Upon A Harsh Environment
how can words be as soft
as flour
to make a dough
of bread that is hard
enough
to break your teeth?
for how long shall the sifting
be done
on such a very fine mess
soft rain on the rocks
silk scarf on the white slender neck
of a woman
waiting for her man to pick her up
along a dark alley
towards the city of
hope and dreams
i remember i once wrote
about a red rose
growing upon a crack on the wall
on such a rugged environment
and yet
this summer
blooms
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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To A Teacher/Poet Named Fred
i know Fred
and i remember him
he always wrote
about the rain
there was no flood in
his rain
i mean
there is no rage or anger
in him
just the gentle
shower of rain
a soft spoken kind
of rain
a patient shower
caressing fine sands
on many dark nights
when he was always alone
watching those stars
those silent stars
he loved loneliness
and loneliness loved him
he did not live
that long
he died
at forty
the rain remembered him
and in his grave
that day when he was buried
the rain, as gentle as
the early morning wind
fine feathers cotton soft
sings the last
hymn for him
it was sad & it was lonely
the flowers and
the butterflies all sighed
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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tell me what am I?
Sometimes I get tired too
Asking some philosophical questions about
My existence, purpose, and life becomes like one
Security guard asking me a lot
As I am about to enter a building
What floor?
What for?
Whom would you want to see?
Your ID please
Leave it,
And I pretend I have a very important purpose in my life
A very important vision for a very important mission
And upon a certain arrival
On the topmost floor
I end up, so this is the floor,
what for?
What am I doing here?
Like a scratch paper I crumple myself
This is not my paper, I have not written the right thing
This is waste for a wastebasket
I crumple this scratch of scribblings without
Any real meaning,
She calls it cranky
I call this a nursery rhyme of my life
Questions which seem hard
But actually there are none of such
But playful stuff of
who am i?
Try these:
1) There was a girl in our town,
Silk an’ satin was her gown,
Silk an’ satin, gold an’ velvet,
Guess her name, three times I’ve told it.
2) As soft as silk, as white as milk,
As bitter as gall, a thick green wall,
And a green coat covers me all.
What am i?
3) Make three fourths of a cross,
And a circle complete;
And let two semicircles
On a perpendicular meet;
Next add a triangle
That stands on two feet;
Next two semicircles,
And a circle complete.
What am i?
4) Flour of England, fruit of Spain,
Met together in a shower of rain;
Put in a bag tied round with a string,
If you’ll tell me this riddle, I’ll give you a ring.
What am i?
5) In marble walls as white as milk,
Lined with a skin as soft as silk,
Within a fountain crystal clear,
A golden apple doth appear.
No doors there are to this stronghold,
Yet thieves break in and steal the gold.
What am i?
6) Long legs, crooked thighs,
Little head and no eyes.
What am i?
7) Formed long ago, yet made to-day,
Employed while others sleep;
What few would like to give away,
Nor any wish to keep.
What am i?
8) Lives in winter,
Dies in summer,
And grows with its root upwards.
What am i?
9) Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall,
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall;
All the king’s horses and all the king’s men
Cannot put Humpty Dumpty together again.
What am I?
You will answer.
And you laugh, these are for kindergarten kids
Not for me, but honestly I figure out
Kindergarten stuff
In truth, that is what my life is all about
What am i?
What am i?
come play with me
Pin pin de sirapin de cuchillo de almacen
How how the carabao the batuten
Amy Susie and the rosemarie
Amy Susie and the rosemary
Do you remember all of these?
When you remember what do you feel?
Does not life itself
Smile and laugh a bit
Relieved from its hazards
Rested like a head on a hammock on my arms?
Actually, that is what I am all about
Seeing everything thorugh the eye of the child
Thru an eye of a needle.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Sonnet XIII:The light that rises from your feet to your hair
The light that rises from your feet to your hair,
the strength enfolding your delicate form,
are not mother of pearl, not chilly silver:
you are made of bread, a bread the fire adores.
The grain grew high in its harvest of you,
in good time the flour swelled;
as the dough rose, doubling your breasts,
my love was the coal waiting ready in the earth.
Oh, bread your forehead, your legs, your mouth,
bread I devour, born with the morning light,
my love, beacon-flag of the bakeries:
fire taugh you a lesson of the blood;
you learned your holiness from flour,
from bread your language and aroma.
poem by Pablo Neruda
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The Blue Scarf
Pale, with the blue of high zeniths, shimmered over with silver, brocaded
In smooth, running patterns, a soft stuff, with dark knotted fringes,
it lies there,
Warm from a woman's soft shoulders, and my fingers close on it, caressing.
