The Wet Blankets Of Childhood
he is tired
drowsy
in the middle
of this stage
he finds images of
melting
memories
same as the old metal
wall clock
dripping on the
wall
floors like
brown sugar mix
with the
carpet and the
shoes
you smell black
pepper
and steam rice
you see
scalding fish
skin
fins separating
like
locks of hair
the feeling is
liquid
flowing like
the usual
river
that you have
been picturing
since
childhood where
you can still
hear the
dissolving laughter
on that
early night earthen
bowl
when darkness is like
a cloak
finally covering
your eyes
neither hot
nor cold
until
you fall asleep
as pain
too
diffuses
like drops of
rain from
the ceiling
to your
bed
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Related quotes
On Purpose
I see the blood dripping down my arm.
Red liquid in a running line
I smell the blood dripping down my arm.
Irony and salty
I hear the blood dripping down my arm.
Making splashes as drops hit the floor
I taste the blood dripping down my arm.
Mineraly and smooth
I feel the blood dripping down my arm.
A tickle covering immense pain
Because I cut myself
On purpose
poem by Kylee Bartz
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Pictures
Whoa oh yeah
I've seen pictures
Well i saw you just the other day
And i could not help but look your way
I say you've just got this special look
That has got me completely hooked
Ow
Pictures on the wall
Pictures everywhere
Pictures on the wall
Everywhere i stare
Pictures on the wall
The ceiling and the floor
I'm in a metal room
And i cannot find the door
Will this feeling ever go away?
Or will this feeling stay?
Will this feeling ever go away?
'cause i can't live the rest of my life this way
Pictures on the wall
[c'mon]
Pictures everywhere
Pictures on the wall
[c'mon c'mon]
Everywhere i stare
Pictures on the wall
[c'mon c'mon]
The ceiling and the floor
I'm in a metal room and i cannot find the door
I see your face in the clouds in the sky
I see your face before my eyes, yeah
I see your face everywhere
And now i don't know what to do
Oh oh
Pictures on the wall
Pictures everywhere
Pictures on the wall
Everywhere i stare
Pictures on the wall
The ceiling and the floor
I'm in a metal room
And i cannot find the door
Whoa pictures...
song performed by by Hanson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Rain drops fall from heaven
Tears swelling up in my eyes every night
Rain drops fall from heaven
Simply a walking disguise in the light
Rain drops fall from heaven
Wondering when i will be alright
Rain drops fall from heaven
Growing so weak no energy to fight
Rain drops fall from heaven
Losing all hope in my mind
Rain drops fall from heaven
Wishing that i could simply unwind
Rain drops fall from heaven
As time goes love makes me blind
Rain drops fall from heaven
Wishing i didn't have to leave her behind
Rain drops fall from heaven
Wanting to make everything right
Rain drops fall from heaven
Wishing i could see her in sight
Rain drops fall from heaven
Wishing I had the strength to fight
Rain drops fall from heaven
Wishing i could hold her tight
Rain drops fall from heaven
Never knowing if she remembers me
Rain drops fall from heaven
Never know if we were meant to be
Rain drops fall from heaven
Wishing i had more time to see
Rain drops fall from heaven
My family that always loved me
Rain drops fall from heaven
Thinking back to the times we had
Rain drops fall from heaven
Smiles and laughter but yet so sad
Rain drops fall from heaven
Just sitting here all alone
Rain drops fall from heaven
Wishing i was way back home
Rain drops fall from heaven
Now the only thing that is on my mind
Rain drops fall from heaven
Is the memories i have way back in time
Rain drops fall from heaven
The tears from my eyes and deep inside
Rain drops fall from heaven
Matches the drops that come from the sky
Rain drops fall from heaven
If you could even begin to wonder why
Rain drops fall from heaven
It is simply those tears from lies
Rain drops fall from heaven
Every time it rains i stare to the clouds
Rain drops fall from heaven
Hoping one day she will simply fall
Rain drops fall from heaven
Right into my arms where she belongs
Rain drops fall from heaven
So that i can sing her a song
Rain drops fall from heaven
A song that tells her how i feel
Rain drops fall from heaven
A song that is nothing but real
Rain drops fall from heaven
That will be the day that will bring me joy
Rain drops fall from heaven
Too bad it wont happen to this boy
Rain drops fall from my eyes 24/7
poem by Joshua Thomas Gage
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The Cult Of Ray
What is there to say ?
