs leading to a house.
and there we feast, and live and sleep.

yes, there are wings and windows.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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2: 55 A.m.

at this hour
the exhaust fan of the computer
sounds loudest

second to that
is the murmur of each key
as i press upon
a letter

to make this
waking poem
make
its faintest sound

it is like
the sigh of the pin
dropping
on the carpeted
floor
of an empty room
with doors and
windows
closed.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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So Lonely Alone

So lonely alone am I
My soul's lonesome in the crowd of loneliness
It sounds sad and lonely
Hiding loneliness alone
The lonely lone alone

Lonely is a single traveller
On a dark and winding road.
Lonely is the burden
Of carrying a heavy load.

Lonely is a beautiful song
That no one's ever heard,
And lonely is the wait for death
For a broken winged bird.

Lonely is the emptiness
Inside my hollow soul,
And lonely is the sound of the wind
Blowing through its gaping hole.

Loneliness is second only
To the darkened void of death
And loneliness is taking
That 'Right' to Hell
When I should have made a 'Left'.

Lonely is the sound
Of a lonesome infant
Who sadly cries in vain,
And lonely is his addict mother
Shooting poison in her veins.

Lonely is the boy
Who will never become a man
And lonely is the brink of disaster
Upon which I know I stand.

Lonely is the poem
Which has gone on long enough
And lonely is the sympathisers
Who say I've, 'had it rough'.

Lonely is my life
Lived without family or friend
And lonely is the last word of this poem
Because it's always at the...
…End.

poem by Deep Dark Soul Poet
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Dropping By Your House This Morning

i dropped by your house this very early morning
the windows are closed
but the door is half-open
and i could have given in to this little curiosity
that cats keep on their paws
and soft feet
or hands if you may

but i didn't. there is something in the houe
that says
you had a bad day and that night you did not have
a sound sleep

the roses are wilting and a flower pot falls on the ground
broken
the soil splashed like spilled water on the grass

there is no sound of the wind
from the storm last night

i just dropped by. I respect you. The door of the house
finally closed
i did not see the hands that closed it.
it maybe yours
or someone else's

the rug has spoken. You want to be alone.
to keep the faint light left
in that little room. the curtains fall. the lights
went off on that very early morning.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Ruben's Mansion

it is not a house
in fact, it is a white mansion
placed on a one-hectare lot
surrounded by a well-manicured
garden and flowering shrubs
and fruit trees
one that everyone cannot but
always admire

when they come
and watch
Ruben's mansion
taking 2 years to finish
and 12 million pesos
in expenditures

as you go inside
the glass door opens
leading you
to a living room
twice as large
as my own house
in a remote barrio

the furniture are carved
from molave trees
shining with shellac
and glistening
with opulence
the motif of this
house

the kitchen is huge
four times as wide
as my garage
accommodating only
my second hand car

and the garage
is one that can handle
a party for the night
of ten tables and
fifty chairs and
a hundred people

one wonders
why Ruben has to make
a mansion like this

sheer taste perhaps
or his money
simply searching for something
to buy and spend
looking for some
vents

did he remember
how as a child
the family was shamed
because visitors
from Bohol
in 1970 could not
be accommodated
and they all murmured
how poor they were?

it must be traumatic
for Ruben
as a child
and it must be some
trauma
that molded his dream
to build a mansion
like this?

(or am i just
jealous
of his ambition)

i need not ask some
more
his lips are sealed
he is dead
and he has no way
explaining
a sensitive matter as building
a mansion
while the rest still
thrives on
mediocre houses and
unfinished makeshifts

and no one lives
in this house anymore

perhaps some dreams
still live here
dreams unfulfilled

and once fulfilled
these dreams now
refuse to die

a mansion is still a house
and when no one lives there
need i say

that it is never a home
and after this party
tendered in the name of Ruben
we all go home
and then think for once

i must build a home
and for the meantime forget about a mansion

or just a house.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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X

in this house of mine
there are many rooms and windows and stairs
you are invited
to take your rest and mind each piece
of myself
displayed and open for view
and even for touch
and even
for your tasting
not even for a moment but for a long time
for as long as all these shall last

but there is one door that you cannot open
one window that is closed
one room which is dark

there is nothing there except my secret longing
no one opens it for no one can
no one sees what is inside it for no one can

there is this fruit in my tree of paradise
that you cannot taste
and touch
and even see

it is only for me and i do not really like it.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The House Of Dust: Part 03: 06: Portrait Of One Dead

This is the house. On one side there is darkness,
On one side there is light.
Into the darkness you may lift your lanterns—
O, any number—it will still be night.
And here are echoing stairs to lead you downward
To long sonorous halls.
And here is spring forever at these windows,
With roses on the walls.

