Too Tired To Notice The Storm Of The Earth...
i wake up early today
i open the windows and the door
the ground is flooded
the trees shed more leaves
the chickens' feathers are
thoroughly wet
some branches are cut-off
from those old tall trees
our dog is not wagging its tail
the lights at the kitchen are not turned off
by the looks of it
there was a big storm last night
i did not notice it
i was dead asleep
too tired of my own inner storms
my door is closed,
all my windows are shut.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Dropping By Your House This Morning
i dropped by your house this very early morning
the windows are closed
but the door is half-open
and i could have given in to this little curiosity
that cats keep on their paws
and soft feet
or hands if you may
but i didn't. there is something in the houe
that says
you had a bad day and that night you did not have
a sound sleep
the roses are wilting and a flower pot falls on the ground
broken
the soil splashed like spilled water on the grass
there is no sound of the wind
from the storm last night
i just dropped by. I respect you. The door of the house
finally closed
i did not see the hands that closed it.
it maybe yours
or someone else's
the rug has spoken. You want to be alone.
to keep the faint light left
in that little room. the curtains fall. the lights
went off on that very early morning.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Be Windows To Be Shut
Don't open the windows!
Cold air will rush in.
Don't open the windows!
Hot air will blow in.
Don't open the windows!
Mosquitoes are there.
Don't open my history!
Treacheries will snare.
Don't open my memory!
Debaucheries will slip out.
Don't open my very eyes.
I should not be a witness.
Let the windows be shut;
With that the past buried.
Switch on the air-conditioner.
Spray on the bed perfume.
I must enjoy my night
With the world outside shut.
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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No One Is There (revised)
i go home
and i open the door of this house
there is silence that greets the face of emptiness
the grass is but a green canvass
sprinkled with dead leaves
shades of brown and shattered sheen of lights
from the setting sun
a burst of orange, a slap of red,
gray colors hover,
black invades and triumphs
tonight, another round of applause
from lonely hands
my feet stamp the dusts
off my skin
the dog wags its tail
i close the door and shut the windows
i turn on the light
dimmer
i begin listening again to
the departing winds.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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After The Night Is Gone
the windows open
lights are turned off
there is one in the kitchen
at the back door
which you forget to close
which makes you
remember
who she once was
there is the grass trimmed
still insufficiently cut
there are shadows of leaves
there are whispers of gates
no one tells us carefully
every word rushes inside our throats
on blistered syllables
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Morning Lights Outside The Kitchen Door...
must it be habit
that makes you turn off the light
outside the kitchen
at the break of day
when the birds start to
sing their songs
you save on electricity
in the same manner that you budget
your time and
money
i've tried it once
not putting off the lights from morning
till night
some early birds that pick the early worms
passing by the house
with closed doors and windows
with lights not switched off
think that i am
dead
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Parade
As windows look out on windows here
They have to be kept closed often
Even if the sun and zephyr cannot enter,
When I'm tired of the walls
The television, the kitchen and the humdrum
I throw them open,
Catching eyes or movement,
On the other side
Now hurriedly shutting me out,
It's difficult to make friends -
No tenant stays for long
Next door or at the opposite window,
Perhaps driven to the suburbs
By the rent
Or opting for a city
With fewer desires -
I've seen a slow parade of faces
Like the infertile clouds
In the sky
Before they pass out of sight
Leaving no trace
Of their flight.
poem by Prabhakar Subramaniam
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A Repost Of The Past Poem
i step out of the door
from my dark room the windows are not open
it is humid and cold
i step out of the door the windows are still closed
i lock the door and step upon a patch of green grass
the dews are hanging on the blades and shaken
i look upon the sky
and there is this star still shining
despite the opening of the mouth of the morning
i was in deep slumber
i close my eyes
i see your face but i promise there shall be no tears.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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It Is Another Day
today shall be another day
do not think that it is the same sunshine
touching you
it will be another one
more warm
and will be even more comforting
you wake up so early when the windows
of your house are still closed
when the lights on the streets are still on
when the silence of the world still reigns
but soon enough you will hear the steps
of running men who rush to meet the day
with excitement with anticipation
for new thoughts for new adventures
do not just sit there and write
move your legs and run a mile or two
sweat it out and meet this world anew
till the new sun comes with the clouds
colors changing hues as birds start
flying in the air as trees grow to heights
as new leaves sprout as flowers along
the way start to bloom as if telling you
what a beautiful world we still have today!
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Life Is As Simple And Enjoyable As Sipping Coffee Early Morning And Enjoying The Scenery Of A Rustic Place
alright,
we simplify this
it is early morning
they have not awakened yet
the house is very peaceful
the windows are closed still
and the doors too
alright
stand, walk towards the window
open all of them
let the cold air come in
then walk towards the door
unlock it
and open it too and then
let the cold air
come in
you want coffee?
go to the kitchen
take a spoon a cup and saucer and
take sugar and coffee and
hot water
you know what to do, right?
feel at home
this is your home
now take your time
sit on a chair
face the trees
stir your coffee
feel it hot
and then sip
enjoy, savor the scenery of
this rustic place
feel the wind on your cheeks
take the warm side of the cup
alright,
is not life as simple as this?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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In my house
You enter a room to see a park
You close a door only to be led to another stairway
Leading you to another room with nothing but windows
You close a window the rest remains open
You close the windows and another door
In that park in the room where you just entered
Opens
Then you are confused about the roof that opens
To a river to the rocks where another door opens
To a wall with trees and birds and butterflies
This is weird you say, this is really weird
Then from the garage comes a wind that blows
Its horn like a car
I have just arrived offering you an explanation
For all these mess, these uncertainties, these self-made
confusions.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Prediction....
