We Are the Puppets Still Moving on Invisible Strings
sad to say
i mourn for all of us here
we claim we shape our own destinies
our hands as maps
our anticipations as compass
of what we must become
to places of
the hearts
this is the irony:
we are still puppets on our
invisible strings
on purple clothes
we boast
we are on our own now
our feet
shamed by stones
who preferred
the dignity of their being
mute
in that silence of leaves
upon heaps
of those molds and moss
stories told....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Invisible Strings
(ian hunter)
One, two, three
Well I woke up this morning - theres a girl in my bed.
How did she get there? was it something I said?
I dont understand it but somehow it seems
She visits me in invisible dreams.
Over and over I try to explain
How did that girl get into my veins?
Did somebody send her - was it my velvet wings?
And how does she touch my invisible strings?
Invisible strings - invisible strings
These are a few of my favorite things
Now its all over when the fat lady sings
Ill still be playing my invisible strings
Well maybe she dont have a world of her own
Maybe shes using me just like a phone
And sometimes shes cool and sometimes she stings
And Im all tangled up in invisible strings
Invisible strings - invisible strings
These are a few of my favorite things
When youre wearing black and Im wearing wings,
Well still be playing those invisible strings
Well she never leaves - Im never alone
I aint in the book but shes still calling home
I tried to lose her - watch the tv
But that womans always picking on me
Well, theres strings round my body, strings round my heart
Id like to know where the string-pulling starts
Id give anything to meet the angel who sends
Invisible ink to my invisible pen
Invisible strings - invisible strings
These are a few of my favorite things
When youre wearing black and Im wearing wings,
Well still be playing our invisible strings
Invisible strings - invisible strings
These are a few of my favorite things
Now its all over when the fat lady sings
Well still be playing our invisible strings
Invisible strings - invisible strings
Oh yeah
song performed by by Ian Hunter
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Life Is ~ The Stones Under My Feet
Life is the stones under my feet
All the places I've walked
All the places I haven't
They say something about who I am
The pebbles that I pick up to toss in the ocean
The boulders I've sat on
The skipping stones I throw across the lake
Gravel and sand
And cobblestone streets
Places with history
Places where history is about to be written
And what it has to say for my history
All those stones that I've crunched
Under my boots
Or sandals
Or sneakers
Or just my bare feet
Walking carefully
And there occasionally is a piece of glass
When I cut myself I bleed
But I heal in the end
Then I get up to walk on more stones
Because life is where you choose to walk
And where you don't
poem by Indigo Rosedragon
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274
we were talking under the talisay tree
about our future
one summer
when the leaves are brown
and falling to the ground
where the red ants
are busy taking their food
under a heap of
dry leaves
we will be there
to reach our destinies
but we may not be there
together
there is always a season for me
and for you
the wisdom lies in the waiting
the goodness in the waiting
and the beauty that we will see
lies in the content of our eyes
the tranquility of the pond
where the moss begins
to grow again
in stones.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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We Were Talking Under The Talisay Tree
we were talking under the talisay tree
about our future
one summer
when the leaves are brown
and falling to the ground
where the red ants
are busy taking their food
under a heap of
dry leaves
we will be there
to reach our destinies
but we may not be there
together
there is always a season for me
and for you
the wisdom lies in the waiting
the goodness in the waiting
and the beauty that we will see
lies in the content of our eyes
the tranquility of the pond
where the moss begins
to grow again
in stones.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Time and Leaves and Heaps
time runs
leaves fall
the ground is filled with heaps and heaps of them
the world too
is thickened by the leaves of time
heaps and heaps of what man once was
we bury all of them
time
leaves
heaps of leaves
so many times
we fall too like leaves
the world is thick of those like us
fair enough.
fair enough.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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(Scams Poem) Conning The Romance
Whether a story exist or not.
Doesn't mean out of my own ignorance I will be baited like a fish.
If you send me letter, and ask me of something I can not give.
As I said before I was never meant to be rich.
