We Are Afraid To Ever Tell This Story
we are here upon a page of a book
like ears, marking a restful minute since the eyes are aching,
we are in this room of a space filled in the order of words
systematically placed by a careful writer whose reputation is respected by all
his colleagues at the university,
we are wary, aching ears, rough skinned faces,
drooping eyes, lousy hands, hanging feet,
the chairs at the other northeastern part of this room are restless
but cannot speak what they feel
and they cannot be stopped
as they start running towards the balcony jumping into the ground floor
of this very silent nook
the table starts an exhibition of a circus act
tumbles like an acrobat and shouts to the wall and the ceiling that it can fly
like a winged fish that no one has ever seen
the ceiling fan loosens its neck and falls to the ground screaming
the pillow cases escape from their pillows saying it is all over now
the carpet rolls upon itself like a man rolling its sleeves now ready for a fistful of bouts
it is midnight and the light bulbs are blinking like an ambulance
there is an emergency but everyone in the house is asleep
and must not be disturbed
we are afraid we are witness to this unruly behavior of things that should not
move or scream or tumble or run or jump or brag about some imagined wings
we are very silent and the following morning when they all wake up
we keep our mouth shut afraid that they will call us crazy
or if not, paranoid because the whole night we guarded the house
and never for once close our eyes and taste the sweetness of sound sleep
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Midsummer New York
Wake up in the morning, my hands cold in fear.
And midsummer new york my heart shakes in terror.
My heart, my hands, my legs, my mind,
Evrything I touch is shaking, shaking, shaking, shaking,
Shake, shake, shake, shake, shake, shake, oooh.
Wake up in the morning, my beds wet in sweat.
And midsummer new york, scream in the mirror.
And the door, and the chairs, and the floor, and the ceiling,
Evrything you see is aching, shaking, shaking, shaking,
Shake, shake, shake, shake, shake, shake, oooh.
And you shake, shake, shake, shake, shake,
Shake, shake, shake, shake, shake, shake, oooh.
Wake up in the morning, my minds dried up in pain.
Midsummer new yorks waiting for the rain.
The window, the trees, the park, the sun,
The whole world s shaking, is shaking, shaking,
Shake, shake, shake, shake, shake, shake, shake, oooh.
Shake, oh, shake, oh, shake,
Shake, oh, shake, shake.
Aching, aching, aching, aching, aching,
Oh, its aching, aching, aching, oh, aching,
Aching, aching, oh, its aching, aching, oh, oh.
Shaking, shaking,
Shake, shake, shake, shake, shake, shake, shake, shake,
Shake!
Shake, oh, shake, shake, shake, shake,
Shake, shake, shake.
Shake, shake,
Shake, shake, shake, shake.
Ooh, oh, shake, shake, shake, shake,
Oh, oh, oh, oh, aching, oh, oh, aching, aching, aching, aching.
Shake, shake, shaking, shaking, shaking, shaking,
Shaking, ooh, oh, shaking, oh, shake,
Oh, oh, shaking, shaking, shaking, shaking,
Oh, oh, shaking, shake, shake, shake, shake,
Shake, shake, shake,
Shake!
Oh, oh, oh, shake, shake.
song performed by by Yoko Ono
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Midsummer New York
Wake up in the morning, my hands cold in fear.
And midsummer new york my heart shakes in terror.
My heart, my hands, my legs, my mind,
Evrything I touch is shaking, shaking, shaking, shaking,
Shake, shake, shake, shake, shake, shake, oooh.
Wake up in the morning, my beds wet in sweat.
And midsummer new york, scream in the mirror.
And the door, and the chairs, and the floor, and the ceiling,
Evrything you see is aching, shaking, shaking, shaking,
Shake, shake, shake, shake, shake, shake, oooh.
And you shake, shake, shake, shake, shake,
Shake, shake, shake, shake, shake, shake, oooh.
Wake up in the morning, my minds dried up in pain.
Midsummer new yorks waiting for the rain.
