Welcome To A Safehouse
this may look like
the house of a dove
for it has but one
pillar
for it has many windows
without an enclosure
it towers above them
almost touching
the hands of the wind
the sounds of cries
are as gentle as the early morning waves
on storms that fail to come
not much words here
just signs and
gazes
this the house of my mind
the doves of my thoughts
on the pillar of
privacy
on the windows of openness
no dogmas here
but freedom.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Need For A New House....Or Home...
early morning
when the doors are still closed and the windows still tipsy
like the whole house
you fly away
the sun comes out with the clouds
early morning you fly away
away from it all
the clouds are floors and grasses
and you are a lonely bird among a flock of chairs
early morning you fly away
thinking about nothing
you fly away and you feel like a leaf inside
that gentle beast
it is a ride-awA Need For A New House....Or Home...ay
among the paradoxes of life
and its ironies
early morning there is this flight that takes you to a stop-over
of your life
no one knows that you are grieving
over a search for what you feel
the one you had which you lost
intentionally
among the flock of chairs landing early morning
on unstable floors
early morning you take a cab
you choose still
which house
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A House for Four
A house for four
What is it? a house for four
A dingy looking thing
Are there windows? none
What is it? a house for four
Such a palace
Are there greetings? none
What is it? a house for four
Why the space is so small
Is there privacy? none
What is it? a house for four
A dozen creeps could be creeping there
Is there any trust? none
Don't judge me for mine
Poor fool i wont
Even give you the time
Are you judging me?
Your quite the choir
With a cracking voice
And
A tall house that falls
To scrutiny
A house for four and
A house for four
A people of choir and
A people of poor
Do you not recognize
The stains are yours?
A house is not a house
Unless there is more
More and more
Sometimes less is more
poem by Deci Hernandez
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In This House
in this house
where you've been
what you've seen
were the windows
in this house
where you've been
what you've seen
were the doors
in this house
where you've sat
what you ate
was your food
in this house
where you've sat
what you ate
was the word
in this house
where you stood
what you could
something say
in this house
you could open
windows doors clapping wings
in this house
you could open
soul that heaven upward sings
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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Soon, Sometime
soon, is mother's
usual word for hope
so i may not retreat
and lurk by the dark
corner and weep.
soon when your
papa comes soon
when he is finally
forgiven, soon
when the storm
is over soon when
the house is
again strenthened
by its walls and
scaffolds
soon when you grow
up to be a man soon
when you are big
enough to understand
what really is the matter
why the roof leaks why
the door is always closed
why the glass windows
are misty
soon my son she says
soon you will have stronger
hands to hold on to a
pillar soon my son you
will have a brain that
travels beyond this
trifles soon my son you
will have wings to fly
and soon you will know
that this life is our journey
towards an uncertain
destination soon my son
you will know that you will
always be going and going
and goind soon you will
know my son, that there
is no stopping that there
is only an overlapping
of waves and shore and
waves and shore in the
never ending ebb and
rise of life and death.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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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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House Without Windows
Pockris/tobias
Im gonna move into
A house without windows
So I wont see you walking by, walking by
With your new love
There in the darkness of
My house without windows
I will never see the stars that shine
Shine on you, and your new love
Id rather wonder through this endless night
Than to face the light of another lonely day
Knowing that you wont be there
There to share, these two arms ever again
Ill take all my broken dreams
And Ill take my broken heart
And from now on you will find me there
Crying there, trying to forget
In my house without windows
In my house without windows
And without love.
song performed by by Roy Orbison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Survivor....
the inner struggles
have been
not just few
the thinking
is like going to war
and massive
killings along the
way
the mind is a survivor
the body stands still
people see you
like a pillar
the house is strong
the beams not trembling
and the garden
is simply beautiful
clouds hang on the
roof
air goes in and out
this constant
visitor
the doors are open
here
the windows are
enigmatic
worries are like
urine
flooding the
legs but the mind
is quick
like a diaper
somehow the self is
as elastic
as the rubberized
path like the
one at the gym
one goes back to
the couch
recalls, relates,
a boat waits
to ferry you back
to your throat
and heart
there you spell
the words
perfectly and there
the blood corpuscles
have hands
and you hear them
clapping
well done
wait for the next
journey
outside the
veins
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Two Hands
Oh theyre touching
Theyre touching each other
Theyre feeling
They push and move
And love each other, love each other
They fit together like two hands...
I am a face
In the painting on the wall
I pose and shudder
And watch from the foot of the bed
Sometimes I think I can
Feel everything...
The wind is blowing
My hair in their direction
The wind is bending my hair
There are no windows in the painting
No open windows, no open windows, no...
song performed by by King Crimson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Hidden Drive
there's a dirty house that's falling apart
some want to fix it but they don't know where to start
there's cobwebs and cracks in the walls
this is where rain's relief dares not to fall
no one really cares to help this place
they just look at the face
this old house is kept inside
with a disguising shell to hide
something i noticed as i passed by
at the house where hope will die
the windows were clean and new
though everywhere else the weeds grew
the windows had such an allure
i couldn't take it anymore
i gazed at the windows in awe
then through them i saw
the messy, run-down house inside
where beauty died
then i realized
something about eyes
eyes are the windows
clean and lovely for show
but behind them is the soul
sometimes your eyes will fool
the beauty and shine will not last
for one day, someone will see past.
poem by Alex Manson
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Wistfully Watching
They explore the world
through windows,
church windows,
school windows,
two up, two down windows,
castle windows,
large windows,
small windows.
They see it all,
from blameless to guilty,
from noble to treacherous,
through windows.
From skyscraper windows,
to basement flat windows,
from paupers windows,
and palace windows
they watch, absorb, suck it in.