To survive will be more then suffice for me.
Greed sickens the heart to places unknown.
Where such stories can be told with no remorse.
Robbing by the hearts need to love.
It so wrong.
But its done a lot.
These people are lost.
Lust is not love.
No matter how much you want it to be,
Dignity thrown out the window.
Shimmy down the rope, and please do find that hope.
Cause their is a pain bared.
Knowing people like that are out their.
poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
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Dance, My Little Puppets
dance, my little puppets
dance for me
dance, my little puppets
and you shall see
dance, my little puppets
the truth you seek
dance, my little puppets
the truth i will speak
dance, my little puppets
set your soul free
dance, my little puppets
dance for me
dance, my little puppets
the truth you find
dance, my little puppets
do not hide
dance, my little puppets
dance for me
dance, my little puppets
truth is a lie, cant you see
dance, my little puppets
dance for me
dance, my little puppets
dance to see
dance, my little puppets
start to begin
dance, my little puppets
this is the end
poem by Sandy Nobody
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Stories
when we were young stories were told
That I'd kiss you sweet like
People said there was a connection between us
Now that we're old stories are told
Of how I hold you tight
Whenever I see those people I tell them they were right
Stories will be told
From when our children are young
until they're old
About our endless love
We must have had a blessing from above
Stories will be told until we're old
Stories will be told until the end of time
Stories will be told until we're old
Stories will be told until the end of time
Until the sun won't rise
Oh
song performed by by Hanson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Power of Silence
Silence is the element
In which great things fashion themselves.
The words of the prophets
Are written on the subway walls
And tenement halls
And whispered in the sounds of silence.
Silence saved the man the thugs came for,
But the screaming fellow took the bullets
Silence a remedy for harm
Life is a pregnant silence.
Light silence, dark speech.
Stones are mute teachers;
They silence the observer,
And the most valuable lesson
We learn from them we cannot communicate
Silence alone is respectable and respected.
I believe God to be silence
poem by T. Ebi Ken Jemine
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Everyday I Feel That I Am Slowly Buried
i try to wake up and rise from my lowly state
and every hour that you face me i feel like a small turtle
in my silence beside the still river and you speak and explain
and argue like the wind and the leaves and the clouds
everyday when i am with you i feel like am being buried everyday
layer and layer of sand and pebbles and stones and twigs
and branches and heaps of leaves
i am losing my art of breathing and i am beginning to accept the fact
that you have the capacity to lose me
the world shrinks and the river becomes deeper
the view around me is crowded and dark and i look for you
i call for you and you are no longer there
sometimes i need to redefine love when companionship loses the grip
of hands.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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84
my silence shall be
i find this in the forest of trees
long trees, shady, such that what you can see
are only shadows of leaves
and what you hear is only the sound of the wind
choked between tight walls,
this is my silence,
moist, and soft, between a growth of wild
ferns
rotten leaves heaps and heaps of
rotten leaves
layer after layer of rotten leaves
thick and pushed still to the roots
smashed to the ground
some seeds from the oaks
or maybe from the flowers of the orchids
or some sweet fruits and red berries fall
in there
and they begin to grow
rich as humus is this soil down
the darkness of this forest,
this is my silence
deep inside me
moist, rotten, but soon
lots shall grow
seeds turning into sprouts
to trees again
perhaps taller than ever
some fruits so sweet and colored and shiny
some flowers scented and so lovely,
this my silence
shall be, i am keeping it for years
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Those Hands Joining
Great grandma’s hands
Grandma’s, mama’s,
sister's hands
Aunt’s and niece’s
Hands, they join today
An epic telling the stories
About touch, about prayer,
About reaching, about the years
Of caressing and holding on
To love, persevering and
Resting the hands on the
Hands of the other hands
Those moments of silence
When the hands speak more
When the mouths accept
The loss of the power of words
When even the hearts give in
Because the hands are warmer
And so comforting.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Secrets That You Keep