The window, the trees, the park, the sun,
The whole world s shaking, is shaking, shaking,
Shake, shake, shake, shake, shake, shake, shake, oooh.
Shake, oh, shake, oh, shake,
Shake, oh, shake, shake.
Aching, aching, aching, aching, aching,
Oh, its aching, aching, aching, oh, aching,
Aching, aching, oh, its aching, aching, oh, oh.
Shaking, shaking,
Shake, shake, shake, shake, shake, shake, shake, shake,
Shake!
Shake, oh, shake, shake, shake, shake,
Shake, shake, shake.
Shake, shake,
Shake, shake, shake, shake.
Ooh, oh, shake, shake, shake, shake,
Oh, oh, oh, oh, aching, oh, oh, aching, aching, aching, aching.
Shake, shake, shaking, shaking, shaking, shaking,
Shaking, ooh, oh, shaking, oh, shake,
Oh, oh, shaking, shaking, shaking, shaking,
Oh, oh, shaking, shake, shake, shake, shake,
Shake, shake, shake,
Shake!
Oh, oh, oh, shake, shake.
song performed by by Yoko Ono
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My Dark Room
Time has ended so I lay
The end to a very painful day
I lay silent with nothing to say
Here in my dark room
With eyes open I can hardly see
Staring at the ceiling thinking of me
Wondering in the future what I will be
Here in my dark room
Will I still have my dark room
The place where there is peace
Or will I feel deceased
In a new dark room
But maybe when the night turns to shine
I won’t feel so but feel fine
Until night when I come back and whine
Here is my dark room
Now it is late I can’t see no more
My arm falls and drops to the floor
The liquid dreams in my head start to pour
Here is my dark room
poem by Paul Celano
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What Mother Tells Me
she is always the first to wake up in the house
as she prays the rosary
and father follows to check the carabao on the side
of the hill and transfer it to a greener pasture
while we their children are still asleep
always wanting more sleep on those cold days
curled in our bed covered with thick blankets
and soft pillows on our heads and our ears all covered up
against the sound of the kitchen
our eyes hiding from the light of the morning sun
and mother pulls my blanket
and takes my arm and hugs me and tells me
wake up! wake up! the night is over
go to the river and take your bath
there is no one on your side now
the rest have gone to their respective tasks
wake up! wake up! my son
go and clean yourself and face the day because
the night is over
and these words still cling to my ears:
the night is over
and another one will be coming
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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What I Like Most Is After The Act
this is not my room
neither
is it yours, in fact this room too just
like us
is a stranger, we open it and then
we close it, just like what we do to ourselves
hungry, we eat, thirsty we drink, and restless
we do things that our minds do not ever think
of
or even remember, it is dark here, and
there is no music to
lighten the mood, it is hot and we are even
hotter
feeling the heat
within us, the intertwining and the
changes
and exchanges of top to bottom
and bottom to top
you have such a nice hair
sometimes
they cover my face and i long
to a space where i can breathe
but you do not really mind,
you know i like the way you make me
quiver,
we are listless and restless and we want to discover
everything unexplored
in our unknown universe,
planets are we, losing our orbits
and both of us
explode
a big bang and then the silence of the cigarette smokes
eyes looking for some
crevices on the ceiling
you take a drink
and i lay on your side facing the wall
and then you start a conversation
asking me for my name
i like to sleep
i have no answer yet, maybe
in a minute
when i regain my confidence
to be my real self again
i beg that you understand my predicament
i just like being so silent this time
i like it more if we have no names forever
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Nicklin’s Torment
I woke up in a cold sweat
and turned on the light.
A shadow was moving over me,
cast by a spider of the night.
By the time I’d blinked
it’d vanished from view,
but then I saw a larger one,
followed by another two.
I closed my eyes for a moment
hoping they would disappear.
When I slowly reopened them
the bedroom was spider clear.
With my hand I mopped my brow
and then saw several more,
they were crawling on the ceiling
and marching across the floor.
I told myself that I was dreaming
or suffering from withdrawal,
but that didn’t stop the spiders
from crawling up the wall.
