To Be Content About What Is Missing
i rush to pluck words
from the twigs of memory trees
lining on the avenues
of my mischief
words are flowers
and thoughts are colors
my lips are hands
with open fingers
i think of you
as always
i feel you like air
inside my lungs
i see nothing but
i am content about what is missing
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Related quotes
Something Visual
Something visual and so vivid
Are still hard to write
One shot in film
Would have been easy
To picture curves
And tangential lines
That even criss-cross
Using words
Is a big challenge,
Like
Capturing a crocodile
On a fish net, it would even
Be harder using words
To capture illusive motions
Of white milk spilt on
Monochromatic tiles,
Or
The leaping of a fish
On the pond trying to
Eat a moth or a dragonfly
Hovering on a blade of
Grass and what about
Air,
Invisible getting
Inside my lungs, that
Feeling of life moving
Inside me,
And
What about
Blood running in the veins
To remove numbness of
My fingers,
All
These
Are challenges in words
In what to write,
To a jumping fish
Capturing, swallowing
A blue dragonfly,
Or
The air rushing
To my lungs,
Or
To the
Blood rushing to my numb
Fingers,
All these give a feeling
Of relief,
All
These somehow
Return life, and it makes
Us all feel good…
Something visual in words
Motions captured and colors
Brushed in word, in words
Something visual
And life-giving
To be caged in words,
Such will be your big challenge.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Taking A Glance At You
taking a glance at you
is poetry in itself, by itself and for itself.
there are words in my eyes
they speak in silence. They long to tell you what i feel.
there are hands on my lips. There are fingers there.
They long to go near you and kiss your lips too.
i see you as words too. Your eyes are images of my
own happiness. Your lips are shaping the shapes of ships
and they have sails to take me away to ecstacies.
i feel you as words of love, and lust and desire insatiable.
my fingers want to read every syllable in your face.
you have always been my poem.And there are so many of you
in all of them.
words, and images, and ecstacies. faces and compositions.
i love all of them. And this time i take a glance again.
at you. this poem. this is you. Believe me.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Read My Lips
verbal silence. read my lips.
if you see them.
read the words. read it here.
these words. read them like
flowers in the garden.
these words speak a little.
tips of the iceberg. They are less
compared to the color of my eyes
the warmth of my fingers
the suppressed beatings of my heart.
these words that you read.
if only you can see my lips.
if only you can see my face.
and body, naked on the flowing sheet of
pure paper. IF only you know
what silence means, how emptiness
eats it, if only you know how inferior
verbs and adjectives are
compared to the caresses of the hands
and the tenderness of the fingers,
touch.
read the lines silently.
these words do not shape my lips.
they come to your eyes.
in the silence of your understanding.
never shall they speak
about me. they only talk about
the hands that write sometimes
without any meaning at all.
infinitives are not infinite.
neither do verbs know what is it to be still.
and adjectives talk only about the surface.
deep under, the noise begins.
and silence of the verbs move to another side.
now, the mountains of ideas collapse
and bury the casualties of silence.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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My place of dreams is not your place
My dreams are of these kinds
Inside the portals of my sleep
It is not for you to live here
Everything is so flimsy
Ephemeral and
Gossamer-like
So disappear, go away where you
May feel alive
Where you are
Living a life concrete as a stone
A landmark of iron
And steel and sounding cobblestones
My thoughts are see-throughs
That you cannot touch
With your fingers
They go through like the air that
You want to grasp and hold
Because in truth my words are fire
And flames
These are the thoughts of the world
When no man was yet created
When no man was yet alive
It is not your kind of thoughts
Your kind of dreams
These words I have been weaving
Inside my heart and mind
They will surely burn you
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I Feel I Can't Feel My Own Feelings
I feel,
I feel like a stranger with my own feelings
I feel like an outcast in my own healing
I feel like deception in my own truth
I feel like a coward in my own greatness
I feel like a loser in my own victory
I feel like the victim in my own attack
I feel I can't find right words from my own lips
I feel am opting out of my own success
I feel my soul dodging my own body
I feel my failing exceeding my own guts
I feel my nightmares overcoming my dreams
I feel dejected in my own being
I feel a refuge in my own nation
I feel missing in my own premises
I feel blind with my own open open eyes
I feel empty with my own well-informed mind
I feel stolen with the divine likeness am wearing?