Still I can't be silent
Hear the cult of ray
And you'll be enlightened
People, they're no fun
I saw raymond speak one time, he said hello
And as he opened up my mind, so fried and battered
I heard his words so very fine so high above this constant dripping chatter
Young sharks feeding on the scrapple
And upstarts feeding on your adam's apple
And you can't hear yourself in all this babble
And are you feeling role strain
Melting rock into metal
Melting rock into metal
Melting rock into metal again ?
In a dark place
In the deep sky
Is an old man
Is an old man
In a coffee can
And he's waiting
In the old rain
In the dep sky
And he's waiting
Hear the cult of ray
Fear the boy as tyrant
People have a way
When their mood is violent
People, they're no fun
I have a century in mind, wait, oh no
At least two centuries in mind, say, it doesn't matter
This rock is turning into sand while we are drowning here in our own shatter
You can't eat dirt cause it tastes so awful
Like no sugar in your turkish coffee
And can't smile cause I got me a mouthful
And i've been grinding this grain
Melting rock into metal
Melting rock into metal
Melting rock into metal again
In a dark place
In the deep water
Is an old man
In a coffee can
And he's waiting
In the old rain
song performed by by Frank Black
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I Choose To Be Your Moon
i always console myself with the idea that i am not
at all alone
there are too many of me, of us, that we all become one boring
brew of liquefied images
coffee flowing on the carpet and wetting it and there is a fume
and the dust are captured on the stains
what i feel now is the feeling that i do not want anything at all
that i just write what comes to my mind
without choosing
and i am bombarded with thoughts and i am always on a defensive stance
a recipient always, passive and relaxed
things that come like rain to an empty earthen vessel
gives that feeling of fullness
which is too pacifying to the weary mind
then the vessel is filled with water and water pours out its liquid body
to the ground
to the grass to the canals racing to another path
we try to follow it
it has myriad options and we are at a loss which way shall it be
words are like that
they pour upon our void
others are blind and keep on talking about
hair and heads and hands
it is just myself that feel
emptying and filling and running and taking the journey again
what you see is the stillness of the body
a shadow on the wall
the night and rain sometimes come together
i choose to be your moon
and you are there looking at me
i am full, your gaze empties me
into a profusion of gentle dancing light
on your face
i never said a word
in the silence of my own understanding
you are so far away like a fallen star.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Seclusion
This is a dark night
Within the garden of the deceased-
In this place where only
Wounded spirits who have lost their sanity
Are banned from the world outside.
In this desolate place where
Nobody sees the light of day,
I am alone in this room where the walls are barren and
The floors have yellowed-
Urine stained and tiles are cracked-
I stare at the ceiling through a curtain of tears falling from bloodshot eyes-
I cannot escape terrifying past memories-
As in a scene from a tragic film, I have become the infamous star,
I hear the ticking of the wall clock outside
Rhythmically in time with hellions screaming inside the fortress of my mind-
My dissolving soul is robed in a sallow gown and
I can feel serpents twisted about my calves-
This is a dark night-
This is a dark night where I have lost my grasp on veracity-
This is a dark night where I have been separated from the outside world-
This is the garden of the deceased, where
Phantasmal gravestones surround my dissolving soul-
My mind is in a wretched state and my thoughts are bellowing lunacy-
My cries for help have been silenced, as
My worm infested brain is decaying-
I can only hear above the screaming stillness
The ticking of the wall clock outside, and
Threatening voices emanating from inside of my mind-
Putrid scents of rotting corpses infiltrate this cell and
I vociferate madness as the dirges that
echo about my mind attempt to deafen me
Neither moonlight nor sunlight can penetrate this windowless chamber-
This garden of the deceased where my spirit has just perished-
This is a dark night and I have been banned from the world outside-
In desperation my outstretched arms attempt
to reach towards heaven as I can feel
My spirit sinking through the cracks in the
decrepit linoleum tiles below while
The wall clock outside ticks on, on and on…
poem by Claudia Krizay
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Boracay Fantasy....