Sweat dripping from my brow
was stinging in my eyes.
Spiders were now on my bed
at my feet and on my thighs.
The whole room was full of spiders,
on the ceiling, walls, and floor.
My bed was covered and so was I.
I screamed stop! But out came even more.
Spiders crawling on top of spiders,
in my mouth, nose and ears,
their scary eyes staring into mine,
I was choking with utter fear.
I tried in vain to fight them off,
but my hand didn’t move a one.
I must have blacked out just then,
when I awoke they had all gone.
Things are becoming better now
and the spiders are getting less.
I’m told they’ll eventually go for good,
along with my shakes, thirst, and mess.
poem by Orlando Belo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Plane
when it starts to fly it is being met by this rain.
there is this strong wind ahead of us and some dark clouds
the stewardess announces said state and we are 30,000 feet
above the mountains
yes, these are the bumpy skyways.
i close my eyes. i think of you, the house, the garden, the room,
and the two dogs you are caring.
(will we crash? will this plane fall to the ground? shall we die in an instant?)
i close my eyes.
then the plane steadies. i open my eyes.
there are clear clouds. below is a wide expanse of the blue sea.
i look at the wings of the plane.
and then its wheels touch the ground.
the door opens.
it is another world for me.
i feel the importance of the ground. Its glory. Its reign now.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Red And Orange
Ther's a red house,
Inside there's an orange door.
Beside that there's a red carpet,
On top of an orange floor.
There's a red table,
Below an orange ceiling.
Upstairs there's a red bed,
Inside an orange room.
There's a couple of red people sleeping soundly,
Next door two orange ones too.
Outside there's a red truck,
No one knows what to do.
I don't see the proble,
Why don't you leave us all alone.
But now I see the red more clearly,
And I know what's done is done.
And I'll float away with the cloudy smoke,
Before the inevertable happens and I start to choke.
Good bye red house,
So long orange door.
I'm going for a long sleep noe,
Six feet under the floor.
Aching Eyes And Neck Pains
aching eyes and
back and neck pains, they do not really matter
once i face this monitor
i assume i have many things to say
after a day's work. I TAKE pride about the
matters unsaid. I take note of the words
kept hidden inside my hair.They want
to jump and assume the shape of some
fleas.BITERS. bitter biters, for they were made
to be silent as we keep on doing
our own bread and butter thing
my eyes are aching. I feel the pain on my neck.
there is this burden, and this burden is the burden
of a writer, a poet, and it keeps on saying
write me, write me now: about a girl whose
father betrayed her, about a man whose fortune
is stolen in the blink of an eye
he died.she was thrown in the river
and the fish ate her in tiny pieces.
there is this little boy who imitated my actions
and he was laughing and i was laughing too,
i never thought that my hands are as clumsy as his
or his words too disappointing
the world is telling me: it is enough
too much of you is already suffocating
it is telling me that i must quit
but how can i? there is this little boy that keeps
on taunting me
to play again along the sands of the shore
and make my new sandcastles
it is not too dark yet, and he says it is still time
there is still time to play....
i get out of the car. It is raining. I look at the sky.
Drink some rain. I get wet.
It is not enough. It is never enough. There is still this little boy
in me. His eyes are always in wonder.
and so the poems keep on coming.
I close the car. I look at the trees.
How green are these trees! Greener than green.
How blue are the clouds! Bluer than blue.
And i really like all that i see.
This little child in me. Giggling.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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At This Hour, It Is The Deep Of The Night
at this hour, it is the deep of the night
calm,
silent,
there is no wind blowing, i can hear the typing
of words
in this keyboard, this personal computer, writing,
because i cannot sleep, after we made love, because i am still
thinking what to do with my life,
what is the next move,
after love,
when there is no hate, because i have stopped feeling altogether
all those years,
and the years shall come slowly like some growing children
in your eyes, not seeing how the cells add to become their innocent eyes,
i am here again at midnight, then dawn,
2: 11 a.m.
that is the time here in this room
on this island
on this nook of the big, wide world,
time had made some divisions for all of us
for you it is morning, and for her it is noon,
but we are here writing at this moment for all different reasons,
some claim happiness and bliss and love and nature and hope,
i still claim my main reasons,
doubt, this sadness that has known how it is to write and be not able
to get a sound sleep, this lostness in space trying to find
where is everything
from nothing.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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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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Blind!