Where is she, the woman who wore it? The scent of her lingers and drugs me!
A languor, fire-shotted, runs through me, and I crush the scarf down
on my face,
And gulp in the warmth and the blueness, and my eyes swim
in cool-tinted heavens.
Around me are columns of marble, and a diapered, sun-flickered pavement.
Rose-leaves blow and patter against it. Below the stone steps a lute tinkles.
A jar of green jade throws its shadow half over the floor. A big-bellied
Frog hops through the sunlight and plops in the gold-bubbled water of a basin,
Sunk in the black and white marble. The west wind has lifted a scarf
On the seat close beside me, the blue of it is a violent outrage of colour.
She draws it more closely about her, and it ripples beneath
her slight stirring.
Her kisses are sharp buds of fire; and I burn back against her, a jewel
Hard and white; a stalked, flaming flower; till I break to
a handful of cinders,
And open my eyes to the scarf, shining blue in the afternoon sunshine.
How loud clocks can tick when a room is empty, and one is alone!
poem by Amy Lowell
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Soft And Hard
Soft and hard words
There in the dictionary
Soft and hard
In a man beautify him
Soft and hard
In right place and
In right time
Make the country
Most powerful
And soft and hard
Are the ingredients
Of smart power strategy.
poem by Gajanan Mishra
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How Could an Angel Break My Heart
I heared he sang a lullaby
I heared he sang it from his heart
When I found out thought I would die
Because that lullaby was mine
I heared he sealed it with a kiss
He gently kissed her cherry lips
I found that so hard to belive
Because his kiss belonged to me
How could an angel break my heart
Why didn't he catch my falling star
I wish I didn't wish so hard
May be I wished our love apart
How could an angel break my heart
I heared here face was white as rain
Soft as a rose that blooms in May
He keeps her picture in a frame
And when he sleeps he calls her name
I wonder if she makes him smile
The way he used to smile at me
I hope she doesn't make him laugh
Becouse his laugh belongs to me
How could an angel break my heart
Why didn't he catch may falling star
I wish i didn't wish so hard
Maybe I wish our love apart
How could an angel break my heart
Oh my soul is dying
song performed by by Toni Braxton from Secrets
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Bread Hair
Im a wigged-out daddy with bread on top
I dig an easy-bake granny with a whiskey mop
If you love me, you neednt the whole wheat crop
cause they had a useless battle andll never stop
Bread hair, oh boy, oh boy
Bread hair, oh boy, oh boy
Bread hair, oh boy, oh boy
Youre drivin all my hope away
Im a pumpernickel-do for you, dough you do
Use a yarmulka of hallah bread if youre a jew
I belong to cayope*, I be the wheat for you
Yeast and flour, bake an hour, its annoying shampoo
Bread hair, oh boy, oh boy
Bread hair, oh boy, oh boy
Bread hair, oh boy, oh boy
Drivin all my hope away
Bread hair, oh boy, oh boy
Bread hair, oh boy, oh boy
Bread hair, oh boy, oh boy
Youre drivin all my hope away
Thats a gone rug, buddy
song performed by by They Might Be Giants
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The White Rose o' June
Air - 'Voice of Spring.'
Now the bricht sun, and the soft simmer showers,
Deck a' the woods and the gardens wi' flowers;
But bonny and sweet though the hale o' them be,
There's ane aboon a' that is dearest to me;
An' oh, that's the white rose, the white rose o' June,
An' may
he
that should wear it come back again sune!
It's no on my breast, nor yet in my hair,
That emblem dear I venture to wear;
But it blooms in my heart, and its white leaves I weet,
When alane in the gloamin' I wander to greet,
O'er the white rose, the white rose, the white rose o' June,
An' may
he
that should wear it come back again sune!
Mair fragrant and rich the red rose may be,
But there is nae spell to bind it to me;
But dear to my heart and to fond memorie,
Tho' scathed and tho' blighted the white rose may be.
O the white rose, the white rose, the white rose o' June,
O may
he
that should wear it come back again sune!
