What Do I Know......what You Do Not.
i know the spring.
i have traced the source of this water
that i drink everyday
that which gives me
inspiration because all my veins
let through the blood
and the water seeps through
the softness of my skin
the labyrinths of my intestines
i know spring
the source is here
not in the heart where drought
lies, not in the convolutions of my brains
where confusion reigns at times
overpowering the stillness of
my secret pond,
on the darkness of my night
i know the source
it is not evil, it does not have horns
but there is fire that burns me
like a bush and i am
unconsumed
it is eternal
not this damnation that kills the lives
of those who remain to be alone
in their messy rooms
on their windows that do not allow
the light of the moon
the advices of the breeze
the comforting messages of the
newly hatched eggs on the nests
of the trees
it is not in the heart
it is right here where my hands grope
for meaning
where my fingers glide
where my solitude rests
the hammock
of my humanity
as i run to and fro
because i do not want to be detached
to leave
it is here where i stay
and write some more
it is where where i do not want to be understood
by anybody
this secret pond
blind fish mute moss
bubble free
an insect with undeveloped wings
walk on the mirror
water.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Related quotes
Water so Deep and Profound
Water so sinuous and devious,
And as mystifying as you.
Water is always hiding its true self,
Never in one form.
Water can be the shimmer,
Reflecting off the light of the pond,
Making the pond seem magnificent.
Water can be the rushing sound,
As it escapes the secretive pond,
And runes down into the vast ocean,
Seeking adventure and unfound dreams.
Water can be the feeling of calmness,
As it sits there, overlooking the pond,
With wonder and seeing how it made it what it is.
Water so supple and wondrous,
The pond is born from the water.
Water so deep and profound,
Just like you,
The pond so incomplete without water,
Just like your family.
poem by Music Galore
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Women Sometimes
women sometimes
are a handful, a breastful,
a body beautiful,
you think they are so easy
to handle,
cutie pie, sweetie pie,
pity pie?
sure. they're a handful
of pretty pretty breastful
pretty, pretty petty bodies..
fondle, coddle, and
lots of doodles...
but oh, without them,
what will this world of mine be?
a desert. a dry pond.
a well without water.
drought the whole year round.
cracking lips.
labyrinths without an exit.
tunnels without light.
dogs without a master.
birds unfed and dead.
skulls without a skin.
bones without flesh.
blood without veins.
nails without fingers.
pen without a paper.
milk without water.
bed without blankets and pillows.
hands without fingers.
face without eyes.
and so on and so forth.
let me have them all
in my crowded room.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Source Of Confort
God is a source of energy
God is a source of light
God is a source of love
God is a source of peace
God is a source of comfort
God is a source of hope
God is a source of freedom
God is a source of praise
poem by Aldo Kraas
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The Fishes' Message, Poet: Sohrab Sepehri
I went to the pond
Hoping to see the reflection of my loneliness in the water
There was no water in the pond.
The fishes were saying:
'"It is not the trees' fault at all.
It was a sultry summer noon,
The bright son of water, sat by the pond's edge
And the eagle of the sun dived down and lifted him up & up in the air.
To hell with our not reaching any oxygen from water.
And the glitter has left our scales all together.
Instead, that big light,
The reflection of that red carnation in the water
Whose heart, if the wind was blowing, would beat behind the layers of neglect,
was our eyes.
It was a window to the confession of paradise.
If you see God in the palpitations of the garden,
Make an effort and tell him that the fishes'' pond is dry.'"
The wind was going to visit the plane tree,
I was going to visit God.
poem by Mehraneh Hosseini
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Dry Lips
With dry, from the drought, lips
I drink a little water
And it makes my body strong
And the drought goes away
Water from a clean spring
Turns into a river
Which slakes my thirst
And flows on earth-
Wild, dark and withered
And changes it so
That love and light come up
Water from a clean spring
With dry, from the drought, lips
I drink a little water
And it makes my body strong
And the drought goes away
poem by Yavor Kostov
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Quiet (& Still)
quiet
this princess that dwells
in the secret pond of
my heart
the lotus
that blooms
in the stillness of the water
above this mud
quiet
the stare that i give
to darkness
to death
quiet
the hands that despite
the odds
willingly shall surrender
to God's law
shall abide
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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At a koi pond in a nursery
When her fingers
lightly ripple the water,
a row of fishes
dart to come to investigate.