A red-roofed house is shining to the skies;
A house red-roofed and brilliant in the wind:
A house of colour filled with wandering eyes;
And all the eyes are blind.
A gentle sound of moving fills each room:
A sound of hands, - dumb hands that touch and pry:
A sound of fingers feeling in a tomb
Before they close and die.
A hundred windows face long rows of flowers-
Long rows of flowers, and flowers that sway and dance
Where lidded eyes can gaze for hours and hours;
Blue eyes that shut in France.
poem by Leon Gellert
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Outside331’sSleep
Don’t open your eyes yet not until I explain last night I went to bed with Sleep last night I fell for Sleep last night Sleep unclothed me left me naked in a room painted black I couldn’t see Sleep because Sleep was dark too and the room was black and the foreground blended in with the background I couldn’t tell what was far and what was close I became frustrated because Sleep was either hiding inside the room or the room was hiding behind Sleep neither were being fair to my eyes who wanted to play hide and go Sleep I hide inside the room and Sleep seeks I said where are you Sleep I can’t see you my eyes can’t find you Sleep I said I wanted to fall inside you brought me into this black room and I am trying to wrap myself around you won’t you come inside of me you won’t stage scenes in my eyes created with color everything is black one long stretch Sleep are you moving and I can’t see you or are you standing still and I can’t feel you are here Sleep you are silent Sleep I feel alone Sleep I want you to be inside me if you take me to a black room and make me go to bed are your eyes open I can’t see you did you leave is Sleep here Sleep am I inside you explain Sleep explain did you open your eyes Sleep are my eyes open Sleep are you outside me Sleep you took me to bed and left me Sleep I can’t open my eyes until you are back inside me I can’t see Sleep when you’re not inside me open your eyes Sleep do you see me inside you explain last night am I still inside Sleep?
(12-13-07)
poem by Chelsea Trescott
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So We Sat And Waited
We sat on hard, naked, long plank chairs
Choked by anaesthetics and painkillers
Waiting with bated breaths
To cry tears of joy and ululate
Calling her the greatest things we’ve come to know
We waited…
The sun turned askew above the mountains
Our ears crowded by the awful silence
Eventually Sisters came out without smiles on their faces
Overwhelmed by curiosity we stopped them
Before they could pass us by
‘Doctor Bezuidenhoud will inform you’, they said
And dragged their feet and disappeared in the hallway
Doctor Bezuidenhoud followed
His eyes locked firmly on the ground
Afraid to meet ours
Ours confronting his despair
He told us things our ears refused to believe
Our little Cinderella was stillborn
poem by Stella Sisanda Qishi
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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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The Mystery House
That door had been shut for years
No sound ever passed its ears
Its eyes were starved, for light,
Inside was just silent Night
Why was it closed, what had it been
Had it some kind of mishap seen
Was it waiting for its master, last,
To free it from some spell he cast
The wood cracked, the metal, rusted
cobwebs on its top vested
' The house of ghosts ',
it was taunted
Little John too knew the house was haunted
Eerie spirits, you could hear all night,
poor Ken, you see, huddled in fright
mother forbade, no one went close
into the death trap, none tried nor chose
' The Winchester House ', it was named once
None gave the manor's house a glance
I believe the house, will forever remain
Yet none its mystery will ever explain.