I feel you could tell me what you feel am feeling right in my feelings.
poem by Iyamuremye Wilfred
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My passion n views
When you meet old friends, tears may rush in
Heart becomes heavy with lovely scene
You find no words to express and speak
It used to have been for days and weeks
For sweet memory and talks, not only days
but nights with long hours will be less
years may pass by and there will not be any trace
but at the end you may the worries on the face
Nothing will appeal not even sea side or public places
Neither big gardens with flowers nor big palace,
Not even the country side with green fields any more
No hill top with white snow or no sea beaches or shore,
You go into deep memory and feel so sad,
when news reaching to you are really bad
Your beloved is on death bed and very sick,
Not able to talk and walk even with stick,
As the rose is considered king among flowers
Natural bathe under fountain fall is best in shower;
Best friends are counted on fingers and may be fewer,
like good shows may draw less viewers
'Thoughts' were between us most so in common
Before I could pen them she wrote it down
Expression in thoughts and most in action
still remained calm and offered no reaction
will she be true to her promises and same again?
I am sure time may not be same for certain,
before it can dry and run out,
something should be done and read about
will I be put to shame and face it again?
She uses words of respect often and often,
I smell rat in game and find loss and no gain
force me to think and to find out way to regain,
Should she talk to me and show the face often?
Eyes may not to be same to sparkle again
Face may not reveal composure any more,
had I insisted upon and ask more this before?
She argues' on face that stands veiled'
eyes are always closed and happiness can’t be hailed
Face can’t bear smile and lips are sealed
Deep wounds are there but can’t be healed
Can my age be given to her and added?
Will his beloved be back in her fold again?
Fortunes should smile and offering no pain,
what do I expect? Efforts should not go in vain,
I have to cross seven high seas and reach
How to come closer to shore or beach?
Should I rush to her with clipped wing?
Against the odd and high speed wind,
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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In This Bin
in this bin
i put
everything
pains, sorrows,
&
joys, happiness
my bin
and my own alone
like some mailbox
of my
emotions
this is a world
where
i am: open, close
mystery,
double talk
whisper
shout
angry, scream, howl,
wail,
this is where
i can be everything: a mocking bird, a werewolf, an angel,
devil,
crocodile, merman, worm, fish, butterfly
eagle
monkey, ghost, soul,
passionate body
fingers, hands, feet
lips
all the feelings and colors
of my mind
feel me, as i too feel you
what have i to gain
what have i to lose
you say, you think, words, words, and nothing but words,
no,
no,
do not reduce everything to simple terms of words
and letters
and syllables,
this is a field where i have sown the seeds of my self
and some flowers
begin to bloom here, and some fruits are ripe for the picking
i like you being the child who climbs
the tree where my fruits are sweet and ripe
i like you being the lady who comes along
and picks my flowers
i like you being the wind that helps my clouds
drift only to be alive
crossing the boundaries of space between
peaks of mountains
this is not a dustbin anymore, this is my house
this is my dwelling
there is a soft easy chair in my mind
a glass vase with a red rose
glazed with dew
like my tears, like my eyes that i am hiding
for you not to clearly see
this is not just a dustbin, this is now my home
come
come
come
make this your home, enter my door, follow me
in the labyrinths of my feelings
my hopes and dreams
come
come
come
take a seat, and have breakfast with
me
see the glass window opening to a view
of the pines and the green mountains
a little frost may blind us
but here we are, i have prepared you tea
and
sympathy and some stories about myself
listen, and be free, to tell your stories too,
the sun has just shone
and indeed, it is a very new day.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Your Three Words
you write about
three words, and i predict
them from the
beginning,
i look at how your
name spells
letters arranged
so easy to remember
and you hint
about the three words
that i also know....
i know you mean
i love you..
