To My New Neighbors
on this morning chat
she says she will be arriving on time
for the halloween
she will be lighting candles for her dead parents
and other relatives of this old town
offer them flowers and prayers that she can muster
she will be bringing her middle child
who starts to write his poems in his notebook
she tells me he is the silent type
the one who can thrive without a conversation
she shifts the topic about the color of the rails of her new house
the verandah is not pink now, it is painted white
and she is asking what flowers fit into the picture
i suggest the bougainvillas, the flowering ones already
sold in the nearby farm by an old lady
she is excited, she will be having us, as neighbors finally
our fence shall be a line of daisies
our yard evergreen, our trees shall be the ones with
perfume: the champacas and the ylang-ylangs
and expectedly, there will be a lot of laughter and
nice conversations of cultured and educated people
whose sense of morality would be high
the chat is quite long, and i decided i have to end it.
i have still other poems inside my mind.Unwritten.
What bothers me, and for which i am really interested
is the poetry of his middle child. I like someone who writes
like me. And i do not need a lot of conversations too.
i like my silence. I love the talk inside my silence.
I will burst.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Related quotes
The Privacy Of The Home
there is a party
but i am not going
i choose
staying inside the house
not watching tv
but just thinking and
lying low
listening to the silence
of the four walls, and then
i take the exit
outside i go
into the garden at night
under the trees
the scents of some
flowers pervading
and then i take a seat
on a big stone
and feel the hardness
of the earth
i am soft in the middle
of this garden
i like it
this private dwelling
just the trees and the
flowers
in the middle of the night
when everyone is
gone.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Moonyeen
frail lady Emily Dickenson
That is moonyeen
the girl of the night of chat
the student of the law website
asking questions
about some directions
what to do with her life
where to go
why
she is asking why
she is asking me why
i am making all things hard for her
as i threw questions of law and facts from a pile of law books
while i keep on writing my poetry and enjoying every situation
she has to read her
political law
her constitutional law with utmost logical objectivity
she is asking why i have made life hard and harsh for her
why i am cold and damp setting high standards on her legal studies
as i enjoy my craft of writing poems everyday
for days she is sad and would not chat
she shuts herself to all her difficult questions
while i
have sweet conversations with myself
i know her predicament though
she burns her candles with the law
while i sit peacefully under the cool shades of the trees
reciting all these love of life this zest for living
on the other hand moonyeen had to study her law
submit to the definitions of justice and equity
i have had all of that unjust stuff for years those dusty law years
and they serve no other purpose but for me to earn my living
to support my poetry and my love for this silly stuff
nonetheless makes me fully human fully alive!
these poetry which at the end will render
a disposition
who ever told you that life is fair?
whoever told you in the name of all our laws that life is fair?
that is the question assigned for moonyeen not just for this semester
but for the whole span of her lifetime
while i make my poems and read them all alone for myself.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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What Difference Does That Make?
What can anyone say to another,
When opportunities to have meaningful conversations...
Have been skipped to compare one's appearance,
To relatives, neighbors, pets and meaningless nonsense.
People have done this,
And for years make claims what they know.
When in actuality they know not a thing.
Not about the people they talk about or the surroundings.
And these are the folks who are expressing disbelief.
Whether it is about something done or what has been achieved,
Right next door.
Or the kind of lifestyle a relative lives and not one perceived.
There are people who have complete conversations,
Discussing other people they have yet to meet.
And when they see them in the streets they give them attitude.
Without one word ever shared or a hand extended to greet.
What can anyone say to another,
When opportunities to have meaningful conversations...
Have been skipped to compare one's appearance,
To relatives, neighbors, pets and meaningless nonsense.
'Hello.
I'd like to introduce myself...
Since no one else has done it.
And I don't want to be like them.
I'd like to establish a process,
That has a start that progesses to a middle...
And grows to produce positivity that never ends.'
~You know I know you.
Stop playing around.~
'What's my real name?
Not my nickname.'
~What difference does that make?
We still gon' be related.
What's your real name anyway?
I never knew that.~
'And you say you know me?