Fins cut through the water
and big eyes,
come to look
near to the surface.
Big and small bright coloured koi’s
dash past through the water,
while dark fresh water crayfish
crawl on the bottom of the pond.
The ripple on the water
rings out wider and wider,
till where it disappears in to eternity.
.
In my hart the sound
of the beautiful day resounds,
while I stand fascinated
at the fish pond.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Grateful Water
Live if you can when the water runs dry.
Once in a decade perhaps, or never in a life
Save your tear so that you won’t have to cry.
Let the water flow and wash away the strife.
Dry yourself with water if any miracle you need.
Let the water run upwards for a change to fancy.
Feed the water well to run through the creed.
Run Water! ! Run! ! Flow in a stream of constancy.
Drop of tears, dew drops, even a single dropp of water.
In course of time can change a thing always for real.
Pool, pond, brook, lake will never stop to utter
The utterance of gratitude, in the way they feel
Sometimes to the greatest source of the sea
Even sometimes to the man’s ungrateful plea.
Written in the afternoon of the 12th February,2010
poem by Munia Khan
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Remembering A Friend Through The Fish
we keep when we were children
our treasures in a form of a fish
inside our own little secret ponds
we never intend to share them at first
we fear the adults who steal
we dislike them minding us
telling us that fish is not interesting at all
that the pond is just a very small world
where our minds are convoluted
like intestines of a fish
do you remember the flood
of adult water spreading rising higher than our knees?
it was very sad
all the fish we kept were taken away by the indifference
of the majority
we give up
we went to other places
and then we became too lonely
they want us to hate the fish
to be like them
and so here we are still keeping the fish
in anger.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Spring
(not the season)
A spring
A perennial source of inspiration
about it
we have loads and loads of information
and that
we have as our scriptures
to depict that
we have made our sculptures
we call all these.....
our rich heritages from our ancestors
WHERE IS THAT SPRING....
A PERRENIAL SOURCE OF INSPIRATION
Have we lost sight of it due to our pride?
A spring could'nt be encaptured
A spring could'nt be stored
The scriptures and sculptures were reservoires....
born out of this spring
Just a pride about those....
would'nt bring back the spring.
The scriptures and sculptures are not an ' over ' thing
it was just a ' beginning ' thing
This spring can neither have a beginning nor ending
it is a perennial thing.
WHERE IS THAT SPRING.....
A PERENNIAL SORCE OF INSPIRATION
How do we find this spring
It's just not a common thing
to be found by one and be used by all
Do we need a ' DIVINER ' to divine this spring?
THE DIVINITY IN 'YOU'
HAS TO DIVINE THIS PERENNIAL SPRING ' IN YOU'
' FOR YOU '
poem by Samanyan Lakshminarayanan
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0372 Reflection on a garden pond
It's unexpectedly mild this early Spring evening
and I take my glass of beer, cold in the hand,
and slide the patio door open and step out for the first time this year,
feeling like an intruder in my own garden, so strange in the twilight.
Then, melted by awe and gratitude
to see an unplanned wild violet
which has taken up residence between the cement slabs.