cute, tickle me, like
high school sweethearts
you like it
giggling words
i love you
but grow a little
bit, grow the length of my arms
and muscles on my thighs
grow the nails
in my fingers
some dirt in there
some stains
in my hands
grow some more
yes, have white hairs
and wrinkled forehead
and trembling hands
and some sad stories
as you go along
some griefs
that you cannot contain
move on
with such words as
i quit
i am fed up
move on, grow, let time eat you
bloat in silence
store everything
inside your chest
and hit it with your
fists
do not cry
toughen your jaws
have a rope ready
loosen it a bit
for a while
on the benefit of a
doubt
something that
is reasonable
now, think deep
thoughts
and inhale more air
then exhale
tell me, what are those three words
in your throat?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Red sun, black air, tiny lights of the city
Red glowing sun, fire, flames, hot spittles
To the tiny lights of the city, this city of sin,
Black air that we breathe, smoke rising from
Our hair, warmth from our armpits, sighs and
Quivers, the longings that never stop, and the
Rain that fall heavily today, our thirsts still
Thirsting, our hungers still hungry, our instincts
For destruction coming out from our throats and
Hands, we can do more than what Is expected
We break some twigs, we pluck some flowers
We never thought about the problem of how
To reconnect twigs and flowers and scents
God creates, and we are so hardheaded
Ours is always to destroy and then leave.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Author's Inspiration
My fingers do not type the words on the page; they do not draw delusions on a thin piece of white lined paper. They are not meant for the works of art to be used and unworthy for. My fingers are worthy enough to paint pictures inside your cognizance, more than painting a paintless sheet that means nothing to me. My fingers work as if every picture I paint in my mind, inspires them to write the unwritten page, to make it a master piece. But not every inspiration inside my mind, will take merely a second to create. It takes time, patience, and art to smear the writings onto a page. Author inspiration is from what comes from the heart; deep and dark, inspring and light - it's as if it was left inside its cage. No freedom, no light, no darkness, no being of a creature that the render of the paper, simply gave up on inspiring the little ones'. It's as if this mere creature was left within a white blank world. No colors to paint, no words to express. An author inspiration is formed when they see or hear other works of art, whether it's music to their ears, movies they wish to be in, life and feelings that they feel or positioned in, or other writings that they write something else about - but as an inspiration from them. An inspiration can be from anything from the outside world, from what happens inside one's life, to what creates such imagination within one's thoughts that coats the page with color and creativity. Anyone can be talented. Anyone can have an inspiration. You just have to feel and be it.
poem by Alicia Meyers
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The Human Mind Is Like! ! !
The human mind is like
playing checkers without the board
doing a crossword with out any words
eating soup with your hands
sleeping with your eyes open
playing golf with no clubs
baking cookies without dough
throwing a board at the darts
riding a bike with a wheel missing
fishing without a line
putting your contacts in backwards
going on a blind date with yourself
etc
in other words the human mind is crazy
man what a rush
poem by Vincent Armone
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Engrossed In The Making Of Art
it is this absurdity of choosing words
for a nice handiwork
knitting some fairies in some mathematical colors of threads
some butterflies and flowers in bright colors
a painting in cloth and threads
takes time
when she is finally hypnotized
falling into a deep sleep
inside a room
where she is alone on dim light
i open the door
i see the best handiwork of God
a woman so indulged so engrossed
in her art sleeping.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Engrossed Grandmother In Her Cross Stitching
it is this absurdity of choosing words
for a nice handiwork
knitting some fairies in some mathematical colors of threads
some butterflies and flowers in bright colors
a painting in cloth and threads
takes time
when she is finally hypnotized
falling into a deep sleep
inside a room
where she is alone on dim light
i open the door
i see the best handiwork of God
a woman so indulged so engrossed
in her art
sleeping.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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You Took The Words Right Out My Mouth
It was a hot summer night and the beach was burning
There was a fog crawling over the sand
When I listen to your heart I hear the whole world turning
I see the shooting stars
Falling through your trembling hands
You were licking your lips and your lipstick shining
I was dying just to ask for a taste
We were lying together in a silver lining
By the light of the moon
You know there's not another moment to waste
Not another moment
Not another moment to waste
You hold me so close that my knees grow weak
But my soul is flying high above the ground
I'm trying to speak but no matter what I do
I just can't seem to make any sound
And then you took the words right out of my mouth
Oh-it must have been while you were kissing me
You took the words right out of my mouth
And I swear it's true
I was just about to say I love you
And then you took the words right out of my mouth
Oh-it must have been while you were kissing me
You took the words right out of my mouth
And I swear it's true
I was just about to say I love you
Now my body is shaking like a wave on the water
And I guess that I'm beginning to grin
Oooh, we're finally alone and we can do what we want to
The night is young
And ain't no one gonna know where
No one gonna know where
No one's gonna know where you've been
You were licking your lips and your lipstick shining
I was dying just to ask for a taste
We were lying together in a silver lining
By the light of the moon
You know there's not another moment to waste
Not another moment
Not another moment to waste
And then you took the words right out of my mouth
Oh-it must have been while you were kissing me
You took the words right out of my mouth
And I swear it's true
I was just about to say I love you
And then you took the words right out of my mouth
Oh-it must have been while you were kissing me
You took the words right out of my mouth
And I swear it's true
I was just about to say I love you
song performed by by Meat Loaf
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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the handiwork of God
it is this painstaking
choice of words
for a nice handiwork
knitting some fairies
in some
mathematical colors of threads
some butterflies
and flowers in bright colors
using strictly the mandate
of numbers
a painting in cloth and threads
taking her
time
when she is finally
hypnotized
falling into a deep sleep
inside a room
where she is alone
on a dim light
of her loneliness
i open the door
to check on her
inside the cramped room
i see the handiwork of God
a woman so indulged
so engrossed
in her art
so weary
and dedicated
in passion sleeping.....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Words
we open the doors to worlds unknown
when we sit and read.