Later when they have grown
they will remember,
try to empathise,
rationalise
decipher the coded metaphors,
but some day
they will be demoralised
by the windows of life.
There they sit __ wistfully watching __
the children
of our times.
poem by Ruth Walters
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Before Winter
The wind is crying in the night,
Like a lost child;
The waves break wonderful and white
And wild.
The drenched sea-poppies swoon along
The drenched sea-wall,
And there's an end of summer and of song -
An end of all.
The fingers of the tortured boughs
Gripped by the blast
Clutch at the windows of your house
Closed fast.
And the lost child of love, despair,
Cries in the night,
Remembering how once those windows were
Open and bright.
poem by Edith Nesbit
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Early In The Morning
Early in the morning and I cant get right
Had a little date with my baby last night
Now its early in the morning (early in the morning)
Well its early in the morning (early in the morning)
Now its early in the morning
And I aint got nothing but the blues
Went to all the places where we used to go
Went to your house but you dont live there no more
Now its early in the morning (early in the morning)
Well its early in the morning (early in the morning)
Early in the morning
And I aint got nothing but the blues
Went to your friends house but she was out
Knock on your fathers door and he began to shout get out there boy
Early in the morning (early in the morning)
Early in the morning (early in the morning)
Early in the morning
And I aint got nothing but the blues
Went to doogie chain to get something to eat
Waiter looked at me and said you sure look beat
Now its early in the morning (early in the morning)
Early in the morning (early in the morning)
Well its early in the morning
And I aint got nothing but the blues
Well its early in the morning
And I aint got nothing but the blues
Well its early in the morning
And I aint got nothing but the blues
song performed by by Van Morrison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Leaking Roof
it is raining and here i am stuck
under the roof of a deserted house
the windows are open
nobody has come to close four windows
looking to the street like an insomniac,
the door is creaky like a sore throat
sounding like an incurable allergic sneeze
the crazy wind bangs it from time to time
and i do not mind the routine of noise
for a while a walk to and fro
like i am making a picket
observing the details of how a deserted house
can look like
or feel like: there seems to be a growling silence
abbreviating itself like a scream
cut short by my hands kept inside my pocket
i look up and see the leaking roof
making a rhythm of the dripping beat
of this poem.
i have nothing in mind, i am empty
and emptying still. I take in so much quantity
of silence, the weight of thoughts,
the silly purposeless probe
of what i am suppose to be and where i must be going
after this temporariness of loafing.
The rain stops. I am leaving.
The rhythm ceases.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Animation
thunder assumes life
of the male genitalia ruling the evening
the houses are the recipients of its fury
the bliss of the other strikes
the roofs of those who remain indifferent
to its invasion
there are sounds of moaning of the wind
but the windows know how to pretend
that they are all dead
lightning tries to provide the electricity
of the lapses
but the doors like the windows
also know how to pretend
like the house.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Twelve
a woman in an early morning sweeping some trash
away from the house
a heap of garbage
thrown on the road for the garbage truck to pick it up...
whistles her way inside the house
locks the gates
enters the door
and opens all the windows of the house
meeting a brand new day
filled with warm sunshine
and cool air breathings
from the yard's green trees.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Let’s create windows In our minds
Houses and buildings
Have Windows
Buses and trains
Too have windows
When open
Light and fresh air
Comes in through them
Allows foul air to go out
When closed
Prevents Dust and filth
From coming in
Let’s create windows
In our minds
Allow good thoughts
To come in and enlighten
The mind
Let the bad thoughts go out
Close the window of the mind
When bad thoughts
Try to intrude in
Listen to what people say
With an open mind
poem by Nirantar Dr.Rajendra Tela
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Morning Song
this is the song of
the pillow and the blanket
when you splash them
in the air and then
you fold the blanket
and put it on top
of each other and you
set them gently aside
this is the song of the
yellow green venetian blinds
when you pull the strings up
and you let in the light
this is the song of the doors
and the windows when you
unlock the knobs and open
them to let all the sounds of the
day enter your house
this is the whistle that comes
out from your throat when
you shape your lips like
a pout where good thoughts
are let in and then the notes
begin to fly like some birds
on a clear early morning sky
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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House Without Windows
La........
Im gonna buy myself (buy myself)
A house without windows (windows)
So I wont see you walkin by (walkin by)
And youll never see me cry
For all the lovin I had you treat me so bad and run away
So when you look inside (look inside)
You will never see me cry and cry
In my house without love
Im gonna build myself (build myself)
A house without windows (windows)
So I can hide the pan (hide the pain)
And youll never see me cry again
So when youre passing my way
Each time of the day ,youll feel the love in you
And you cant look inside
So youll never see my cry and cry
In my house without you
La....
(break)
For all the lovin I had , you treat me so bad and run away
So when you look inside ( look inside)
You will never see me cry and cry in my house without love
La....
(fade)
song performed by by Bee Gees
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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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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Shattered windows, Colors of white
Across the street is a new house with a room painted red, with no holes of white.
Next to me, a house purple, with its color pealing off, with holes of black and white
At the end of the street, an old house once yellow, what now remains white.
The sound of a hammer building a house, entering a place with a color unknown.
On the street,
Windows covered with ice
Some shine with light.
Some broken
Some fixed
Some lost, out of sight.
A house, two blocks from here.
Shines with lights of yellow, red, and green everywhere.
A wall keeping the wind from blowing anywhere.
The house next door, at the dawn of the day.
Paints its room black, and peals the color away.
The wall crumbles.
The wind blows across the colors of yellow, red and green
Breaks all the windows.
Turns the yellow to blue, red to black, and green to white.
The house two blocks away.
Adds a line of yellow red and green everyday.
To allow the house of blue, black and white to shine for us some day.
poem by Linda ErikssonBique
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