We Are Here Again
we are here again
gathering around the secret of the rose,
society's silenced few
the dews of the darkest nights,
flowers of the scarlet leaves,
here we are
shunning sleep
away from the mob
we are robbed
of the gob-
lets of wis-
dom, we too take the stances
of the philosophers, the murderers of
common thoughts, we shape the future of
our poplars, so unpopular are we
so misunderstood but we are not bothered,
here we are again
poets of the morning star
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Cassandra
Down in the street theyre all singing and shouting
Staying alive though the city is dead
Hiding their shame behind hollow laughter
While you are crying alone on your bed
Pity cassandra that no one believed you
But then again you were lost from the start
Now we must suffer and sell our secrets
Bargain, playing smart, aching in our hearts
Sorry cassandra I misunderstood
Now the last day is dawning
Some of us wanted but none of us could
Listen to words of warning
But on the darkest of nights
Nobody knew how to fight
And we were caught in our sleep
Sorry cassandra I didnt believe
You really had the power
I only saw it as dreams you would weave
Until the final hour
So in the morning your ship will be sailing
Now that your father and sister are gone
There is no reason for you to linger
Youre grieving deeply but still moving on
You know the future is casting a shadow
No one else sees it but you know youre fate
Packing your bags, being slow and thorough
Knowing, though youre late, that ship is sure to wait
Sorry cassandra I misunderstood
Now the last day is dawning
Some of us wanted but none of us could
Listen to words of warning
But on the darkest of nights
Nobody knew how to fight
And we were caught in our sleep
Sorry cassandra I didnt believe
You really had the power
I only saw it as dreams you would weave
Until the final hour
I watched the ship leaving harbour at sunrise
Sails almost slack in the cool morning rain
She stood on deck, just a tiny figure
Rigid and restrained, blue eyes filled with pain
Sorry cassandra I misunderstood
Now the last day is dawning
Some of us wanted but none of us could
Listen to words of warning
But on the darkest of nights
Nobody knew how to fight
And we were caught in our sleep
Sorry cassandra I didnt believe
You really had the power
I only saw it as dreams you would weave
Until the final hour
Im sorry cassandra
Im sorry cassandra
song performed by by ABBA
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Winter Sunset
Roses in the sky,
Roses in the sea
Bowers of scarlet sky-roses
Take my heart and me.
God was good to make,
This December weather,
All this sky a rose-garden,
Rose and fire together.
To the East are burning
Roses in a garden,
Roses in a rosy field,
Hesper for their warden.
Yonder to the West
Roses all afire,
Mirror now some rare splendid
Rose of their desire.
Pulsing deeper, deeper,
Waves of fire throb on,
Never were such red roses
At sunset or dawn.
Roses on the hills,
Roses in the hollow,
Roses on the wet hedges,
In the shining fallow.
West wind, blow and blow!
That has blown ajar
Gates of God's great rose-garden,
Where His Angels are,
Gathering up the rose-leaves
For a shower of roses
On the night the Lord Babe
His sweet eye uncloses.
All the sky is scarlet
Flaming on the azure.
O, there's fire in Heaven
My heart aches with pleasure.
Leagues of rose and scarlet,
Roses red as blood:
All the world's a rose-garden.
God is good, is good.
poem by Katharine Tynan
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The Private Rooom
this is a universe in itself
with all the planets around it and stars so distant
unlike before you scream alone
no help comes
be it the fireman or the medical aide
now the fingers run
to places where we have been hiding
to thoughts where we have once surrendered
because of debilitating weakness
now courage is silenced but inside
its throat
thoughts shape themselves like dough
and then the yeasts of memories make them rise
you smell the sweetness of the past
that wafts in all the corners of your room
and so
with all these shortcomings and refusals
to see light
to open the shutters you shall still live
and reap the fruits of your isolation
these are white flowers that bloom
in lonely nights
scented and still proud
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I Write To Set Thoughts and Feelings Free
I write to set thoughts and feelings free,
to struggle against the oppression’s indignity,
to find answers and to expose those that trample,
to find a way to serenity.
I write things that I experience and see,
trying to make my own reality
comprehensible to anyone
as a way to connect with me.
I write and stand somewhat alone
against society, almost stripped to the bone
ignoring political correctness
of the in-crowd in search of a society that is gone.