Between other slabs the miniature bamboo stubbornly returns,
(that was my Japanese year) and in the tiny pond,
soon to be turned into a living soup by amorous frogs
to the total puzzlement of the white cat, watching for an hour or so
and extending from time to time an ineffective paw,
or nosing the water unable, either, to gulp a tadpole -
in the tiny pond, something bright;
a dancing reflection in the water stirred by an evening breeze -
the moon;
the same moon that danced on the water for Li Po
as he drank from his wine cup
alone and at peace, so far, so long ago;
in a poet's solitude and contentment
and the thought of distant friends,
celebrated with wine
under the moon, on a spring evening,
in perfect happiness.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Looking for Water
Still the leaves are spinning 'round
Take my hand as we go down, and down, and down
Looking for water
Well, our light's gone in a New York minute
Don't know about you, but my heart's not in it
(Looking, looking, looking)
I'm looking for water
I'm looking for water
(Looking, looking, looking)
I can't breathe the air, can't raise a fact
'Cause all we've got left is a beat in the night, and I'm
(Looking for water)
Looking for water
(Looking for water)
(Looking, looking)
Take my hand as we go down, and down
Leave it all behind, nothing could be found
(I'm, looking for water)
I'm looking for water
(Looking for water)
(Looking, looking)
(I, looking for water)
Looking everywhere
(Looking for water)
Looking here and there
(I'm looking for water)
I'm looking for water
(Looking for water)
(Looking, looking)
I can't live in this cage, I can't eat this candy
The edge of the earth to the spin in my head
The look in your eyes and never means never
The dawn's early light, baby, dark is forever
(Looking, looking)
(Looking, looking)
(Looking for water)
(Looking, looking)
I
(Looking for water)
(Looking for water)
(Looking, looking)
I
(Looking for water)
(Looking for water)
(Looking, looking)
I
(Looking for water)
(Looking for watter)
Looking, looking)
I
(Looking for water)
(Looking for watter)
Looking, looking)
I
(Looking for water)
(Looking for watter)
song performed by by David Bowie, music by David Bowie, lyrics by David Bowie from Reality
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Ch 08 On Rules For Conduct In Life - Admonition 03
Reveal not thy secret to any man although he may be trustworthy, because no one can keep thy secret better than thyself.
Silence is preferable than to tell thy mind
To anyone; saying what is to remain unsaid.
O simpleton, stop the source of the spring.
When it becomes full, the brook cannot be stopped.
Ocean Poem
I am merely a fish swimming in a pond of darkness.
The trees are anemones standing alone.
Yet still i ride on not giving up
Not stopping at all til we reach the home.
We are all just fish swimming around
We do not take in anything other than the water we breathe
We care about nothing
Its only ourselves we see
that’s why I swim alone in this pond
I don’t want to be like those others
The ones who are all the same
Ill be fine just remember my name
poem by Courtney Tak
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Landscape 28 Meniscus
The molecules of water are held together
By weak electrical forces
That extend in all directions.
At the water surface, the upward forces,
Having nowhere watery to go,
Lie along the surface
To form a thin skin, called a meniscus.
This is the skin that holds water drops,
Supports water striders,
Even skips stones.
I came once to an Adirondack Lake
On a still moonlit night.
The lake seemed full of fireflies,
Flashes of light in the water
As far as the eye could see.
I finally discovered the source of the light,
The sudden movements of water striders
Riding the meniscus
Bent the water surface
Into a curved mirror
That reflected glimmers of moonlight.
The Japanese make a flower arrangement
In a vessel with a perfectly level rim.
The vessel is filled with water
To a level above the rim
The water is held from overflowing
By a curved meniscus
That bends light like a lens.
In the center of the water
Floats a single perfect flower
That sends tiny ripples across the water surface
And crinkles the meniscus
When the vessel is vibrated.
poem by Stewart McKenzie
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The Wind Wild
The wind wild with jubilation at its escape from the asylum where it's just killed all the windows, but not a flower moves, not a leaf is shed. Come this far, you should know what hour it is, what stars time sifts through its fingers like sand and gold. And though you've stepped away from your face in the mirror, you're still inconceivably reflected in everything, oilslick and orchid alike. And how strange it must seem to touch your own skin and everywhere caress the sky, all wonderful, all a dark radiance without obstruction, a secret night of silver feathering the moon with the cool fires of a forbidden wilderness. And yet this isn't free enough, this isn't yet pouring out the sea to breathe in the light, this isn't eating the dark with your water-mouth and spitting out worlds like seeds. Do you see everywhere around you, now, the worlds? Who but you could they have ever been? And, yes, you have selected a destiny, in assent to this one spontaneity, this one act, a letter in the mail, set all the axes of the planets spinning like a dealer at a roulette wheel. In one dropp of water, the Nile; in one death of potential, birth into a universe that didn't exist before you adopted this exile from yourself into a rage of becoming, whether ashes or gypsies on the moon bathing in their own shadows. Wherever you walk is the way; whatever you say, a school.