words help us to travel
this earth far and wide
even makes us soar high into the sky.
words can tell us of the past
the present, and even the future.
if we only look
inside a book.
words to make a contract
words to make a vow
all these words
we can use right now.
words tell your feelings, your thoughts, desires, passions
likes, dislikes, fears, joys
but most of all, love can express the love you have within.
for a mother, father, sister, brother
for a man or a woman.
your chest becomes overwhelmed
with the feeling that you have inside.
a love that you can not hide.
a love so strong that it consumes your soul
a beautiful wonder to behold.
for it rises higher than the highest mountain
and deeper than the deepest sea.
when you say those special words
'you belong to me'.
words sharpen the mind to all that is done
like the rising of the sun.
if we could not see or hear words,
it would be like living in darkness.
and never learning to appreciate
what we was given.
so these words i write today
expresses what i want to say.
without words we could not live
and that my friend
would be a down right sin.
poem by Louis Rams
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You And Everybody
Again you made friends, words
wanted to leave the paper blank
for the parched lips,
crying eyes,
trembling hands.
Missing stanzas,
flowing river,
rootless floats.
You did not feel like-
time filled you every minute,
you were empty, poor.
When you read the end
you understood beginning.
Will to die was not sufficient
you had not completed the script.
Alone in crowd you wanted words
to commit suicide.
Democracy was a funny name.
Everybody was sad, except the lead
who did not know where to go.
One day you found your voice
and were surprised
you were everybody
when you were hurt, you bled inside
and your blood then mixed with
the blood of everybody. Then everybody cried
and you became separated from you and did not say anything!
poem by Satish Verma
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Fruits Of Your Words
Everything in this world has an end
Even the sugar
Even the pain
Will find an end
Soon or late,
Nothing lasts
Forever
Even the pain
So be nice to others and you will gain
Be aware of the words that comes out of your thoughts
A word can heal another may hurt
So try to be kind with your words
May you can heai some thoughts
Once they come out of your lips
Never returns so escape the falts
Your words are the mirror of your thoughts
And your works are the fruits of your soul's
So keep the kindness inside the soul
And speak the kind words
Passengers we all are in this world
Try to keep the good job up
If you can't heal
Try to not hurt
Your words explain your thoughts
Take your time before you talk
Don't forget that a word can change the world
So keep the good work up
Try to plant a flower
Everywhere you go
Soon the world becomes a colorful garden
The good we do is eternal
Even when we are gone.
poem by Sossi Khachadourian
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When I Will Meet You Again
when i meet you again
i will not use words
i will not utter your name
i will look at you and go closer
my lips closer to your lips
my hands caressing your hands your hair your body
i will have no use of words
they will be unnecessary and time so short shall have no regrets
for i shall have your kiss your sweet caress
i have no use of words for i shall make love with you the whole night long.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Those Feelings Who Let You In
Those feelings who let you in are going now,
Lighting out in that terrible fog:
The last one I can feel is the one letting me know,
Holding the door open as we wave the others goodbye:
What a foolish thing, ambition,
To want to know the avenues to your
Neck, displayed like a creature
Of the sea naked on the foaming shore
Without its dress of shells:
I liked these words I curled for you,
Because I wanted them to be my tongue
Slipping between your lips when you were not looking:
When you were talking with the other man:
I wanted to surprise you,
And let that me by occupation:
To inhabit your heart as if it were my preservation:
I, a naturalism, and your chest the habitat of my study,
But I was never so good at satire
To make you look a second time at me:
The embolden language of my parents’ rejection,
A child making a mess in his lonely room,
I accomplished that:
I became a fool for you, but look at this.
Here is the conclusion to the thing.
There are still many words to be said,
And people to say them as they wake up for class:
There is a room I am in,
And outside there are trees,
And the sky in its haunted night too cold to follow-
Languages and lovers and roller coasters aplenty,
But none for me-
I graduated and that is that,
And now is the time for my simpler plot:
No more essays, or thoughts of you:
The way you lighted the predawn hours
Where the men were busy selling the fruits
Which would soon travel northwards,
To be bought in the morning-
I loved you, as I told you, but I am still here:
My words should become silent now,
A mute theatre, a holocaust,
A simpler traveler abiding the rules:
And you, the untamed migration
That is lost.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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