I write because its time that someone does something
while the clouds of destruction is gathering
in the hands of murderers, rapists and their leaders
as for a better world I am searching.
poem by Gert Strydom
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The Last Of The Romantics
Romanticism is dying away,
Those of us it was bred into are
Being snuffed out of society
The days of practicing propriety have come to an end
So slowly we dwindle away
We are the last petals on the red rose
Drifting away one by one
Our profession, that of the helpless romantic
Is no longer wanted
We are no longer wanted
We are no longer needed
Our deeds were not heeded
Common courting of the day consists of
Getting torn up then tearing that ass up
There is no more wining and dining
Or the holding of doors and pulling out chairs
Candle light dinners, or nights spent under the stars
The era of the “gentleman” has come to an end
Passion and compassion seeped out of society as drugs took their place
So where did all the poets and the playwrights go?
I think we need another Shakespeare or a Frost
And a Romeo and Juliet of the modern age
Another death to wake the world might be what we need
But either way it will be a death, most likely ours
So as the last petal falls this I leave to you,
sad thoughts from a helpless romantic no longer practicing his profession
poem by Christopher Taber
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Those Unsaid And Untouched By My Lips
my hands shape what you desire
in willingness my thoughts form the petals
of the flowers of your longings
i cater to love i submit to loving
naked i stand before the judgment of your eyes
you touch me and i become alive
in the days of my famine
my hunger is satisfied
in the days of my thirsts
my tongue seeps the dews of dawn
when you sleep beside my body
your head above my arms unfolded
i look at you and i regret not having said
all that i have seen in the dark
there are images still unspoken
there are still feelings unfelt by your innocence
i look to the sky beyond the windows of our beings
i gather silence like leaves under my feet
i walk away feeling triumphant about what i kept
the treasures of my heart
these i own, and these you must never know
for whatever happened
for all those years.... i have always been alone and happy.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Building Bridges
I came from another place
I was born under a different star and
That is what I believe- When the rain fell, I did not grow,
In the sunlight I could not see what was ahead of me,
That sun was so far away- although far away from everyone,
I know and I believe- Building bridges in my sleep
Trying to get to a place where
I would grow and my thoughts would be in control-
Walking pathways in my wakefulness uphill and down
Trying to find a place where I would fit,
As would a piece in a jigsaw puzzle or
Perhaps just to be heard, or understood?
Here alone I can hear my thoughts as they speak to me,
Almost like far away voices echoing within the back of my mind-
My soul was snatched away at birth or I was born under a different star-
To where I wish I could return-
If I could fly with broken wings, I would,
If I could cry tears of joy, not sorrow, I would-
I am an angry spirit building ladders out of time-
That time I feel is running out-
Picking roses in vain trying to find a purpose here-
Building bridges when I sleep,
Where I would cross to another place in time,
I continue to walk pathways in my wakefulness
Until I find a place where I could grow with the flowers and
Find beauty and a purpose in this world
Because I don't know where that star into which I was born is to be-
Perhaps it was a shooting star traveling across the universe-
I got lost along the way and landed here -
A rare bird whose wings have broken and cannot fly-
So I will continue to build those bridges in my sleep and
Walk uphill and downward in my wakefulness-
Until my thoughts are in control and when my thoughts are in control, and
I become a flower or better yet a tree, just happy to be growing
Amongst nature- flowers and trees don't weep or feel the pain
Of being threatened or lost-I shall grow until I touch the sky and
Meet face to face with the sun which shall shine hope upon me and
Everybody knows that trees and flowers haven't a care and
Just stand looking strikingly beautiful- they have no wounded spirits-
They are loved by everyone and because they have no souls,
They are never misunderstood…
poem by Claudia Krizay
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A Devout Lover
I have a mistress, for perfections rare
In every eye, but in my thoughts most fair.
Like tapers on the altar shine her eyes;
Her breath is the perfume of sacrifice;
And wheresoe'er my fancy would begin,
Still her perfection lets religion in.
We sit and talk, and kiss away the hours
As chastely as the morning dews kiss flowers:
I touch her, like my beads, with devout care,
And come unto my courtship as my prayer.
poem by Thomas Randolph
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My Secret Licked Lip Keeper
Be my nights!
Be my morning star,
And destiny to me.
Be my appetite.
Be the tasty treats,
In everything I see.
Be whatever it is you wish...
And I hope you know this is,
My licked lip keeper.
Be the reason I hoop.
And holler with the ecstasy you give.
Be repeated on a loop.
You'll never wear me out...
Since I'll stay your main reaper!
