the symbolism that you gave to the poems of Pablo Neruda
your feet hangs on the sand
your body flat
the poems of Pablo are contained in a book
Five Decades of Poetry
on top of your belly just near the center of
your swimming trunks
wet and white
your navel is surrounded by masculine hair
and the book slides just below there
beside is a dark tainted glass
and a bottle of mineral water from Nature Springs
your feet are shaped like the wings of a dove
shielding you from the faint horizon of the sea quite far away
blue clouds faint like hues of sky blue
Half of your body without a face
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Waltz Of Blue Smiles
Please read it on a waltz rhythm: One! two, three...
She's losing her house
She's losing her house
And what what what what
She does?
A poem she writes
Paints both of her eyes
And feet in dark blue
then she cries:
I'm loosing my house
I'm loosing my house
There's nothing to do
Oh mine!
I'm loosing my house
I'm loosing my house
Blue eyes and blue feet
Oh, sweet!
Why are you so sweet
Why are you so sweet
Blue eyes blue face
and blue feet?
Her handkerchief fly
Slow searching the sky
blue rivers of tears
got dry.
On a smile smiley
cheek
colours pass through
With tears and fears
Of blue.
She's losing her house
That's sad very sad
But we know she'll survive
And smile.
Blue cute sign became
In a book of one poem
blue fears, blue tears in
origami folded again.. Insane? ! ..
poem by Elena Sandu
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As if anchored to my rock
On a rock next to the sea
I see the horizon
where ocean and sky
meets each other
with blue fading into blue.
The waves smash with thundering sound
time after time
and drops of seawater
splash over me
as if she is my mistress
and are stroking me with her long fingers.
It is as if the rock
moves under my feet
the ocean wants
to get me in her arms,
but I stand unmovable
as if anchored to my rock
and nothing can let me slip down from it.
I see the green blue of her water
that is rushing near
with white foam
just before braking
and further on the dark blue
lies like colours of a gleaming eye
and I think: sea into you
I will not climb down
and when a giant wave
brakes over me,
bending my body and sucking with force
I stand unmovable
as if anchored to my rock.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Bottle Up & Explode (early Version)
bottle up and explode over and over
cos you react slower than slow
put it away,check out for the day
in for a round of over exposure
the things mother nature provides
to get up and go
bottle up and explode
seeing stars surrounding you
red white and blue
she looks at him like hes never known her
its only been a year and half
thinking that that was a matter of fact
thinking that he was about to come over
i've been standing up waiting for you
you never showed
bottle up and explode all the outside signs of you
red white and blue
bottle up and explode all the outside signs of you
red white and blue
song performed by by Elliott Smith
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Bottle Up And Explode!
Bottle up and explode over and over
Cos you react slower than slow
Put it away,check out for the day
In for a round of over exposure
The things mother nature provides
To get up and go
Bottle up and explode
Seeing stars surrounding you
Red white and blue
She looks at him like hes never known her
Its only been a year and half
Thinking that that was a matter of fact
Thinking that he was about to come over
I've been standing up waiting for you
You never showed
Bottle up and explode all the outside signs of you
Red white and blue
Bottle up and explode all the outside signs of you
Red white and blue
song performed by by Elliott Smith
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Bottle Up & Explode!
Bottle up and explode over and over
Cos you react slower than slow
Put it away,check out for the day
In for a round of over exposure
The things mother nature provides
To get up and go
Bottle up and explode
Seeing stars surrounding you
Red white and blue
She looks at him like hes never known her
Its only been a year and half
Thinking that that was a matter of fact
Thinking that he was about to come over
Ive been standing up waiting for you
You never showed
Bottle up and explode all the outside signs of you
Red white and blue
Bottle up and explode all the outside signs of you
Red white and blue
song performed by by Elliott Smith
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Running On The Beach
Early just after dawn
there is salt in the air,
a light wind pulls at my hair
while I race on the beach
clothed in only bathing trunks,
trying to outrun the incoming surf,
which at times splashes against my body.
I pass some big rocks
while the white sand of Clifton
clings to my feet and legs,
the air starts to burn in my lungs,
while I pick up the pace,
finding new energy under the summer sun,
with the sea only touching at my feet.
In the distance stark naked
two young women tan,
the one is lying on her stomach
the other is sitting up and facing me
and I notice that her stomach is flat,
her breasts are DD sized with nipples hard,
she says something to the other girl and is smiling.
I want to avoid them, keep to the solitude,
the freedom of racing at speed,
with the sun and the wind touching my body,
while all thoughts are stripped from me
but one of them have got other plans,
gets up and steps right into my way
with legs wide and eyes bluer than the sky.
poem by Gert Strydom
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The Simplicity Of Nature
reeds on the side of the lake
ripples of water
sand over mud
a green island on the other side
shades of the horizon
blue and darker sometimes
blue skies and fluffy white clouds
how this view sings in harmony
with the heart of a man
sitting in solitude under a tree
on the grass
nature is indeed simpler than man
more beautiful even without him
but who shall know? when man becomes
extinct, who shall know?
when man is finally excluded, who shall tell?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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This Morning
When I awoke this morning
a white dove was sat on my bed.
