En.Citatepedia^®.ro

The Stairs....

the stairs show us
a door, and we focus
to the moment when
we arrive at the very
doorstep
anticipating about
a day of an opening
and see finally what is next
what is there

we step upon each
plank
ascend every next
stair
each stair
and the next stair
all the days of our
lives
spending time
with little rest
and sometimes with
nothing at all

sooner we feel
so deceived
having spent so much
time already
ascending
habitually

but not really getting near
that attractive door

and when we notice that
it is too late

our faces have given birth
to all the wrinkles

our heads have grown
all the white hairs

and silences by all means
have sewn our lips

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Contemplation On The Climbing Of The Stairs...

as i climb the stair
i always think what is up there

when i arrive there
the door is closed

and i am thinking why
contemplating on the other possibilities

shall i open the door
and ask myself in

what if there is nobody there
what if it is just a door and there is nothing inside

i sit on the the last step
and i think again

what if it is not the stair after all
but only the ground

or the pebble or the grass
what if it is only myself and there is nobody else

what if i am just dreaming
what if i am nothing at all

but a thought
without weight without volume

what if this is all about air
a breath a hush a slip?

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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We

we build the stairs first
stair upon stair
wood and nail
and hammer
and hands
and some
determined thoughts
dreams to reach the skies
focus
and look what have be done

we have reached the door
of the room

it is here where we shall hatch
all our dreams

like eggs to our warm
hands
like chicks to our cheeks

time and stairs and hopes and dreams and nails and hammers
and hands
and eyes

be awake and always be vigilant
for dreams that do not die like night
stars
are we

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Halfway Down

Halfway down the stairs
is a stair
where i sit.
there isn't any
other stair
quite like
it.
i'm not at the bottom,
i'm not at the top;
so this is the stair
where
I always
stop.

Halfway up the stairs
Isn't up
And it isn't down.
It isn't in the nursery,
It isn't in town.
And all sorts of funny thoughts
Run round my head.
It isn't really
Anywhere!
It's somewhere else
Instead!

poem by Alan Alexander Milne
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Wilt Not Forget Thee

I love the time between eight and nine
tortured heart wilt not forget thee.
I love the time between eight and nine
long are days I do not glimpse thee.
Longed for time between eight and nine
favoured beloved; beloved time of your coming.

So far away gone throughout chill day
yet in mine thoughts ever close within me.
So far away gone throughout chill day
emotion evoke; you stir depth smitten in me.
In vain searched for face; gone throughout chill day
life revolves round; favoured time of your coming.

When foot-fall I hear upon the stair
your presence drawith near ascend thee,
expected foot-fall I hear upon the stair
heart inflates, lifts up to ascend thee,
presence felt now; I hear foot-fall upon the stair
when heard not, oh how I miss thee.

For this is time, heartfelt time of your coming
expected awaited time of your coming.
Life revolves round time of your coming
life enfolds round time of your coming.

poem by Terence George Craddock
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The Moment

..and then i discover
what a moment is

it is like a stair
each time when i take the step
when i hold the rail on its side
when i savor what
warmth and hardness is
when i gaze upon a step that i put
upon another
wood
and then on another
looking only whenever i take it
no longer beyond
or after

and without knowing
i have reached the door and into
my room
i enter where i am met by
this chair where i sit
for a while
where a bed covered with blankets
and laid with silk covered pillows meet me
and then
seduce me
to soundly sleep

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Taking The Stairs

we lift a body
using the legs
and stair upon stair
we breathe
we do not even ask
why are we bent
on going upward?

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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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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A View Of The Stairs....

we all love the stairs
there is order in its placement
there is a hierarchy that we equate
with stages

of life, of something that is always
higher
and that something below it
also serves
the purpose of elevating a step
so someone
can reach the door of the house
and then
enter it

we all love the stair
there is respect in elevation
there is use and
artistic purpose,
there is dignity in elation

we remember every nail that is hammered
there,
echoing the sound of the past
struggles

it is the perfection of friction
the platform of a reconstructed struggle

step by step
a comfort to achieve height
a bridge to another
dimension

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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the stairs of Paris

In beauty to the stair
As we go up stair and see
The beauty of Paris for our eyes
But never the less, I’m sharing this
With you by being with me
To the fares of the place.

poem by Lui Albino
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1. The Stair

the quietness of the
setting sun is haunting
the hurried chirp of
the returning swallows
echoing round the school
evokes a forlorness this
evening chill works to thicken
those flighty years have
come back like swallows
to roost, each echoing
a pain, a joy, a tear, a
smile, a hug, a kiss, a loss

each step of this stair
spins a tale, walks me up
a time warp of yearnings
and disillusions
the stair where a thousand
dreams were spun and another
thousand trailed the wind

poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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The Secret

IT was the House of Quietness
To which I came at dusk;
The garth was lit with roses
And heavy with their musk.