this summer when we are together
in boracay
near as tongue to a cone of strawberry ice cream
licking,
i get so close to you that i can feel the 'tanness'
of your tan
tasting like chocolate without sugar
a little bit bitter but
enduring
after the sun has passed its joys upon you
brown smooth skin
broad spacious nape and black flowing hair
surfing upon a pair of mountain breasts
with trees as nipples
scented with
southern sea breeze and smelling like fried dried fish beside steam white pearly rice
early morning
with barako coffee and cream and freshly scrambled mayonnaise egg
on a sky blue saucer.
how i wish for a premature evening
beds softer than sand, thoughts ever lovelier than lovers
and such questions as,
'what is this moon saying? '
tonight, you are telling me
your room has no lock and your sister is dating
that new guy in town.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Blank, Numb, Floating
it is 1: 55 a.m.
i hear the rain falling
she is fast asleep tired of the demands of her day
i leave her and she takes the pillow for me
i turn on the light
and see this room of books and paperworks
i turn on the computer
i am feeling nothing and i am floating like i am but a spirit
i am numb and i am feeling so dumb
i see this blank wall
i am feeling so empty
i look at her again
she utters words in her sleep and i will not wake her up
i lay my hands on the keys
run my fingers on some letters
there is nothing to write
in particular but there is something to run my fingers on
this feeling
this attempt to imitate the sound of the rain in letters
to put the motion of the rain to put its smell
to be wet and to have the rain run over me
all over me all over me all over me all over me
blank, numb, floating and wet
this is the poem now
at 2: 03 a.m.
it has gained finally this form
and scent and motion and color
that you have never seen
or felt the way
i do.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Black Flowing Hair, A Memory Of You
I see you leaning by a wall next door
Against an afternoon sun
And though it is your back that faces me
I know
From the beating of my heart
That it is you, Black-flowing-hair
I can smell you
In mint
And you shall be inside me
As I breathe
So I can live for another time
You are
My tallest tree
On top of the Sleeping-dragon-mountain
And I look up to you
Like my full moon one cold night
Untouched by my fingers
Black-flowing-hair
The world may not have found love in my eyes
As I have none to boost
Since I have given it to you
All of it
I shall find it
But shall not take it back
From you
Your shadow is my god
And it is only that I can touch
Without you knowing
The shadow
Of your
Back
My self-made god
Is enough life
I do not ask much
I cannot
You do not know me
There is no need
I only give myself
I do not have to take any
In return
Now I declare
I have found my place
In you
I have found myself
In you
I have found you
I am Mute-white-dove -sitting
On the breast of Black-flowing-hair
Touching the clouds
Holding the rainbow
Saving all the raindrops of my life.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Inside My Study Room
five o'clock, the usual time
but i already woke up at 3: 45
too early really
but i could not go back to
sleep
the words arrive
riding on the boat
such wind
hovering
disembarking in my
brain
i am surrounded by
glass walls
and light brown
drapes
books scattering
like garbage
on the floors and
tables
i smell the odor of
dust and
water inside a vase
unchanged
the red rose
had long wilted
no one comes around
to fix things
and keep all of these
in their proper places
the windows are still
closed and it
is still dark outside
though the crows
have already
sounded their
sad calls
the cocks keep sounding
it is already morning
and the windows
must not be opened
i write some lines
as usual and then
i'll wear my socks
and put on my
rubber shoes
and then i will take
my walk to the
woods
it will be cold
and i can see my breath
like smoke from a pipe
but i need this
my body craves
my feet want to move
the walls are too much
and the curtains feel
like they have to be washed
i open the door
and then i meet a new
world again
i know at first it will
still be cold
that is usual
i know after this
the sun comes again
as usual
and things will warm themselves
again
on promises
like what hope is all about.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Practicing Loneliness
it is the i in we
that has attached like epoxy,
indistinguishable like
pinch of salt to water
sugar to milk and
xanor to beer
tonight i will be alone
sitting on a chair facing the outline of the hills
light fading out
until what i see is only the flickering stars
above a sea of darkness
i will feel the chill of the cold night
a silk of mist hovering over my skin
it is the i, away from you and the we dissolving finally
decanting the i,
purifying the i in me
soon, i must learn this trick
of being one with me
in the darkness, in the cold,
i keep myself warm.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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There is something magical about kissing in the rain. Rain drops fall all over you—your face, hair, skin—and your clothes cling to you as if you are melting. And your man is holding you tight as you hear nothing but rain and feel nothing but his touch on your body and the wet grass between your toes. The moment lasts, the moment you feel alive and as one with nature. A few wet drops break the passionate seal of your two lips as you taste the beautiful rain and your lover in one glorious sensual motion.