How? '
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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It Is A Habit
writing poems
when you really write poems
everyday and every moment of your life
even when you're in the middle of your
bread and butter eating thing
or even when you are defecating
writing poems becomes a habit
even when you sleep even when you dream
writing poems becomes a part of your system
you eat poetry you vomit poetry
you digest poetry you poo poetry
you breathe poetry you sweat poetry
you love poetry and you live with your poetry
and at the end you die with poetry
and your epitaph says: here lies the poet,
choked with poetry.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Under Pressure'
Back Chat Back Chat
You burn all my energy
Back Chat Back Chat
Critising all you see
Back Chat Back Chat
Analysing what I say
And you always get your way
Oh yeah see what you've done to me
Back Chat Back Chat
You're driving me insane
It's a battle to the end, knock you down you
come again
Talk back, talk back you've got me on the rack
Twisting every word I say
Wind me up and get your way
Fat chance I have of making a romance
If I'm ever to get the last word in
Take it from there
Twisting every word I say
Wind me up and get your way
Back Chat Back Chat
You burn all my energy
Back Chat Back Chat
Critising all you see
Back Chat Back Chat
Analysing what I say
And you always get your way
Wake up stand up and drag yourself on out
Get down get ready
Scream and shout
Back off be cool
And learn to change your ways
Back Chat Back Chat
Back Chat Back Chat
Back Chat Back Chat
Back Chat Back Chat
Back Chat Back Chat
Back Chat Back Chat
Back Chat Back Chat
Back Chat Back Chat
Back Chat Back Chat
song performed by by Queen
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Fence
Around my yard there stands a fence
It keeps the outside world out and I safe within
Though the structure is not that immense
It does the purpose as which it was built for and meant.
Neighbors and strangers it keeps out of my yard
Along with their trash and pets which does it harm
I am my yards protector, landscaper and guard
As it is my beauty, and not a trash bin or someone's farm.
My fence allows and welcomes the sunshine and the wind
Mother nature is always welcomed to visit and roam
The squirrels and the birds are always welcomed in
And welcome are the bee's with the pollen they've sewn.
Around my yard there stands a fence
It protects my yard from the enemies about
Too me it makes such perfect sense
Better to stop the entering, than for me to scream and shout.
As my yard is not the playground for a child to use
Or a shortcut for many persons to walk or run
As it it my yard which I won't neglect or abuse
And the work that I do on it, it will never be done.
In the summertime there will be plants to raise
And the leaves to rake when it becomes the fall
While hoping mother nature with me will always stay
And because of my fence, it will protect it all.
Around my yard there stands a fence
It protects and guards my yard everyday of the year
To others though it might cause an offense
As though it tells the people, not to come over here.
It is my yard which is mine to raise it like a child
To cut it and groom it and keep it nice for all to see
But truly it is GOD'S acre, which I saved from the wild
Then through the wonder of nature, in life I do believe.
So as days will come you will see myself in my yard
And sometimes you might see me nervous and tense
I hate clutter and trash so from there it is always barred
Also to protect my yard and myself, is my mighty fence.
Randy L. McClave
poem by Randy McClave
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The History Poems Have Not Been Written
The history poems have not been written
The poems after Milosz
The Wallace Stevens poems will never be written
I can’t come close
I have tried the Blake poems
But of course I am not near them either
I would like to the ironic intellectual poems
I might be able to do them
I could do a kind of surrealistic association mind poem a prose poem
But I don’t like that very much
The poems of Jerusalem have not been good enough
Poems of propaganda are awkward and unacceptable
The small poems that tell of my life
They are for me the chance at real poetry
And I will continue as best I can with them
The American poems I have not yet found the idiom for
I can be epigrammatic in Emerson Thoreau fashion
But not with the hard New England observing eye
Borges poems I love
And the stories of mind and literature
Making the drama of a life of a storyteller
Interest me
But I doubt I could truly do them well
Imitation can only take one so far
And through it one may lose one’s way entirely
I can really do only what I am
Not the Dickinson poems nor the Hopkins poems nor the Wordsworth poems nor the Keats poems nor the Amichai poems nor the poems of many others whose poetry I love
The Biblical poems have been tried
The poems of cosmic and scientific reflection
I could try to improve them
There are too many different kinds of poems to write
And I cannot write almost all of them
This is another poem about poems and poetry
I have written many for a long time now
Perhaps I need to go elsewhere and write in a new way
A way I have not dreamed or even remotely understood possible before.