The tremulous tall poplar trees
Stood whispering around,
The gentle flicker of their plumes
More quiet than no sound.

And as I wondered at the door
What magic might be there,
The Lady of Sweet Silences
Came softly down the stair.

poem by Christopher Morley
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Climbing

High up in the apple tree climbing I go,
With the sky above me, the earth below.
Each branch is the step of a wonderful stair
Which leads to the town I see shining up there.

Climbing, climbing, higher and higher,
The branches blow and I see a spire,
The gleam of a turret, the glint of a dome,
All sparkling and bright, like white sea foam.

On and on, from bough to bough,
The leaves are thick, but I push my way through;
Before, I have always had to stop,
But to-day I am sure I shall reach the top.

Today to the end of the marvelous stair,
Where those glittering pinacles flash in the air!
Climbing, climbing, higher I go,
With the sky close above me, the earth far below.

poem by Amy Lowell
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Soyinka, At The Tip Of My Hair

I don't really
consider myself

a poet,

it just came out
purely by accident.

i just fell down
from a
stair
down to the
grassy ground

and that started
the first poem
to another poem to another poem

like a stair leading me
to nowhere

but there is no
fear really
just this
sense of comfort
and beauty

all around the dusk
and twilights
of my moments

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The 'Bulletin' Stairs

The Mecca of Bohemian men
Was Archibald's untidy den.
Firm-footed near the portals there
Uprose, as now, a spacious stair
That carried nearer to the sky
Their inky hopes in days forebye.

This ladder to Parnassus, they
Expectant climbed - as still one may.
Oft-times upon its steps appeared
The wiry brush of Daley's beard,
Of Henry Lawson's drooped moustache
Would upward glide and downward dash.

Betimes - a gem his pocket in -
Meandered upward Ronald Quinn,
Or Bayldon bore a sonnet new,
Or Broomfield occupied the view
Insistent, in a manner vain,
On making passes with his cane.

These might encounter on the way
The 'Banjo' glum, or Hugh McCrae
Or Souter with a leering cat
Or Bedford in a Queensland hat;
And other penmen debonair
Familiar with that famous stair.

The Red Tressed Maiden, all aglow,
And Clancy of the Overflow
And Dad and Dave, in company
With Ginger Mick and Jock MacFee,
From time to time, in singles, pairs,
By hand or post went up those stairs!

Awaiting by McMahon's door
For silver, little, less, or more,
Met jesting genius to abuse
The landlords and the lending Jews.
Anon with cash in hand such drear
Considerations - drowned in beer -

Would pass as pass the clouds of morn;
And from their ready wits, reborn
As from a fount in Arcady,
Would flow fair dreams of Days-to-Be,
When, in this Southland, shore to shore,
Art was enthroned for evermore.

That noble vision yet I hold
More precious is than all the gold
That men have dug from southern earth.
In loyal hearts it had its birth;
In loyal minds it will become
A trumpet-note, a calling drum

To lead this nation onward, and
To glorify and grace the land.
And through that fellowship may ne'er,
As then it was, re-climb the Stair
Its voices echo down the years -
The voices of the pioneers!

poem by Edwin James Brady
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Come On In

Come on in,
You sure look good to me.
Come on in,
Ive learned how lonely I can be.
I guess well never know just what went wrong
You know its been a whole year has passed us by and gone.
But were back together now where we belong
So, baby, come on in.
Come on in,
I heard your footstep on the stair.
Come on in,
Id know it anywhere.
Your old chair in the corner is justa sitting there waiting.
Its been a long time anticipating.
What a long time its been.
So, baby, come on in.
Over and over Ive told myself
I said, son, youve got to lose these blues.
Get ready for the day when shell walk in the door.
So I dusted off your housecoat and I polished up your shoes.
Come on in,
You know your welcome here.
Aw, come on in,
Its been a long, long year.
Now I know why I waited around
I wouldnt run around town, let them put me down.
I knew that if I waited I would win.
So, baby, come on in.
Come on in,
Come on in,
Aw, come in.