This Art....
it is just a matter of having it in
and it gives the usual
pain or joy, no choice, the feelings
are always there
and the sense of knowing and
being too analytical seemingly destroys the
beauty indescribably
setting
she gives a sigh
when nobody seems to be clapping hands
when no one is bowing
or saying a name at least that one makes it right
and rhyming
'at last, i do not really care'
this is autonomy
of indiscretions of feelings and all these are but
streams
of consciousness the usual candle tears taking shape
in a bowl of cold water
'we let it go'
we tell ourselves mutually about the release of what had been kept
for years
and we know no one understands what is these all about
a sewing machine
a pillow, a veil, a pin, an injecting sting,
a rope, a blanket,
an authority, a cushion, a bluffer,
a clown, and so on and so forth
you are finally misled about all these things
a scissor, a triangular cloth,
an umbrella,
a starfish,
the usual moon resting upon the trees
the sun peeping between two mountains early morning
the kid in town
finally planting the rice seeds
and the buffalo still enjoying the day in mud
there is plane that lands at the airport at 2 o'clock in the afternoon
when you are still taking your siesta by the verandah
and you are irritated and you tell yourself
'oh yes! ' this is all about it.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Mother's Steamed Rice
the sweetest song from the kitchen
that i hear
is mother's steamed rice
its smoke rising
to the ceiling
of our old wooden house
the smell so fresh
so sweetly scented with
pandan leaves
so heavenly
in broad daylight
i can see the moon and stars
beside the plate full of white steamed rice
are five pieces of salted fish
their skin charred with the cinders
their eyes staring
poisoned with so much envy
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Summer Days
love the summer days
a farm hut on the side of a hill
a bowl of fruits on the table
roasted chicken on banana leaf
upland rice on earthen jar
fresh water from the spring
a big mahogany tree for covering
your head on my shoulder
my hand on your hair
your feet above mine
under the night of stars
away from them all.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Asylum
My tears are blue,
My eyes, Purple, green and black-
Yours, I do not know the color of-
I may have met you before in some dark alley-
Your eyes are shut as you sleep- You, I do not know.
All eyes are upon me now- Orange, blue and yellow-
The sky is green and clouds are maudlin-
Blood falls from eyes of sorcerers,
Tears, blue as deep sea water- falling from my eyes,
My eyes are purple, green and black.
Trapped inside a place unknown-
Unknown to my spirit's heaven-
Locked inside this devil's paradise- I cannot fathom reality.
I weep blue tears, combining with the blood
Pouring from the ceiling so dank and dark-
Turning purple and magenta, in hue-
Your lips are red- red as rage,
My hair is dark and dark as is Satan's advocate's
Please somebody rescue me!
My tears are blue, my eyes,
Purple, green and black- the color of yours
Still remains a mystery- When shall you awaken?
Only in good time, my friend, only in good time-
The face of the clock on the wall is orange - Its hands lost in space-
I am lost and beside myself- while you sleep-
We are locked inside of an asylum- I heard-
You are sleeping, still as the locked door before us-
I wonder, are you dreaming or are your dreams turning to nightmares-?