The poems of the unknown poetry await me
I will go on but I am not sure now I know in which wa
poem by Shalom Freedman
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I don't write poems
I don't write poems,
I drink them like wine,
I become tipsy
with each coming line.
I don't write poems,
I breathe them like air,
I become so happy
when each one I share.
I don't write poems,
I live with them;
they prolong my years,
they are as true as I am.
I don't write poems,
I weave into verses
sadness, joy, tears,
prayers, love, curses…
My poems talk and sing,
Sense of living they bring.
©Larisa Rzhepishevska (Odessa, Ukraine)
26th of April,2012
poem by Larisa Rzhepishevska
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Back Chat
Back chat back chat
You burn all my energy
Back chat back chat
Critising all you see
Back chat back chat
Analysing what I say
And you always get your way
Oh yeah see what youve done to me
Back chat back chat
Youre driving me insane
Its a battle to the end, knock you down you
Come again
Talk back, talk back youve got me on the rack
Twisting every word I say
Wind me up and get your way
Fat chance I have of making a romance
If Im ever to get the last word in
Take it from there
Twisting every word I say
Wind me up and get your way
Back chat back chat
You burn all my energy
Back chat back chat
Critising all you see
Back chat back chat
Analysing what I say
And you always get your way
Wake up stand up and drag yourself on out
Get down get ready
Scream and shout
Back off be cool
And learn to change your ways
Back chat back chat
Back chat back chat
Back chat back chat
Back chat back chat
Back chat back chat
Back chat back chat
Back chat back chat
Back chat back chat
Back chat back chat
song performed by by Queen
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Her Letter Dated July 1,2008, To Me, It Is Poem By Itself
I wonder how many more poems related to me I've missed.
I also wonder if you're a mind-reader.
Every springtime when the cherries bloom,
I do think of fire trees dotting Mt. Makiling
and lining the highways of Los Banos.
When wisterias bloom here,
I think of the jade vine in Makiling forest.
The pink, red and white flowers of azalea are pretty when they bloom in April to May,
but they can't compare with the explosion of colors of bougainvillea flowers trailing over the terraces of the buildings of IRRI where I used to work years ago.
I wonder if they are still there.
I did ask my father to plant ylang-ylang or sampaguita years ago,
because in Dipolog,
I can hardly find them anymore.
But father preferred palm trees, orchids, and anthurium.
Yes, I'll always miss the land of my birth.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I can hear in the silence
The silence of our conversation
Is worse than anything you can say
And that fact that there's but silence between us
Is well to my dismay
I love you so much
Yet silence is the only thing I let escape
...... ....... ...... ....... ........ .......
Silence draped over our conversations
Like a long, black cape
There's so much I want to tell you
But I know I wouldn't
And I want to scream at you
But I know I shouldn't
...... ....... ...... ....... ........ .......
I know you want to say something too
Of this I'm sure
But it is only so little
That you or I will endure
The few times we talk
I can hear it in you voice
I can her uncertainty
And the need to make a choice
...... ....... ...... ....... ........ .......
I wish silence would leave
Once and for all
Then maybe we could have better communication
Perhaps even outside a phone call
And I try so hard
Just like I try to make this poem rhyme
But it just takes too much effort
And way too much time
But you can't expect me to let silence take over
And if you do you are very wrong
And if we continue like this
We won't be together long
And I bet that's what you want
....
........
............
......... .......
The silence continues.....
And so does this game
What's worst is I know
That I'm the only one to blame
It's all my fault
It's because of what I did and didn't do
And it hurts so much
Because I'm so in love with you
...... ....... ...... ....... ........ .......
I can hear in the silence
What I've heard for some time
You don't say anything
But I know what's on your mind
You leave behind silence
In the dark abyss that is my heart
And what's worst is
I, myself, tore it apart
...... ....... ...... ....... ........ .......
When I realized what I was doing
It was already too late
Just another
Twist of my terrible fate
And silence took over
A silence caused by me
A silence that's eternal
A silence that won't leave
................
............
.... ....
....
.
poem by Tee Anderson
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An Ode to Halloween
I am new to writing poems and I hope I can learn from all of you.
By the way, I learned how to write this kind of poem because of
An Ode to Christmas. Thank you very much!