it is when everyone leaves the room
when everyone goes to their respective places
that one gets to account for the secrets
the fingers begin to count
the heart to beat and the body undresses its own skin
one faces the mirror
and sees the skeletons
in the closet the new clothes are wary to be given attention
'me now? ' i need a structure for my clothes so i may have the shape
you choose, as one by one you take the cartilages and flesh
some toes and nails
to compose yourself again
one takes the mask
the one that they shall love
and the clothes acceptable for the next party
and when they come
the conversations begin
'how nice have you grown' and you compliment too
'well this has always been me' and then you sip the tea
both of you are suspicious
but who cares? the party begins.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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My Silence Shall Be
i find this in the forest of trees
long trees, shady, such that what you can see
are only shadows of leaves
and what you hear is only the sound of the wind
choked between tight walls,
this is my silence,
moist, and soft, between a growth of wild
ferns
rotten leaves heaps and heaps of
rotten leaves
layer after layer of rotten leaves
thick and pushed still to the roots
smashed to the ground
some seeds from the oaks
or maybe from the flowers of the orchids
or some sweet fruits and red berries fall
in there
and they begin to grow
rich as humus is this soil down
the darkness of this forest,
this is my silence
deep inside me
moist, rotten, but soon
lots shall grow
seeds turning into sprouts
to trees again
perhaps taller than ever
some fruits so sweet and colored and shiny
some flowers scented and so lovely,
this my silence
shall be, i am keeping it for years
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Every Morning
every morning...he takes his off...his eyes...from their places...clumsily...lazı ly.....as he...as he leaves out..and gets out of his dreams...then he...puts on his feet...counts his arms..and if his fingers are in teir right places and complete...he places his head to its usual place...he then takes out his stomach....pours some tea in it....and silently...goes out...leaves to work...there he takes out his feet again...his fills his head with many troubles....in evening he returns home..his lonely home...then counts his broken hopes...he leaves one of his feet in the kitchen..the other on the streets....then scatters his fingers in the house...then goes....to sleep...to dreams...
poem by Metin Sahin
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Poetry Of Things
concentric circles
my universe is not your universe
i am a circle expanding and too
i am a circle shrinking upon itself
parchments of cloth mama's crochet
patches of moments child's chilling
chimera chimes of Chippewa
a blue butterfly kept on moth
balls, purple feathers, a white trunk
a T-square, a picture of Nefertiti
georgia o'keefe, a poetry of things
an art, a form, a shape of pain, a mold
of molds, we relate to this pain that
clings to our feet like anklets. We are.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Shape Me Like A Man
Spark my body into existence
Breath your life into me
Fill these eyes with temptation
Work your mystery
Make me in the image you desire
Raise me up from the earth
Let me be your creation
Women, give me birth
Take me in your hands
And shape me like a man
Shape me like a man
Put this broken body in motion
With a strong and natural drive
Fill my flesh with sensation
Women let me know Im alive
Take me in your hands
And shape me like a man
Shape me like a man
Like a man
Shape me like a man
Like a man
Shape me like a man
Like a man
Take me in your hands
And shape me like a man
Like a man
Shape me like a man
Like a man
Like a man
Shape me like a man
Like a man
Shape me like a man
Make me like a man
song performed by by Gino Vanelli
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The past is only the present become invisible and mute and because it is invisible and mute, its memoried glances and it's murmurs are infinitely precious. We are tomorrow's past.
The past is only the present become invisible and mute; and because it is invisible and mute, its memorized glances and its murmurs are infinitely precious. We are tomorrow's past.
When It Bites You
The love bug is a funny creature
with no shape or form,
but you know it
when it bites you
because your head goes in a spin
and leaves you never knowing
where you’ve been.
You go weak at the knees
and are putty in its hands.
There is no prevention
and no way to make a stand.
For when the love bug bites you
it really does it hard
and sometimes leaves a scar.
Invisible to the naked eye,
but you know its there
embossed on your heart.
24 January 2008
poem by David Harris
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