My ears are ringing, I am blue- they just told me through the keyhole that
I am locked inside the world of my delusions?
Through your eyes I could read your thoughts but
Your eyes are closed as you sleep- and my eyes, are closed to the world.
Colors and more colors before me, my tears are blue,
I am blue-please release me from my pain.
I know I have been told in time I will be but the clock upon the wall
Has no feelings-just decorating this chamber of hell with
Its bright orange face as my blue tears fall
Onto the urine stained floors of this confinement-
My soul dissolves into nothingness, while blood drips from the ceiling-and
I wonder- do they make keys that unlock minds from the cells of their delusions?
Somebody just painted my world black and I am doomed to be trapped here
Forever…
poem by Claudia Krizay
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Being Lost In Cloudy Skies
it is the longing
denied
that these eyes
inflict pain upon
its macular
hole
it is this darkness
that is missing light
it is this
denial that presses
truth to the
edge
banging its head
against
the unprecedented
wall
the thoughts
fly upon its big
black wings
beak pointing to
a landscape
in that dream
clouds hang
fold upon layers and layers
blurring
the vision of
your destination
it cannot go back
it has no option but to
move and fly some more
it cannot fall
its feet cut by the sharp
edges of the winds
it finally becomes
an illusion
dissolving in flight
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Sleeping Beauty
Tangled locks of auburn hair
Tresses strewn o’er satin pillow
Silken sheets cool to the skin
Under limbs… lithe as the willow
Languid eyes neath limpid lashes
Tightly closed in dreamy slumber
Lips as soft as feathery ashes
Eyes as brown as earthen umber
Yet as I watch her… the truth is revealing
This woman beside me…this woman I keep
She’s ever so much… more appealing
When she’s ever so much more… deeply asleep
poem by David Whalen
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Eight Minutes To One
In the early hours the radio alarm
went off at eight minutes to one
despite me setting it earlier for six
and checking that it was on.
Now wide awake I rechecked the setting;
and I had definitely made no mistake.
I put it down to an electrical malfunction
and fell asleep until it was time to wake.
I didn’t think any more about the alarm
and continued with my normal day.
The alarm was already set for six o’clock
so I went to bed in the usual way.
At eight minutes to one the alarm went off
exactly the same time as the previous night.
Again I checked on my alarm settings
and again everything was set right.
This time I unplugged the whole radio unit
and recalibrated the time and alarm.
I was now happy that all would be okay
and fell asleep relaxed and calm.
The following night I went to bed as usual
and slept until eight minutes to one.
The cursed radio alarm went off again,
so this radio’s days were done.
The next day I bought an electrical travel clock
and tried out the alarm there and then.
It worked like a charm and I was very pleased,
so that night I went to bed at ten.
At eight minutes to one the alarm went off again
and I could hardly believe this to be true.
I was faced with a problem that had to be sorted,
and a mechanical clock should do.
I bought a large brass, twin belled wind up clock;
set the alarm and several times tried it out.
That night I retired expecting a good night’s sleep,
with no electrics to care about.
At eight minutes to one the alarm went off,
and I threw the clock against the wall.
I was now convinced something supernatural
was causing the earlier morning call.
Over the next few days I tried several clocks
and the alarms went off the same.
In the end I didn’t have a clock in the room,
and I never will again.
poem by Orlando Belo
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The Indian minor
It landed on the wall
that divided the front yard
from the back
where my yellow BMW
was sheltered under a roof
It was dark brown with a yellow bill
and sharp small black intelligent eyes
watching everything
much like a crow or raven.
Every now and then
it darted down
to land next to the bowl
with the dog’s pellets
pecking them up
as another bird would seed.
The dog would eat every now and then
and sometimes guard its bowl
lying there defying that bird,
but when ever it would go
that bird would
have its feast,
till one day
that I took that bowl away
into the dogs pen
and then that bird
sat screaming on that wall
as if I had stolen
his dearest possessions
from him
as if there was nothing else to steal.
poem by Gert Strydom
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