as usual we know about it as
hills know its trees
as grass knows its hoppers
and soil
but we don't talk about it
we dislike storms
it is horrible to see uprooted trees
and blown away houses
we leave things as they are
there is no ripeness yet
but the way you withhold love
and hide second thoughts
very give the signal of the coming days
a desert shall produce its own sandstorm
you prepare the door
i too, keep the windows.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I Step Out Of The Door
i step out of the door
from my dark room the windows are not opened
it is humid
it is cold
and i step out of the door the windows still closed
i lock the door and step upon a patch of green grass
the dews are hanging on the blades
and shaken
i look upon a sky
and there is this star still shining despite the opening of the
mouth of the morning
after a deep sleep
i see your face but i promise there shall be no tears.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Closed Door
sometimes we want to enter
a door
a closed door that does not open
no matter how hard we
knock
we try being courteous and gentle
and so patient
eating every waiting time
like we are the most foolish of all fools
knocking a closed door
seducing it more often with our
pleadings
begging and even compromising
for a dance
to convince the owner of the door to
open it
but no one hears, no one cares to listen
to our pleadings,
no one likes the dance of compromises
the door is still closed
and then the last crooked thing happens
we take the axe
and break the door which is closed
forcing it open
only to find that all the people there are dead
there is nothing inside
but mystery and
grief
an unsolved crime, no more
no less.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Our Arrival
our arrival is greeted by the wagging of a tail
and the jumping of a dog long denied
of company.
our arrival is the opening of the windows
the winds come
and once again kiss the furniture
and the room shows once more
the luster of an almost forgotten
fullness
our arrival shall keep the blankets
warm again
it shall unlock the bolts and shall
once more open a closed door
our arrival shall give us the sounds
of faucets
the flushing of an old water
inside the bowl long silenced by the
kind of absence that
sometimes want a revival of newer
perspectives
our arrival is a reconstruction of ourselves
for once again
we shall make the questions open
and then, if you only know, the meaning of things
that grow again, like seeds, these, all of these
shall make an arrival interesting....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Just What I Desired
'House for Sale'. is what the notice said,
I looked at it, then the name, I read,
The telephone number I noted as well,
I thought I might give them an early bell,
And find out what price it was they'd set,
And if it was possible, that I could get,
This place for a reasonably low outlay,
I'd better sort this venture out right away,
Cos this was the house that I desired,
As I stood there, and so much admired,
The neat front door, the windows tall,
The clematis growing along the wall,
This would suit me well, it's really fine,
Excitement shivered right down my spine.
Then just as I turned and made to leave,
A van drew up, and I had to grieve,
For on the notice board in letters bold,
They nailed the horrid word, that stated 'SOLD! '
poem by Ernestine Northover
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The Deserted House
Life and Thought have gone away
Side by side,
Leaving door and windows wide.
Careless tenants they!
All within is dark as night:
In the windows is no light;
And no murmur at the door,
So frequent on its hinge before.
Close the door; the shutters close;
Or through the windows we shall see
The nakedness and vacancy
Of the dark deserted house.
Come away: no more of mirth
Is here or merry-making sound.
The house was builded of the earth,
And shall fall again to ground.
Come away: for Life and Thought
Here no longer dwell;
But in a city glorious -
A great and distant city -have bought
A mansion incorruptible.
Would they could have stayed with us!
poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson
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Wistfully Watching
They explore the world
through windows,
church windows,
school windows,
two up, two down windows,
castle windows,
large windows,
small windows.
They see it all,
from blameless to guilty,
from noble to treacherous,
through windows.
From skyscraper windows,
to basement flat windows,
from paupers windows,
and palace windows
they watch, absorb, suck it in.
Later when they have grown
they will remember,
try to empathise,
rationalise
decipher the coded metaphors,
but some day
they will be demoralised
by the windows of life.
There they sit __ wistfully watching __
the children
of our times.
poem by Ruth Walters
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Windows To Bill Gates Or Paul Allen And History Of Windows
window's leaves
windows of open sea
windows as far as possible
windows easier
windows update
window shopper
window tablet
windows on the world
window seat
(Music by The Implicit Order) .
poem by Nicolas Grenier
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Frost Roses
Ice Roses
Frost on windows? Not where I live now, but where
I grew up, winter windows had thick layers of ice.
And in mornings, before anyone got out of bed, I
carved landscape and faces and saw my work fade
slowly away, by noon I could see the landscape
I had carved through clear windows, the mountain’s
stream, frozen solid now, and trees; mother’s face
also as she was busy in the kitchen baking bread.
I do not miss the cold Nordic land I came from, but
wish windows here too have frost roses, or be as
blank as a new page I could write. “I love you on.”
poem by Oskar Hansen
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I'll Let The Winter Blow
It’s a cold cold morning out there
But I, I wouldn’t know
My door is locked
My windows shut
I’ll let the winter blow
And there’s ice this time of season
But you, you will not be
The winter winds
The raging snow
Or ice inside of me
And I’ve heard my heart is frozen
But I, I wouldn’t know
My door is locked
My windows shut
I’ll let the winter blow
poem by Ben Paynter
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