An Ode to Halloween
When you see a child
In a costume scary and wild
You know it is Halloween.
When kids go trick-or-treats
And get lots and lots of sweets
You know it is Halloween.
When the trees give up their yellow leaves
And the dead give back their R.I.P.s
You know it is Halloween.
An Ode to scrumptious snacks
An Ode to skeletons that clack
An Ode to Dracula
An Ode to tarantulas
An Ode to Halloween
An Ode to the year’s best time
An Ode to clocks that chime
An Ode to Halloween
Two Old Friends
when we were children
we were already friends
in the middle of our own poverties,
we struggled to rise from the lowest
echelon. Years passed. And now
we see each other again.
His fingers are filled with diamond
rings, as big as a fist of a child.
His coat is expensive.
Everything in him is expensive now
His car. A picture of his beautiful wife.
A corporate lawyer too in the
city. He will be taking the bill
tonight in this expensive restaurant.
The finest wine. The exotice cuisine.
As usual, I will do the talking,
as always, since then, he had
always been on the side of silence.
Ask him to tell a joke, he says
he has none. Ask him to tell a
story about himself, he says
there is nothing nice about
his past. Ask him about his
present, he says there is nothing
worth talking about himself.
He has all the secrets hidden
inside his silent gazes. He smiles
to every story that i tell. He
likes my company.
Inside my mind, i could have
asked him: how many persons
have been killed in your name?
How many assets are taken
mercilessly from the hands of
your economic foes? What
brain is this that keeps on
acquiring and scheming and
killing who obstructs his way?
He is my friend, as always and
i do not have the right to ask.
The night is over. It is time to
go home. We are on separate cars
now and he tells me, 'take care! '
Sometimes, i ask myself if i understand
what life is all about really. I am home,
And i decided not to preach,
even to myself. I honk the car,
and the gate opens.
It is 3 o'clock
in the morning.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I don't
Many people write
For their true emotions to unravel
Out of depression, angst, spite
But I can’t
I don’t write poems when I’m sad
They write from their experiences
When he left me
When they died
Bringing tears, causing cries
But I can’t
I don’t write when I’m sad
The tears dutifully stain my cheek
And roll on and on
Through and through
Down
Down
Down
But I can’t
And I don’t write poems when I’m sad
And all the anger and sadness
Thrust inside of me
Just bursting to get out
Screaming
Pleading
Begging to get out
But they can’t
Because I don’t write poems when I’m sad
And I don’t know what to do
How to express my pain
And woe, and the feeling
It drains me, and it shows
But there’s nothing I can do
Because I don’t ever write poetry when I’m sad
Talk More Talk
A master can highlight the phrases,
Sleasy instruments, half talked, half baked ideas...
Dad, you didnt say o.k....
The window was open, outside was a spaceship,
(a master can highlight the phrases) it took off into the sky
Leaving a trail of smoke behind it...
Short of the standard. was it the sun?
What was rehearsal? conventional drum?
Not quite a hundred. less that a ton.
Clearly the time came, the plan had begun.
With talk, more talk. chat, more chat.
Words of a feather are worn in a hat.
Talk, more talk. chat, more chat. Im happy to do it for you...
Developed since earlier days at the school
Cheapest sensations were used as a rule.
Outstanding to memory, major free flow.
Bio-degradable, look out below for...
Talk, more talk, oh I love to hear the gentle sound
Of conversation sprinkled around
A room where I can be at one with you for...
Talk, more talk. chat, more chat,
Words of a feather are worn in a hat.
Talk, more talk. chat, more chat. happy to do it for you...
Im happy to do it for you... Im happy to do it for you,
Im happy to do it, Im happy to do it... Im happy to do it for you.
Digital organ, finishing stretch, instrumentation, analogue gretsch.
Not quite a thousand, lower than that.
Possible bargain for listening at that...
Talk, more talk. chat, more chat.
Words of a feather are worn in a hat.
Talk, more talk. chat, more chat.
Im happy to do it for you...
All you want is a handyman and all you want is quick service.
Because Im a house owner. Im a house owner.
It may be worth something someday.
I hear water going through the pipes.
I dont actually like sitting down music. music is idea.
Talk, more talk. chat, more chat.
Words of a feather are worn in a hat.