This is her room. On one side there is music—
On one side not a sound.
At one step she could move from love to silence,
Feel myriad darkness coiling round.
And here are balconies from which she heard you,
Your steady footsteps on the stair.
And here the glass in which she saw your shadow
As she unbound her hair.

Here is the room—with ghostly walls dissolving—
The twilight room in which she called you 'lover';
And the floorless room in which she called you 'friend.'
So many times, in doubt, she ran between them!—
Through windy corridors of darkening end.

Here she could stand with one dim light above her
And hear far music, like a sea in caverns,
Murmur away at hollowed walls of stone.
And here, in a roofless room where it was raining,
She bore the patient sorrow of rain alone.

Your words were walls which suddenly froze around her.
Your words were windows,—large enough for moonlight,
Too small to let her through.
Your letters—fragrant cloisters faint with music.
The music that assuaged her there was you.

How many times she heard your step ascending
Yet never saw your face!
She heard them turn again, ring slowly fainter,
Till silence swept the place.
Why had you gone? . . . The door, perhaps, mistaken . . .
You would go elsewhere. The deep walls were shaken.

A certain rose-leaf—sent without intention—
Became, with time, a woven web of fire—
She wore it, and was warm.
A certain hurried glance, let fall at parting,
Became, with time, the flashings of a storm.

Yet, there was nothing asked, no hint to tell you
Of secret idols carved in secret chambers
From all you did and said.
Nothing was done, until at last she knew you.
Nothing was known, till, somehow, she was dead.

How did she die?—You say, she died of poison.
Simple and swift. And much to be regretted.
You did not see her pass
So many thousand times from light to darkness,
Pausing so many times before her glass;

You did not see how many times she hurried
To lean from certain windows, vainly hoping,
Passionate still for beauty, remembered spring.
You did not know how long she clung to music,
You did not hear her sing.

Did she, then, make the choice, and step out bravely
From sound to silence—close, herself, those windows?
Or was it true, instead,
That darkness moved,—for once,—and so possessed her? . . .
We'll never know, you say, for she is dead.

poem by Conrad Potter Aiken
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A Peaceful Day

they say i am a sad man
living in a mournful house
with no one

the windows look
like stooping eyelids

the door like the backbone
of an old woman with
osteoporosis

the wall are blank like
a blackboard with nothing to say

those who visit my place
feel the loneliness of the air

as though someone is recently buried
when you come back to the house

and do nothing but gaze
at the bleakness of the hours

i am confident about my
existence

and i tell them
that they are all wrong about me

i like this day
with no one around me

It is the most peaceful
day i ever had.

i feel so rested like a
man sleeping on a rocking chair
while watching a Love Story
with the sound in the Off mode.

i am contemplating on the sounds of
the footsteps of the souls

of those who had long departed
most interestingly of those who
want to stay

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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My sister’s fate

A man comes
To our house
To take my sister’s hands

Grandma meets him
Leads him from the floor
To the stairs
Then for a talk in the
Living room

Brings him to the
Dining room for
Light snacks
While sister arranges
Some flowers in the vase,

Grandpa stares at him
From the tip of his hair
To the tip of his toe,

And then sister and him
Have a sweet talk
On sweet nothings
Just like any lover

After a while,
He is excused
As it is dark
And grandma and
Grandpa have their
Own kind of talk,

And then tells sister,
“He is no good,
We have seen his eyes
And his footsteps
Drop him”.

But her heart beats
For him and she is ready
For future regrets.

Oh, how she follows
Her heart that loves
The man who deceives
her from the very start

(sequel follows in due time)

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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