Be whatever it is you wish...
And I hope you know this is,
My licked lip keeper.
Whatever it is you wish,
I hope you know this is my secret licked lip keeper!
Be my nights!
Be my morning star,
And destiny to me.
Be my appetite.
Be the tasty treats,
In everything I see.
Whatever it is you wish,
I hope you know this is my secret licked lip keeper!
You 'bees' my secret licked lip keeper!
You 'bees' my secret licked lip keeper!
Be whatever it is you wish,
You've got to know...
You 'bees' my secret licked lip keeper!
And-I'm-so-glad-I am-the-reaper!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Rose’s rose rose
Rose’s rose rose
In the light of the day
While the wind blows
Round its flowers of the lightest rosé.
Rose’s rose rose
In a way Rose may
When she grows
As her rose
Shows
How it grows
And by the end of the day
When her rose’s flowers’d close
And its head would sway
In the wind, Rose would say:
“My rose, as you rose
In the light of the day
Did you notice those,
The sounds of your stay?
Not only those of the day,
But, too, the ones of the dark, rose,
The ones of the dark and the moon in its pose.
Did you notice those, rose?
Did you notice those? ”
And the rose would know
What Rose would want to say
And it would sleep
With its flowers of the lightest rosé.
Complementary viewpoints for friend Chandra
Philosophy and poetry
are not completely different.
Each represents a way to see
What is not always evident.
Philosophers and poets try
to understand the universe.
The answers which they can supply.
Expressed in turgid prose or verse.
Philosophers can be abstruse
and difficult to understand
Because of how they phrase their views.
I don’t dismiss them out of hand.
I much prefer the poets verse
To endless reams of complex prose.
I do not think I am perverse
Simplicity I must suppose.
Is really what appeals to me.
the poets seek to entertain
and yet express with clarity.
Philosophers try to explain.
Their reasoning in great detail.
They just succeed in boring me
Their efforts are to no avail
I will admit quite openly
I simply cannot spare the time
To plough through densely written prose.
But I find poetry sublime
I like the way it ebbs and flows.
The insight that a poet shows
can entertain and educate.
Philosophers try to impose
their views, discouraging debate.
Which does not sit too well with me.
Folks can’t stand being patronised
and will rebel instinctively.
A fact that poets recognise.
They are content to share their thoughts.
With anyone who chooses to
read the verses they have wrought.
Which may express a different view
To that of the philosophers.
You draw your own conclusions
and choose which version you prefer.
Perhaps your own opinions.
Philosophy and poetry
Are both legitimate attempts
To explain some mystery
By folks of different temperaments.
22/08/2009
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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At the gathering of the flowers
At the gathering of the flowers
Someone waits with the rising sun
There in the wee small hours
That is where love has begun
And there with the angels above
At the gathering of the flowers
To her I do profess my love
With her I will spend all my remaining hours
Where love empowers
Is where I will meet my love
At the gathering of the flowers
With desires undreamt of
Winter winds howl about my face
But the cold shall forever cower
From your warm embrace
At the gathering of the flowers
© JPM 7/18/08
Black and white
The sound of sirens
Another ambulance running wildly
From this town to the city
Another sick man perhaps
Another emergency
People are dying not of hunger here
They have overeaten
The have overslept
They have overreacted to the bad news
This morning and all the other mornings
They have listened to the bad rumors
Of annihilation of total destruction
Complicating life with nightmares
And too much worrying
Take the walk, savor the fresh air
From cups of leaves see the dews
Like pearls in the morning flowers
Think about how God has been saving
Loving caring and guiding us
The positive thoughts the glory
That is yet to come, the heavens
The sun and then the full moon
And the countless stars
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Limit Of Tolerance
It is best to be shown,
By the one detected they are not to be bothered.
Than it is to be known,
As the one who collects other's junk to dump.
Inconvenienced by this and misunderstood to be a chump.
People wont say it but that's what they think.
When someone is designated always available,
To be believed to have a loosened link.
People wont say it but that's what they think.
Yes, it's best to to show,
There is a limit of tolerance.
Than to be the one chosen...
With unlimited patience when there isn't.
Some people may pretend they comprehend,
With a patience given.
But a patience it isn't.
Some people 'look' as if they're there to listen,
With a patience given.
But a patience it isn't.
Some people may keep their mouths kept closed.
Preferring to keep their distance.
And some may not want their thoughts exposed.
Even if their thoughts may make a difference.
