Upon A Day Of Reckoning
it is always i
who cleans the table from
morsels
who throws away the trash
of what is unconsumed from
the kettle
it is always i
who wipes the spilled milk
on the floor
who takes all the shit
on the sink
who kills all the bedbugs
on the pillow
it is always i
and on the day of reckoning
the table and chairs will be smooth
and glossy
the windows look to the other side without blinking
the door shall be mute forever
the hinges and frames all numb
on the last slamming.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Tinted Images
I remember tinted images
yellow and stained
in old wooden frames.
The glass was scratched and wavy.
They sat on a table next to a lamp
painted with naked cherubs.
The couch and chairs were covered in plastic.
I never asked why.
One day my father spilled his beer
no one panicked and I understood.
There were stories after dinner
with coffee and cigarettes.
I was young and don't recall them now.
We don't tell stories after dinner;
no one smokes anymore.
I have pictures in polished frames.
My couch is stained and the chairs are worn.
On a table next to the lamp
the one with naked cherubs
are the tinted images in the old wooden frames.
When the lamp is lit
I can see myself in the glass.
poem by Ronald Shields
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Learning To Love All The Mess
three plates remain unwashed
last night the cockroaches feast on the remains
of pork oil and morsels of rice
and bread
the dining chairs are not in place
looking like twigs in the park
after a storm
the table is littered with spilled sauce
the table cloth is stained
alcoholic
and the spoons and forks are still
having catchup on their tongues
and tails
the floor is foul with your dog's urine
and socks and shoes are roaming on the
living room
you guess it right
the universe is a big chaos
and so is this house
which is out of order
like a sink with leaking faucets
you want all your life to be in order
you wish a smooth and tidy place
vested with its own system
name-tagged and cabinetized
pieces
but it simply is not just
the way things work out
your dreams are silly
chaos and pandemonium are the orders of the
days of our lives
and so here i am with this firm resolve
to the flexibility of adaptability
for my survival
since disorder is the law
so must i obey it
to perfect my life and to put order
to my dreams and
properly accept this world's disposition
so must i
love chaos as well
go with the random flow of pandemonium
enjoy the errors
love the mistakes
and i swear to myself
beginning this ruinous day
that i,
wholeheartedly
must love all these mess
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Making Our Own Space
this morning i wake up late
i see misplaced things
lots of it, like dirty clothes
on the floor
unwashed dishes on the sink
blankets unfolded
pillow cases removed from
their pillows
unzipped pants
missing underwear
tumbled glass
spilled milk on the table
dogs waiting to be bathed and feed
i stand up to get my empty plate
take three spoonfuls of steam rice
and two pieces of fish
a cup of coffee and i go out of the house
sit on a bench under a tree
sunshine above me and air breezing on my chest
i eat alone
and something's good is growing inside me
i love it this way
my own space of peace
amidst disorder
my capacity to choose
what i do
despite the negligence of
others around me
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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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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The Banquet For The Spectator
the table is abundant
like life, but to be happy
i eat nothing,
i watch them all
fill their appetites
after this banquet
i ask them to take away
all that is unconsumed.
when the table is empty
what i have is full satisfaction
of course, i never tell them
i am polite.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Reincarnate....
she says she had been here
once
she remembers the exact
details
he was frying an egg
sunny side up as she wants it
to be
she sits on one of those rattan
chairs beside a
mahogany table
he is about to put a cup of coffee
brewing on her table
and that is it...
there was a big bang...flashes of light... then
darkness... reality sucks...
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Inside the House of Bread
Everyone has a table inside the house of bread
Pouring in into the chairs the fish have come to roost
Its already started to happen inside the house of bread
Feasting and Forever enough to go around the table.
And I keep to myself in the age of all this water
We can share an ocean but don’t drink from my open well
I wont mind sharing in the house of bread
Everyone at the table deserves to be fed
poem by James Daniel Gabriel
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He Has His Own Way
as i enter this cheap
restaurant he also sits
on the other side
of the table on one
of those dusty
rattan chairs
i take my bite
he puts his
toothpick between
his lips and leave
them there
for a while
his hands are
on the table
holding an
orange as
though it is
a cotton bud
that his fingers
play with
he looks at me
and i look at
him. I know what
he wants
any simpleton
will know what
the tongue
has been doing
on the toothpick
between his lips
i look down the
floor and then
i decide to
leave. It is not
the usual rush
hour in this
hot city far
from my
rural home
where the mountains
protrude to touch
a bulging blue cloud.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Religious Table
A table wooden to the bone cushions my side of the bone,
Tables and chairs, chairs and tables work hands and feet.
My real furnished appearance stages a welcome,
By talismans so religious and bold, and also stronger than the furniture.
The bones of a skeleton are brittle when time takes time,
Bone is sacred, bone is like a table of splendid nature.