Leprous the white fire of the lotus, a pale fire, until it's touched by the wand of the dragonfly, until you drink from the black mirror, the night-well that has never shown anyone their face looking back. Drink deeper than you've ever drowned before, and take the stone embryo of the delusion in your womb to an abortion clinic run by ghosts. At this point all percipients go insane, trying to save the seer and the seen. And the demons that had made a shrine out of every muscle of your body, reflexively catechizing every thought and emotion until you were bound by a theology of yourself, interred in the garbage of your own sanctity, spontaneously understand the invincibility of the sword in your spine, and release hell into effortless obedience to the void, falling, out of joy, to the sky. World disappears, seer disappears and all that's left is a pervasive, unbounded, eyeless seeing, the moon flowing in a dry creekbed. This is the unending return to the source, the unborn cosmos that is the mother and afterlife of itself, all childhoods and every coffin, flowers and fish. Emptiness and form make one hourglass; overturned are they two? What arms to receive the worlds like sand if not this vacancy, this generosity of space being nothing at all? Now, tell me, what hour is it when a clown strikes a bell of water and the sun at midnight shines alone on you?
poem by Patrick White
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The Neglected Pond
i may have neglected this pond
some fish are no longer swimming
eventually die in the water
their same burial place
some moss float and the lotus
has not borne any flower since
that day of mourning
someone as i leave may take
notice of this pond
and have pity and pour
everything there
to revive it or
take more perhaps for the
replacement
a new koi or
a gold fish
white pebbles and
a janitor fish
it does not matter for i still grieve
and grieving does not know what hope is
what a new house means
the trails to San Antonio
what are they? but same vomiting mud
and i won't take it
for an answer
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Shadow and Light Source Both
How does a part of the world leave the world?
How does wetness leave water?
Dont' try to put out fire by throwing on
more fire! Don't wash a wound with blood.
No matter how fast you run, your shadow
keeps up. Sometimes it's in front!
Only full overhead sun diminishes your shadow.
But that shadow has been serving you.
What hurts you, blesses you. Darkness is
your candle. Your boundaries are your quest.
I could explain this, but it will break the
glass cover on your heart, and there's no
fixing that.
You must have shadow and light source both.
Listen, and lay your head under the tree of awe.
When from that tree feathers and wings sprout on you,
be quieter than a dove. Don't even open your mouth for
even a coo.
In Water
You’re fraught with words, better go sit in water;
For they swell with meaning and glow more in water.
Look for the heart in the chest and roast it on embers
Look for the blood in the liver and drink it in water.
Tomorrow Kashmir will stretch in the sun like a desert,
The day after Ladakh and Leh will float in water.
Under the hollow banks frightened waves take refuge;
Lord Jaldev is born with fire in water.
At mid day, even the sun gets soaked in sweat;
At the end, even the moon catches fire in water.
Even in excitement, sometimes, people set towns on fire;
Even for fun, sometimes, people pour poison in water.
The lost cow is looking for the elevensome, would someone tell her?
Five drowned in dry land, six are aflame in water.
The peddler of ghazals, this Kamil, makes fiery calls
But the fatefrost people are coldly sleeping in water.
[Translated from the Kashmiri by Muneebur Rahman]
poem by Amin Kamil
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That 'poetry Is To Be The Voice Of Others'....
it is midway
between the path of
light and pond
that goldfish
appears
nearer
the tunnel of the
water from its source
to the receiver
who in turn becomes
another giver and then
another
by now you must have understood
what i have been driving at
this nail
penetrating the soft wood
this hammer
banging
what am i to you
is not really what i am
for i am but a messenger
a medium
of the sufferings of others
i am but a hand opening
catching flakes of snow and light and rain and sun and even lightning
i am but a vessel
where water is poured
hot or cold
or not so warm and not so cold
the xylem and the phloem
the trachea
the larynx and the pipe
the flute and
the straw
i speak now for myself
from all those
that have rested
and those who are still tired
those at war with everyone
and with himself
i am the paper where words
are written
i am the pen where the ink passes through
i am not the thought itself
but i am always what others had been
and will be....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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