I wondered if I was seeing things,
so rubbed my eyes and shook my head.
It opened its wings and fluttered
and grew much larger in size.
Its face changed to that of a human,
with blonde hair and blue eyes.
I immediately thought it an angel,
but dismissed it as a visual lie.
“Seeing was believing, ” it whispered,
then changed into a blue bottle fly.
poem by Orlando Belo
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In The Swimming Pool In The Park
Your sister called her
the girl in the red beret
and there she was
in the outdoor
swimming pool
in the park
her gran sitting
in the stands knitting
and Janice saw you
and said
Fancy seeing you here
can you swim?
You stood
in the shallow end
of the pool
in your blue trunks
looking at her wet fair hair
clinging to her body
and her eyes bright
in the sun's afternoon light
No not so far
you replied
I can
she said shaking water
from her hair and head
I can swim the length
and back almost
you looked over
at Jimmy in the pool
talking to friends
she touched your hand
and said
I can show you
how to swim
and she smiled
and you felt her hand
on yours and hoped
Jimmy wasn't looking
seeing her touch you
Maybe another time
you said
pulling your hand away
and plunging it
into the water
I've got to go
you said
my friends
are waiting for me
and she looked at you
her eyes now sad
and she said softly
No stay with me
I like it
when you are near me
and she stood there
in her pink swimsuit
her hair sticking
to her face
her eyes watery and blue
and gazing hopefully
(the noise and laughter
from the pool
momentarily shut off)
at seven year old you.
poem by Terry Collett
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Reading the poems of Billy Collins
When did you last turn the pages
of a book of poems as if it were a novel?
and how could a Poet Laureate ‘rejoice’-
as they say in flowery poetic language
in the name of Billy?
and it’s not so much reading
as being with: as if you’re in the same
room with him: he’s over there in the recliner,
self-contained but friendly; he may
say nothing; or make an inconsequent remark;
or launch into a fantasy; or say
something unpretentiously profound..
it doesn’t matter now. You’re in the same room
with him, just being.. he’s not making a poem
like you hold a glass up to the light
and polish it; he’s not even selling ‘being’
like some New Age guru; he’s not asking
anything of you.
And thousands who view poetry with suspicion
sigh with relief; take up his latest book
and glance at him there across the room
with a half-smile that somehow reflects his
just being Billy Collins. No, not even that;
just being.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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A View In Town Square
four blue chairs surround
a center table
at the center table
lies the red cloth
there are no diners
this time of the day
on the blue frames of
the glass window
where the white curtains
hang & flow like silky water
the lush of the red
bougainvillea is a wreath
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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His Loneliness
he undresses himself and
slides inside a tub of water
he buries his head to gain
the coolness of the water
he places his hands on the side
and looks beyond the glass windows
there the trees are green and the
clouds are blue and the sun is brighter
he closes his eyes and lies still
around his body are the foams and scents
he stops awhile for some thoughts
she is still there inside his mind
how can he ever forget her?
how long shall she stay inside his heart?
how can he be so powerless in this?
how can she be so beautiful still despite the years?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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If You Hate Poetry
i have read that somewhere,
if you hate poetry
you have to get
this book,
buy it, and
you will love
it.
sales talk.
if you really hate poetry,
why buy
a book of poetry?
you may dislike me
but poems
are nothing but
spits
of something
that you do not
want to stay
inside your throat
all i need
is a little relief
from this
urge to vomit
and here you
are
reading mine.
(i am
laughing)
so do you really hate
poetry?
k, buy that book
you will really
love it
(the book)
and hate the more
what you hated most.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Reflections On The Water
A Blue cloud
shaped like a bird
spreading its wings
on the water,
a clover leaf falls
creating some ripples
a fish jumping
trying to reach an
odd shaped flying
insect,
my face is crooked
waving like
a silk scarf
reflections of
half truths but
naked still
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Azul....
Shades of blue confronts the
man in blue, so blue, but not
electric blue, the blue in faded jeans
saddening blue, the blue in marble,
glossy, but sadder still, the faint
blue of a heavy sky, laden with rain
some restraints, falling suppressed,
the blue in that deserted lagoon,
those blue Spanish eyes gone,
the navy blue without an address,
the blue lips, lesser in oxygen
content,
the bluebird perched upon a twig,
kingfisher blue without a fish,
a blue heart, pastel blue shirt
torn blue, blues, blue bruises....
the puerto azul....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Best Book In The World
the best book
in the world
the only true book
is the world itself
the Book of Nature
the best book is the silence
the wordless-ness in
the clouds and the sky
and the rivers and the oceans
and the lands
and the grass that breaks through the concrete;
and in the deserts and the volcanoes
and the stars
and the moon
and the creatures of the earth
and in all fellow beings
and the vastness beyond
and the vastness within
the best book
the only true book
(every other book is distortion)
is the world itself
the Book of Nature:
read it
poem by Raj Arumugam
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Water Flows
Any extraordinary water flows from the fountain
To dive into more water, this fluent language resents;
Labour terrifies our belongings and territory,
The guns blow their bullets as fast as the universe.