My body is furnished with eyes and ears, faces so dear,
Letting light be knightly on the skin, with skin and skin.
The bones of religion collect by night and day,
Relics of the past demand recollection, everyday.
poem by Naveed Akram
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About Your Denial....
Do not think that i am speaking of death
your view must be limited like an afternoon without hope for light
You have pocketed a smile
as though you are preparing for your usual cry
Do not think that life has gone awry
like the glass that spilled the milk
rolled on the table and fell on the floor
the sound of shattered pieces of glass
that feeling of stain
that silence that expects the reverse
of what actually happened
Come to think of it
this is just a path where everyone passes
they look forward for something else
like an open door that leads to a garden
a pool
a line of coconut trees
another view of the sea
a net full of fish
Come to think about it again
i am talking about life that remains life forever
you know it well
as it is written in the main page of your heart
you feel its song
you have read each word
and your soul has mastered it well
But for the meantime that you are lost in the middle
of everyday affairs
you pretend that you have forgotten it
afraid of the next door that opens
you settle for a chair....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A New Door
i remember
this door was made
12 years ago
the day when i married you.
we chose clear lacquer
to keep its original
mahogany grain
we keep the gloss
and we were never
at loss.
there were loud slams
oh, i hate to remember
but there were also gentler closes
of this door
with all the tender intents
of not having to disturb
a single soul.
then the hinges begin to rust
and the door creaks and
screams getting louder
like the madness of the one
who fears
that love is finally gone.
the termites came
and the frames get hollow as
time pierces it
showing the emptiness
inside it as though
it was mere kind
of a seashell
the knob is finally broken
and the key to open it again
was lost
then we come back to our senses
after twelve years
the door has to be replaced
with a new one
this time white in paint
the hinges glossy copper
the knob in shining silver
and the key fits in without any sound
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Dad and Me
Inside our house you'll find crannies and nooks.
Crevices and cracks and fissures and books!
Books under the bed and on the floor,
Books around the table and beside the door,
Books on the bookshelf and surrounding it,
Books all over the house, every single bit!
Not a one of these books are non-fiction,
Different worlds are their depiction.
Fictional, sci-fi, dark and fantasy,
Horror and happy, more books for me!
Books belonging to my father,
Or belonging to me as I rather.
My father and I in bookworm heaven,
Until mum cleans up around half past seven.
She throws the books in a huff,
Says it's a mess and to clean it up!
Well dad and I try to clean,
But on the work we quickly wean
And in one of the larger nooks
You'll find dad and me reading our books.
poem by Lenore Lee
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The Other Side Of The Pillow
Cool as the other side of the pillow
Smooth as another glass of wine, oh yes sir
Im so glad ure my baby, oh yeah
Im so glad that ure mine
Bad as bonny when she ran with barrow {clyde}, yeah
When u kiss me, feels like Im committing a crime, oh yeah
U use furniture in new ways, yes you do
I cant find the adjectives enough to say
Im so glad ure my baby...okay (yeah yeah yeah yeah)
Cool as the other side of the pillow (oh baby)
So smooth theres another glass of wine (bubbly, bubbly)
Im so glad ure mine, ure my baby (oh yes I am), oh yes I am (oh yes I am)
Im so glad ure mine
Cool as the other side (ure my baby) of the pillow
Smooth, I wanna drink u all out
How did u learn that trick with the ... chair?
I dont care
Just as long as u do it again
Cool as the other side, cool as the other side, cool as the other..
Cool as the other, cools as the other side...
As the other side of the pillow, baby
Cool (cool),
Glas of wine
Ill get tipsy and I ... {whistling}
Cool as the other side of the pillow
Cool
song performed by by Prince
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Colonel
What you have heard is true. I was in his house.
His wife carried a tray of coffee and sugar. His
daughter filed her nails, his son went out for the
night. There were daily papers, pet dogs, a pistol
on the cushion beside him. The moon swung bare on
its black cord over the house. On the television
was a cop show. It was in English. Broken bottles
were embedded in the walls around the house to
scoop the kneecaps from a man's legs or cut his
hands to lace. On the windows there were gratings
like those in liquor stores. We had dinner, rack of
lamb, good wine, a gold bell was on the table for
calling the maid. The maid brought green mangoes,
salt, a type of bread. I was asked how I enjoyed
the country. There was a brief commercial in
Spanish. His wife took everything away. There was
some talk of how difficult it had become to govern.
The parrot said hello on the terrace. The colonel
told it to shut up, and pushed himself from the
table. My friend said to me with his eyes: say
nothing. The colonel returned with a sack used to
bring groceries home. He spilled many human ears on
the table. They were like dried peach halves. There
is no other way to say this. He took one of them in
his hands, shook it in our faces, dropped it into a
water glass. It came alive there. I am tired of
fooling around he said. As for the rights of anyone,
tell your people they can go f--- themselves. He
swept the ears to the floor with his arm and held
the last of his wine in the air. Something for your
poetry, no? he said. Some of the ears on the floor
caught this scrap of his voice. Some of the ears on
the floor were pressed to the ground.