An' oh! may the true hearts thy perils who share,
Remember'd wi' tears, and remember'd in prayer,
Whom misfortune's rude blast has sent far awa',
Fair breezes bring back sune to cottage and ha';-
Then, O sing the white rose, the white rose o' June,
An' may
he
that should wear it wear Scotland's auld croun!
poem by Carolina Oliphant
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Theres Nothing Soft About Hard Times
By: jimmy buffett
1970
Every day held a new surprise
I watched the hunger burning in my sisters eyes
The paste-board shack we called a home
Would haunt me in my dreams
cause theres nothing soft about hard times
Theres nothing soft about hard times
We never knew anything groovy
A dime meant bread and not a movie
The muscles that controlled my smile were rarely ever used
cause theres nothing soft about hard times
Theres nothing soft about hard times
Chorus:
I had to go cause I could see
I wasnt meant for poverty
The family ties were broken soon
I went off to find the moon
So I sit on a bench in jackson square
I drink my wine and I breathe the midnight air
Tomorrow Ill just hit the street and bum another dime
cause theres nothing soft about hard times
Theres nothing soft about hard times
Chorus:
I had to go cause I could see
I wasnt meant for poverty
The family ties were broken soon
I went off to find the moon
So I sit on a bench in jackson square
I drink my wine and I breathe the midnight air
Tomorrow Ill just hit the street and bum another dime
cause theres nothing soft about hard times
Theres nothing soft about hard times
Theres nothing soft about
No, no, no, no hard times
Theres nothing soft about hard times
No, no, no, no those hard times
Theres nothing soft about hard times
Im going to tell you about the hard times
Theres nothing soft about hard times
No, no, no, no hard times
song performed by by Jimmy Buffett
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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She Sang the Songs...
She sang the songs... he wrote the words;
sweet words of love, in perfect time
to her style... soft words of love;
the lyrics to her Country songs
of love and heartbreak, hope and sadness;
life spread out in flawless rhyme,
but they were really hopes, and dreams
of his...
he knew this, all along.
She wrote songs as well; and, when he read them...
his heart missed a beat;
Beneath the stave, below the notes...
her lyrics, in her childlike hand;
soft words of love, he longed to hear
her say to him...
all whispered, sweet;
now, here they were, before his eyes...
but, accident...
or gently planned?
Were they whispers of her heart...
or just composed from out her head?
he had no way of knowing,
but... in either case, her words were sweet;
a silky glide across the page...
a wistful ballad... hearts that bled;
he sadly smiled, yes... his heart bled as well,
but,
to a different beat.
She sang the songs... he wrote the words,
words from his heart... soft, yet intense;
Perhaps, one day, she'd see
they were for her...
and, not her audience.
poem by Dream Weaver
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In The Early Morning [2]
In the early morning
dew covers every piece of grass and flower
and I see green sprouts in the soft ground
that appears after the first rain,
some grow luxuriant and others are slender and fine.
Some dew covers every piece of grass and flower,
and new buds appear
on long green stems,
some grow luxuriant and others are slender and fine.
in an aromatic existence.
At dark red roses and pink hollyhocks
on long green stems,
butterflies appear new from there metamorphoses
while the sun spreads its yellow-golden rays,
at dark red roses and pink hollyhocks
bees and butterflies fly to and thro
in the early morning
while the sun spreads its yellow-golden rays
and I see green sprouts in the soft ground.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Ill Remember You
(words & music by lee)
Ill remember you
Long after this endless summer has gone
Ill be lonely oh so lonely
Living only to remember you
Ill remember too
Your voice as soft as the warm summer breeze
Your sweet laughter, mornings after
Ever after, Ill remember you
To your arms someday Ill return to stay
Till then I will remember too
Every bright start we made wishes upon
Love me always, promise always
Oooh, youll remember too
Ill remember you
song performed by by Elvis Presley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Smiles the choice of rose hips hue
Who brings me the tears of rainbows blue?
And smiles the choice of rose hips hue
that brings to me the moons gentle dew?
With kisses soft; as slender new.
Who brings me the laughter of bluebells white?
And dances those greens; like a garden sprite.
That brings to me the azure mornings light?
Like a thistledown angel; lost in flight.
Who brings me a meadows flowing flaxen hair!
And whispering words spellbinding without a care
that brings too me a same sense of wonders rare?
Like woodland lilies under a leaf mould layer.
Who brings me the moons gentle dew..?
With kisses soft; as slender new..?
With smiles the choice of rose hips-hue.
Why; yes, my child it’s you!
poem by Mark Heathcote
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So Soft
Held in your arms in the back seat,
Cruising down the main street,
How can anyone have such little defense?