This wiser nature is earned by the one not wisest,
Deep feet sink finally into the sand or water.
Our purpose is found from the book of living,
We read in it the stages of crafts and existence.
Water may be finished, but one day the hills
Speak more from it than all of the clouds.
By the help of the eddy, this water spaces and wastes,
Fluids run deep in the nature of Nature,
Points of endeavour rest in the countryside,
Then pick thoughts from the swaying landscape
So as to become a higher person with water.
It hurried away, the water hurried away,
And caught in its currents, the ocean was made
And created by the whole work of water.
poem by Naveed Akram
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In A Time Of Dearth
Before me,
On either side of me,
I see sand.
If I turn the corner of my house,
I see sand,
Long, brown
Lines and levels of flat
Sand.
If I could only see a caravan
Heave over the edge of it:
The camels wobbling and swaying,
Stepping like ostriches,
With rocking palanquins
Whose curtains conceal
Languors and faintnesses,
Muslins tossed aside,
And a disorder of cushions.
The swinging curtains would pique and solace me.
But I only see sand,
Long, brown sand -
Sand.
If I could only see a herd of Arab horses
Galloping,
Their manes and tails pulled straight
By the speed of their going;
Their bodies sleek and round
Like bellying sails.
They would beat the sand with their fore feet,
And scatter it with their hind feet,
So that it whirled in a cloud of orange,
And the sun through it
Was clip-edged, without rays, and dun.
But I only see sand,
Long, brown, hot sand -
Sand.
If I could only see a mirage,
Blue-white at the horizon,
With palm-trees about it;
Tall, windless palm-trees, grouped about a-glitter.
If I could strain toward it,
And think of the water creeping round my ankles,
Tickling under my knees,
Leeching up my sides,
Spreading over my back.
But I only feel the grinding beneath my feet.
And I only see sand,
Long, dry sand,
Scorching sand -
Sand.
If a sand-storm would only come
And spit against my windows,
Snapping upon them, and ringing their vibrations;
Swirling over the roof;
Seeping under the door-jamb;
Suffocating me and making me struggle for air.
But I only see sand -
Sand lying dead in the sun.
Lines and lines of sand -
Sand.
I will paste newspapers over the windows to shut out the sand;
I will fit them into one another, and fasten the corners.
Then I will strike matches
And read of politics and murders and festivals
Three years old.
But I shall not see the sand any more,
And I can read
While my matches last.
poem by Amy Lowell
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The Keys
Broken ivories
playing
the blue piano
of the sea.
We have come
from the bitter city
to heal ourselves.
We have come
looking for a patch of beach
not yet built into a fortress
of real-estate greed,
a coral reef
not yet picked clean
of buried treasure,
not yet bare of birds.
The first night in the Keys,
I dreamed I was a bird
soaring over a hilly city,
soaring & dipping
like a gull or egret.
& I thought:
'Ah- this is a flying dream!
Enjoy it.'
But I really think
that my soul
has been transported
for a night
into the body of
a bird
& I was flying.
I woke up
exhausted,
arms weary,
eyes red.
The beach was dazzling
with its white sand,
the sun blinding,
& I seemed to know the palm trees
from above
as well as below.
They root in the sand
with elephant feet,
yet they also root
their delicate fronds
in air.
& these are a comfort
as you fly
half bird, half human
through a dream of sky.
Everything was new
to a spirit
so divided
between two kingdoms.
The water was alive
with fish,
the air with birds
& palm fronds,
clouds, thunderous presences
of rain
gathering & parting,
& fiery sun playing through.
I knew
that I stood
on a patch of earth
connected to the sky,
that my heart beat
with the sea,
that my arms moved
with the clouds,
that my flesh
was finally irrelevant
though it surrounded me
as the case of a piano
surrounds its strings,
while the fingers play
on the ivory keys
& the human music
rises to the sky.
poem by Erica Jong
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My Current Vision
My school book lies the furthest
Facing me
Completely guilty
I dislike school
school gives me no comfort
Except when leaving
Still I feel guilt
I did not put my full effort forward
The book remains closed
And
The water bottle in front stands out as the school binder presents
With a grey background
I see my poetry journal assignments paper being gently held down but the water bottle with the very corner of it's circle
My iPod cord appearing from under the assignment connects one end to the iPod and another into the computer
The rollercoaster of wires circle around my grinder with a pattern
It would be fun to ride that
My computer is centered
On but unused
Only charging my iPod
I see half a cigarette on the table
Facing away
Completely unappealing
I'll still probably smoke it
I see a bag of weed on the table covering my empty wallet
The wallet looks
Cozy
I see the remnant of my previous high in an ashtray
Now just dust
With a bright blue lighter at the end
I rhyme because I must
poem by ryan Cravatta
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