song performed by by Monkees
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sitting Upon The Stairway

lean upon
a rail of the stair
your head
finds a wall
thoughts in prison
bars
of the mind

the feeling of
being compressed
arrives
this early morning

eyes ache but
not squeaking
poor set
these tools for
that are dependent
on light

hands like driftwood
land on stair ways
upon the steps of
your perceived luck

you will be luckier
yesterday was a curse
the stars last night
keep saying

in this little town
some roads are still on
their way to somewhere
else

a bus flowering with
people
windows all blanks
filled with
straight faces
passes you by

you are staying put
there will be an absence
that they will not
ask or miss

dusts from the street
layer upon your eyelids
and you do not blink

you bite your lips
tasting another flavor
of your own blood

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Mother to Son

Well, son, I'll tell you:
Life for me ain't been no crystal stair.
It's had tacks in it,
And splinters,
And boards torn up,
And places with no carpet on the floor—
Bare.
But all the time
I'se been a-climbin' on,
And reachin' landin's,
And turnin' corners,
And sometimes goin' in the dark
Where there ain't been no light.
So, boy, don't you turn back.
Don't you set down on the steps.
'Cause you finds it's kinder hard.
Don't you fall now—
For I'se still goin', honey,
I'se still climbin',
And life for me ain't been no crystal stair.

poem by Langston Hughes
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Tore Carefully The Edge, Open, Of The Thing

1

a New York, perhaps, story

drunken, again, postmaster/
mistress deposits, months,
your long sent gift into the wrong
mailbox downstairs, tenant of
said mailbox on vacation long away

only just arrived from Barcelona
only just got to his mail, found your
gift for me delivered at my surprised,
happily, door only this dull morning
making/waking up the coffee cup
which, too, was flat until the surprise
knocked, arrived, tore carefully the
edge of the thing, which
brought/brings me still surprise,
joy, eyes, scanning in the images/words

and I am greatly in the
entrance/in-trance of the
unfolding
and elusive eventing of it.

Thank you.

2

Just let you know:

I have written, angry, a note
to the post office, this, late
gift arriving not on time but
timely, blame is no good thing,
yes, to waste on minor salvation
at the door

when two filthy floors below,
just, a note post haste, landlord's,
on tenant door, yellowed paper,
scribbled, declaring, now premised,

BED BUGS

such tenement woes,

now go forth, I, afraid to
touch walls, fast walk

wide away, around, from
it, hard done,
the narrow
stair too
close it is,
fearing what
lives, skin
crawl, therein
and creeping

up,

now,

the

stair

3

That said, nearby flit,

I am in a thorough, now,
(enough) read/study of that
your arrival which would have
eluded me as, once, a young
man, now, yields if one can get
through the densities and
immense, his own, narcissism

but there is, clear, some
greatness therein, it, yielding,
for which Narcissus can
justly be stroked and fond-ed.

poem by Warren Falcon
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Crossing Fifty

Crossing fifty now,
holding kgs of hundred;
Grey grown head and
glistening forehead.

Climbed peak of hill
now time to slope down;
With several branches
chunky tree is grown.

Putting a step further
at stair of growing old;
Celebrating golden jubilee
fifty years behold.

Amassed the ruggedness,
experience, knowledge;
To surrender to the world
carrying responsibilities.

poem by S.D. Tiwari
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One Gets Used To All These

one gets used to all these
these and that, matters of the heart and soul
veiled with secrecy, worshiped as a secrecy
a devastation of the mind
a burning of the soul but no matter what
we both are here
still strong and silent in pain
rejoicing that oh,
somehow God has a plan for each of us
dead or alive
a room is reserved, a blue sky, a full moon,
a shining morning sun
a white butterfly, a scar that heals
exciting walks of life, stair by stair we tread upon
milestones
we shake our hands
we are here, and move on to the next, where no one
no one
can say, that this is all we have,

look over there,
there is more to all these

go.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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