You're soft.
In between the sheets, left in limbo,
Covered me like the pillow
I can hardly tell the difference.
You're soft,
So soft.
To be, to be with you
I'd leave everything.
But I don't know how to deal with you.
I swear you'd fall like a feather if I was cruel.
Love would melt me like hot butter.
You're soft,
So soft.
To be, to be with you
I'd do anything.
Walking down the street, brushing arms,
You're moonlight dancing.
I try hard to keep my feelings in.
You're soft.
Dancing to the music, so low.
I knead you like dough.
How can anyone be so loving
And soft,
So soft?
To be, to be with you
I'd leave everything.
But I don't know how to deal with you.
I swear you'd fall like a feather if I was cruel.
You melt me like hot butter.
You're soft,
So soft.
To be, to be with you
I'd do anything.
song performed by by Kate Bush
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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At Her Door
OPEN! Open! Open!
I am here at your door outside;
The sea's blue tide flows speedily,
And ebbs a thin red tide.'
The woman rose from her warm white bed,
Threw back her hair and smiled;
The ears of scorn heard the words of love,
And the wind and the words were wild.
'Wake! Awake! Awake!
And hearken the woe outside;
The moon is hid in cloudiness;
Calleth and calleth the tide.'
The woman stood in the silence still
As a thing men carve from stone.
Her eyes burned largely in the dark,
And the smile, like a stain, stayed on.
'Listen! Listen! Listen!
Hear you the rain to-night?
A warm dark rain is falling too,
And I grow ghostly-white.'
The woman took three steps and bowed;
The smile waned from her lip;
She heard the dripping of the rain
And a soft thick other drip.
'Open! Open! Open!
I die in the dark alone.
My voice goes up in weariness
Against your heart of stone.'
The moon to a cloud-cleft stealing
Gazed down on the yearning tide;
The woman opened the streaming door
And stood in the rain outside.
Silence! Stillness! She whispers,
'Ah, Love, that death should be!'
He sighed, 'Your lips are loveliness!'
And she sobbed, 'Woe is me!'
The woman pressed his dead white face
With her face as deadly white:
The moon drew in behind a cloud,
And the tide moaned through the night.
poem by Roderic Quinn
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The Dark Rose
a dark rose growing from a dark
concrete crevice of
this deserted building
on a dark night
spreading its dark petals
for dark dreams
on a fine morning
when darkness
is gone
the dark rose
comes out in the open
to meet the sun
embracing it
with so much light
turning into something
sort of a blood reddish
colored rose
something like
glowing
but still dark
like the one last night.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Still Dark Like The One Last Night
a dark rose growing from a dark
concrete crevice of
this deserted building
on a dark night
spreading its dark petals
for dark dreams
on a fine morning
when darkness
is gone
the dark rose
comes out in the open
to meet the sun
embracing it
with so much light
turning into something
sort of a blood reddish
colored rose
something like
glowing
but still dark
like the one last night.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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369.still Dark Like The One Last Night
a dark rose growing from a dark
concrete crevice of
this deserted building
on a dark night
spreading its dark petals
for dark dreams
on a fine morning
when darkness
is gone
the dark rose
comes out in the open
to meet the sun
embracing it
with so much light
turning into something
sort of a blood reddish
colored rose
something like
glowing
but still dark
like the one last night.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Soft Rain
Soft Rain
I like rain, not hard, angry rain with an attitude
who, was neglected by the mother cloud, and
angrily show its hate towards those who had
nothing to do with its misbegotten infanthood.
No I´m thinking of soft rain that is like a caress,
a kiss of eternities promises.
And nature is still, this is a moment of rapture
a longing for so long denied blissfully fulfilled.
The dampness of my skullcap and my alpaca
jacket is so soft that it almost feels like oil, but
I know I´m just a spectator under an umbrella
who ought to go home and lit the fire.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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I Remember August
I remember August:
that breathy space before fall;
the long slow arc of the sun
touching the northern horizon.
I remember August:
its dampness confined to fog
pulled along the seashore's edge
and into the bays and rivers.
I remember
silent waves rocking small stones:
shifting, slipping, and sliding
sibilant sighs and whisperings.
I remember
the hay lying cut and straight,
drying in the summer sun
waiting for the baler to come.
I remember August:
with the soft shade and shadows,
and the long hours of twilight
creeping slowly toward the night.
On this October rain day
I remember August.