It is best to be shown,
By the one detected they are not to be bothered.
Than it is to be known,
As the one who collects other's junk to dump.
Inconvenienced by this and misunderstood to be a chump.
People wont say it but that's what they think.
When someone is designated always available,
To be believed to have a loosened link.
People wont say it but that's what they think.
If one is deemed as approachable.
And perceived to have a desperate disposition.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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This Is Just An Exercise
this poem
is a morning poem
i write it when
the sun begins to peep
between the two hills
where my house
stands
i write it when the dews
are still alive
glistening with life
on the green leaves
on the white petals
of the flowers
i write it when the birds
start to chirp
and in flocks start
to leave the trees
where they
sleep for the
whole dark night
oh, this poem is nothing
it is just an idea
just an exercise of the mind
this morning
just to assure myself
that i am still a rational being
in touch with art
honed to the skills
of humanity
oh, this is just nothing
but a prelude
to my day
a day
when we wish
we are not thinking at all
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Thorn & A Wlid Rose
By d. toler, t. colton & b. waibel
He came from the streets, she came from the mountains
A faded star and an angel without wings,
Their passions flowed like a deep running river
They had nothing left to lose and everything to gain and he said
Lets make a garden said the thorn to the wild rose,
Plant some seeds deep in the ground,
Lets make a garden said the thorn to the wild rose,
Strong enough to hold us down
Seasons will change, well last forever well see the snow and the
Falling of the leaves
High on the hill with the sky all around us, well watch it grow
From two wild seeds
Lets make a garden said the thorn to the wild rose,
Plant some seeds deep in the ground,
Lets make a garden said the thorn to the wild rose,
Where its springtime all around
Solo
He came from the streets, she came from the mountains
A faded star and an angel without wings,
Their passions flowed like a deep running river
They had nothing left to lose and everything to gain and he said
Lets make a garden said the thorn to the wild rose,
Plant some seeds deep in the ground,
Lets make a garden said the thorn to the wild rose,
Where its springtime all around
Lets make a garden said the thorn to the wild rose,
Plant some seeds deep in the ground,
Lets make a garden said the thorn to the wild rose,
Where its springtime all around
song performed by by Allman Brothers Band
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Metric Figure
There is a bird in the poplars!
It is the sun!
The leaves are little yellow fish
swimming in the river.
The bird skims above them,
day is on his wings.
Phoebus!
It is he that is making
the great gleam among the poplars!
It is his singing
outshines the noise
of leaves clashing in the wind.
poem by William Carlos Williams
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The House That Does Not Speak About Anything...
how time swiftly flies without wings of birds
i wake up at dawn lacking sleep
into writing, into deeper thoughts on soundless hours
and how fast, how fast has morning arrived
i am innocent
how stupid can i be
inventing hope and trying to modify the shape of my days
the lights of the door and the kitchen are not turned off
the neighbors are worried
i am home but i am not opening the windows and the door
i am into writing, into the deeper thoughts of my soundless hours
let the neighbors think that i am on vacation again
for weeks
i am into a waking slumber gathering dreams, ripe fruits of sleep
of the waking and sleeping again and again
i love a house that doesn't speak about anything that cannot
remember anybody
the dark loves me.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Ancestral
The star dissolved in evening—the one star
The silently
and night O soon now, soon
And still the light now
and still now the large
Relinquishing
and through the pools of blue
Still, still the swallows
and a wind now
and the tree
Gathering darkness:
I was small. I lay
Beside my mother on the grass, and sleep
Came—
slow hooves and dripping with the dark
The velvet muzzles, the white feet that move
In a dream water
and O soon now soon
Sleep and the night.
And I was not afraid.
Her hand lay over mine. Her fingers knew
Darkness,—and sleep—the silent lands, the far
Far off of morning where I should awake.
poem by Archibald MacLeish
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An Argument With You
you must not expect that i give up
the world that i built for all my years
my sweat my labor my dreams
shall they all perish this minute
just for me to prove that
i love you? if you love me enough
you must not attempt to destroy
my world
you must let it grow and lavish
upon itself the fruits
and flowers and seeds
as i have loved you and as you have loved me
we must keep this secret garden
no one must know not even the left hand
of yourself
we make this love hidden from the eyes of all of them
a love misunderstood
as sin
for in the darkness of the nights of our beings
this love glistens as the most beautiful star
you must wake in the middle of the night
to see how beautiful it is when left alone.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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