poem by Vishnu Sampoorn
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Law[Earthing On Fire]
I dont want knowledge, I want certainty
I dont want knowledge, I want certainty
I dont want knowledge, I want certainty
In the street a man shouts out loud
A wallet drops and money flies into the midday sun
With the sound, with the sound, with the sound of the ground
With the sound, with the sound, with the sound of the ground
With the sound, with the sound, with the sound of the ground
Oh I get a little bit afraid
Sometimes
Earthlings on fire
Earthlings on fire
With the sound, with the sound, with the sound of the ground
With the sound, with the sound, with the sound of the ground
With the sound, with the sound, with the sound of the ground
Sure I get a little bit afraid
Sometimes
Earthlings on fire
Earthlings on fire
Earthlings on fire
Earthlings on fire
I dont want knowledge, I want certainty
I dont want knowledge, I want certainty
In a house a man drops dead
As he hits the floor he sighs
What a morning
With the sound, with the sound, with the sound of the ground
With the sound, with the sound, with the sound of the ground
With the sound, with the sound, with the sound of the ground
Sure I get a little bit afraid
With the sound, with the sound, with the sound of the ground
With the sound, with the sound, with the sound of the ground
With the sound, with the sound, with the sound of the ground
Sure I get a little bit afraid
Sometimes
Earthlings on fire
Earthlings on fire
Earthlings on fire
Earthlings on fire
Oh I get a little bit afraid
Sometimes
Earthlings on fire
Earthlings on fire
Earthlings on fire (I dont want knowledge, I want certainty)
Earthlings on fire (I dont want knowledge, I want certainty)
Sometimes
Earthlings (I dont want knowledge, I want certainty)
I dont want knowledge
song performed by by David Bowie
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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One Mans Ceiling Is Another Mans Floor
Words & music by paul simon
Theres been some hard feelings here
About some words that were said
Been some hard feelings here
And what is more
Theres been a bloody purple nose
And some bloody purple clothes
That were messing up the lobby floor
Its just apartment house rules
So all you partment fools
Remember: one mans ceiling is another mans floor!
One mans ceiling is another mans floor
Theres been some strange goins on
And some folks have come and gone
Like the elevator man dont work no more
I heard a racket in the hall
And I thought I heard a call
But I never opened up my door
Its just apartment house sense
Its like apartment rents
Remember: one mans ceiling is another mans floor!
One mans ceiling is another mans floor!
Theres an alley
In the back of my building
Where some people congregate in shame
I was walking with my dog
And the night was black with smog
When I thought I heard somebody
Call my name
Ah-- remember: one mans ceiling is another mans floor!
One mans ceiling is another mans floor!
song performed by by Paul Simon
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Looking Upon A Child
looking upon a child i compress my years
like how i keep the lines confined inside my palms.
i stop for while following where the child goes.
his hands are buds, his feet as small as a saki cup.
his eyes as innocent as an oil lamp waking on a dark night.
his hair are soft and silky like a kitten fur
his sounds like the arrival of morning on the grass.
i hold his tiny hands and i am back to my senses.
he calls my name, but i am no longer there.
i am back to my room. It is as crowded as a storehouse
with papers and books and chairs and used clothes hanging
on the beams and walls. Some old figurines bathed with dusts.
Some dried spittle on the floor. Some unopened off-white pages
filled with age.
i wonder, despite this crowd of things and thoughts,
despite the fullness of the wind from the window
there is still the wide vacancy of space. Inside the heart longs.
Inside the sound howls. Inside something so faint shouts.
It is the sound of the child still calling my name.
It is looking for me and i am never complete.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I Could Have Stopped Writing
i could have stopped writing
some letters on my wall
some words on a clean sheet
of paper, i could have stopped
many years ago, when things
lack the luster of meaning
the shining hues of explanations,
steps do not traces steps
on the floor, and what the windows
see sometimes are so untrue
and my eyes are blinded
with so much light from the
slits of light coming from the
noonday roof,
i could have stopped writing
and tell myself: oh, there are more
important things in my life
to do, and there i may take
some colors for meaning
blue for peace and red for love
and violets for remembrances,
i could have stopped writing
but how could i? my throats dry up
my hands shrink, my heart grow holes
of hollowness, my lungs collapse,
my head falls off from my neck,
my body freezes, my ears close
inside its lobes,
i die without it. It is my life,
so how could i ever stop living?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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