May 1978
poem by Carolyn Forché
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An Ode for David
Inspiration
From a lopsided table?
Words written down
Told as a fable
Strange request you have
My dear friend
Inspiration I will find
This I do intend
Wooden Table
Possess my tongue
Wintered table
Cry from my lungs
Pen striking paper
You shall be my muse
May the bleeding ink
Cry of your blues
Splintered skin
In a corner rest forgotten
Winding legs
You stand wild as cotton
Pen stroke slide
Across your lofty floor
Three legs you stand
When you should have four
Awkward table
You have no friend
Ancient table
You've reached your bitterend
Should my pen learn sea legs
I'd love you once more
But, on three legs you stand
When you should have four
poem by Kay Gardner
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Solo
he takes his stand
and claims the right
to be where
he is
he holds the phone
and sings
his song composed
in front of the
wall
his chairs and table
his beam
his audience
attentive
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Home--Coming
From the howl of the wind
As I opened the door
And entered, the firelight
Was soft on the floor.
Mute each in their places
Were table and chair,
The white wall, the shadows,
Awaiting me there.
All was strange on a sudden!
From the stillness a spell,
A fear or a fancy,
Across my heart fell.
Were they waiting another
To sit by the hearth?
Was it I saw them newly,
A stranger on earth?
poem by Robert Laurence Binyon
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The day comes when you become the center of the universe
You sit in the middle of your house
The chairs and table and the trunks
Have become the planets that
Revolve around you.
You close your eyes and keep
Your arms beneath you.
You become the sun and the
Slits of lights coming from the
Leak of your roof and the windows
And shutters and blinds
Become your stars.
The silver basin on the sink
Has become your moon.
You clench your fists.
Your room has become
The empty space of your
Self-made universe.
The world is silent in its
Wholeness. You float and you
Travel alone along the edges
Of emptiness.
The morning comes and the
Dog opens your door
Licking your feet and face
And wagging its tail to
Catch your attention.
It sees you: bald, untrimmed
Beard, stinking skin, loose skin
In the arms and neck, broken teeth,
Bloated guts, crooked backbone.
It is the dog that loves you
You are its truth.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Other Girls
It only takes a minute,
Yeah a minute or two
Just like stubbing your toe
Or slamming the door on your finger
Pull out the singer
Then move on to the next little drama queen
Go and get some sleep
Dream
Yeah lay your head back and dream
About a girl you had
That broke your broken heart anon
The one that said shed love you from the start
And when the nightmares over come and take her for
All the memories, injuries,
Flower, cheats and hypocrisies
All the picture frames
And carpet stains
Say thank you for your time
Thats what other girls are for
If we wanted somebody wed make some more
No need to pick yourself up off the floor
Coz thats what other girls are for
It doesnt make a difference
It doesnt matter at all,
Shes just another chapter
Another Sunday morning hated,
Shes over rated
So send her flowers saying thank you for
All the memories, injuries,
Flower, cheats and hypocrisies
All the picture frames
And carpet stains
Say thank you for your time
Thats what other girls are for
If we wanted somebody wed make some more
No need to pick yourself up off the floor
Coz thats what other girls are for
Thats what other girls are for
Thats what other girls are for
Theres just something about them you know
Like top 40 radio
And if youre having trouble letting go
Maybe you should move to Canada
Now
Thats what other girls are for
If we wanted somebody wed make some more
No need to pick yourself up off the floor
Coz thats what other girls are for
Thats what other girls are for
Thats what other girls are for
Thats what other girls are for
Thats what other girls are for
Thats what other girls are for
song performed by by Bowling For Soup
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Canadian Folksong
The doors are shut, the windows fast;
Outside the gust is driving past,
Outside the shivering ivy clings,
While on the hob the kettle sings.
Margery, Margery, make the tea,
Singeth the kettle merrily.
The streams are hushed up where they flowed,
The ponds are frozen along the road,
The cattle are housed in shed and byre,
While singeth the kettle on the fire.
Margery, Margery, make the tea,
Singeth the kettle merrily.
The fisherman on the bay in his boat
Shivers and buttons up his coat;
The traveler stops at the tavern door,
And the kettle answers the chimney’s roar.
Margery, Margery, make the tea,
Singeth the kettle merrily.
The firelight dances upon the wall,
Footsteps are heard in the outer hall;
A kiss and a welcome that fill the room,
And the kettle sings in the glimmer and gloom.
Margery, Margery, make the tea,
Singeth the kettle merrily.
poem by William Wilfred Campbell
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