Talk, more talk. chat, more chat.
A master can tell, highlight the phrases his words to digress
Grey flannel trousers... grey flannel trousers.
A blazer and grey flannel trousers.
song performed by by Paul McCartney
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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All My Poems Rage In Me
ALL MY POEMS RAGE IN ME
All my poems rage in me,
Written and unwritten
But now I only write this one down
As if it in this moment
Stands for all of them.
Oh God what would I be
Without the poems
And what I am really
With them?
The day has been so long
And the twilight has come
And silence is all around me
And the Poems continue to rage
As if I never lived
And they too
Only will die.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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M4
this is a bright day for us
the sun is mild, the air is 26 degrees,
the grass carry the morning dews
the flowers are fully dressed with their
bright colored petals to please the hours
inside the house the leather furniture
glosses over an event
the walls are painted white the beams
and trusses all yellow green
the garage is finally porcelain tiled
expensive tastes dominate here
time is short, the weather gives in
for something that won't last
and then the dirge marches in
a Sunday dress, beloved mourners
the prayers are sung, the candles lighted
another important shit is gone
in this far away town.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Child, The Man And The Old Man....
i look at the child
at the farther nook of a old house.
there is no chair and beside the door
is a box, it is empty
and the child in fear
took its hiding there
a favorite place
safety box, safe house,
the four corners are
so silent
and the child is happy
asleep in a moment.....
time travels like horses with wings.
there is a man
with a long bird his toenails
are long, no time to cut them
it throat is swollen
bacterial infection again
or the weather changes
cold this time then hot in
a moment
dusts all over the place
and white painted houses
it is lonely, child and man
at the same time
and not one of him speaks
they become one box
and one flap opens to
a sky
always there are
no extra hands. it is reality.
there is an old man
with words of thread
sewing upon its lips.
there is a very dark night.
the child, the man and the old man
are asleep
inside a box, safe and
silent.
there is no morning.
it is final.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I Have Always Liked Your Silence
as you sit beside me
i have always liked your silence
running deep inside
my veins
like good blood.
i hate the way i always talk
but i could not stop
lest we both be silent
and sounding nothing
but dead
i am coping up with
what lack you have
and i envy you
for that
you are determined
in this silence
i am hesitant and prefer
my persistent noise
at least for the meantime
that we are waiting
for nothing to come
i like your
silence but i guess
you have nothing to say
and too
prefer
my talk, my restlessness
my world
where you cling
in the middle of your
sorrow.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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0005 Totally Boring Poem
I’m totally bored by:
poems that sound like other poems
poems that try to sound unlike any other poems
poets who never take risks
poets who think that taking risks
makes them good poets
poems with 'meaning'
poems with no meaning
poets who slag off other poets
as if that achieves something
poets that tell you that rhyme
is not for an age but for all time
poets that tell you that rhyme is outmoded and boring
poets who think that the poetry of 'the past'
is greater than that of 'the present'
poets who think that the poetry of 'the present'
is greater than that of 'the past'
poems that tell you the poet's the first to discover sex
poets that tell you they’re the best sex you’ll ever have
although you’ll never meet them to find out
poets that tell you they’ve been dumped
poets who've never known love and being dumped
poets who are ambitious
poets who are unambitious
poets who tell you all about higher things
poets who reject higher things
poets who think life’s just a joke
poets who think life’s no joke
poets who sit on the fence
poets who have no sense of balance
poets who despise 'the middle ground'
poets who talk about technique
poets with no technique
poets who just throw down their thoughts
poets who 'work up' their poems to a self-satisfied polish
poets who list what they like (who cares?)
poets who list what don’t like (who cares?)
poets who write about extreme states
poets who think they’re immune to extreme states
poets who tell you why they’re bored
poets who have opinions
poets who seem to have no opinions at all
poets who have boring opinions to air - why choose poetry?
poets who comment on others' poems
as if it's the last word
poets who never bother to comment
on others' poems
poets who don't love poetry passionately
poets who tell you they 'love poetry passionately'
poets who – oh I’m too bored to go on reading this,
how about you?
I suppose you have boring opinions too?
another time perhaps
and oh yes I'm most of all bored by
those who waste their precious time on this earth
being bored
well I feel better for that.
how about you?
poem by Michael Shepherd
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