What Is It That Makes Us Stop To Love?
is it too much familiarity that the other
sounds like a blabber
and looks like a blubber
and smells like a tuber?
is it the hustle and bustle of the daily worries
that takes her away from a mystery
and you have nothing mystical
to maintain that fantasy?
so much reality
this everydayness that shuts you out
from the interest of life
it must be the desire turned off
the will surrendering
the heart dying because there is no more blood
rushing because the ecstasy had long left both of you
staring at the ceiling
and waking up as though there is nobody sleeping on your side
and closing windows and opening doors
stepping out
finding the air of freedom and smelling its new scent
feeling the wind
and wanting to play even if it is dark and cold and damp
on a moonless night
on the soft grass under the lushing trees
waiting for your dream
to come
where someone will be there
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Related quotes
Quiet
We all seek at times
a measure or two
of silken stillness
caught within the hustle bustle
of our daily lives.
The quiet that descends slowly
as summer sap oozing from a tree
to crystallize our moments
into tranquil harmony
that refreshes
our obliterating soul.
poem by David Harris
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It's a Wonderful Day. Isn't It?
Pretentions got the best of you.
Remember...
My foolish accusations,
With an embittered negativity...
Would eventually be 'my' downfall?
I believe I quote you specifically.
In 'my' world...
I continue to feel blessed and grateful.
In 'your' world?
Well...
There seems to be a lot of 'reality'
You may need soon to acquaint...
With an acclaimation of your daily activities.
I need not be around for the festivities, however!
I am sure you'd rather be alone when the stunning comes.
And I say that with as much 'positivity' as I can muster!
Without the slightest hint of hustle and bustle,
You might want to add to your steps.
And...
May I add,
This smile that I show and expose...
Is genuine.
Ahhhh...
It's a wonderful day.
Isn't it?
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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My Steps Are Steady
Above the bustle of the valley,
Above the bustle of the valley
Comfortable and secure
---in our joy one with the other
I have no want to climb the steep ladder
---to the hustle down under
To the hustle down under,
What if I should lose my balance
---and will they accept
---what we have to offer?
Will they accept
---what we have to offer?
You load me with a woven basket
---heavy with the fruits
---of our marriage
Heavy with the fruits
---of our marriage
You lead me through the threshold
---with my eyes open
With my eyes open
---to the perils of the downward climb
I am to descend not backward but forward
---in full view of the chaos below
In full view of the chaos below.
You and I bless our offerings
---and I overcome the limitations
---of our fruitfull union
I hold freely our prodigy,
My steps are steady
My steps are steady
Fear dissolves in the joy of love
Fear dissolves in the joy of love
We and they unite as one
We and they unite as one.
poem by Wilson Ogg
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Being Smug
I exchanged the buzz of Wimbledon
For the tranquil hamlet of Cherry Hinton
I have no regrets
Its made me forget
The hustle and bustle of London
poem by Nayyar Shabbir Ahmad
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Tranquil hamlet
I exchanged the buzz of Wimbledon
For the tranquil hamlet, Cherry Hinton
I have no regrets
Its made me forget
The hustle and bustle of London
poem by Nayyar Shabbir Ahmad
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As I prepare for this next phase in my life, I ask that people continue to offer the prayers that have protected me thus far. I also pray that I will always see those who are not seen and easy to forget in the hustle and bustle of Washington politics.
quote by Artur Davis
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Buffer Brain 1849
Dreams teem, spring from synaptic leap
before day's hustle bustle finds
employment for productive minds
far more contented when asleep.
When buffer brain retains thoughts deep
or fancies light, as rest unwinds,
they may be stored for many kinds
of interplay, rich harvests reap
when ploughed back, irrigation seep
which opens avenues, draws blinds,
encouragement staid braid unbinds
may reinforce joys shared and keep
enchantment ever underlined
to comfort through life's daily grind.
(30 January 2009)
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Silence
Away from hustle and bustle
Of the crowded town
Try and seek something deep
Enhancing an inner uplift
Rather than let you down.
Listen to your quiet Self
Be therein as long as you can
Welcoming the warmth and the quietness
Of thoughts, and emotions brought.
Practise it every now and then...
(May 2010)
poem by Maria C. Costa
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For a nation which has an almost evil reputation for bustle, bustle, bustle, and rush, rush, rush, we spend an enormous amount of time standing around in line in front of windows, just waiting.
quote by Robert Benchley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Hair and hustle
Dear can you help me for a while?
asked apologetically for a good smile,
’No’ replied a friend, keeping distance mile,
worries all around so can’t smile,
Hounded by worries, sick for while,
how can I offer even forced smile,
pain in her voice Keeping her mild,
mind seized with thought for her child,
She was extremely sorry,
could not afford luxury as money was worry,
situation was tense and she was in hurry,
Mind not working and hand hitting with furry,
I Will do anything for sick child,
can’t remain quite so mild,
I will have to find some means and way,
Still have no hope and no more say,
’hair’ and ‘hustle’ is answer,
What? Hair and hustle,
what is all this about?
Fumed at answer asked, what is this all about? I asked
Explain it dear nothing going in head,
simple may be lines but can not read,
what do they and what it stand for?
Is that all meaning which they stood for?
Raged at the meaning, hair and hustle stood for,
asked again why? What really they meant?
Hair is just trimming as it is learnt,
Hustle is nothing but only business
I have no option but go for child care,
what is meaning hustle and what about hair,
they loose charm and stand nothing,
I may go for it if offered something,
Life of child is so dear
Pain may be more but I may bear,
Many stories appear and I also hear,
child should get care life I fear,
Child if suffers, I will be broke,
can’t bear any such more stroke,
So do not offer any more joke,
Even get angry if some one poke,
Hustle” I found as prostitute,
So mean word and not good substitute,
It was clever ploy on her part not tell truth,
Situation as warranted life not smooth
I remained restless and night whole awoke,
Packets after packets finished for smoke,
Hustle means selling body as she told,
I could not decide whether move was bold,
I learnt later life was living hell,
She did not find as means well,
I was not ready and also not willing,
But helpless as today soul I am killing
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Outside Life
While walking through
that jungle of concrete
that I call my home
where all the houses seem
glued together
and the cars honk
at the j-walking civilians
where the billboards and ads
scream to you
from high in the air
I stop to think
(in all that hustle and bustle)
what life is like
outside of this place
poem by Annie Janine
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It Smells Like Rain
It smells like rain
filling the air
before the first drops break
in quiet splashes on the river.
It smells like rain
musty and fresh at once
warning the birds
to go home.
And the rain comes
water on water
cool rush of sound
quieting insects
teasing fish
drenching boaters
surprised by the storm.
It smells like rain
It sounds like rain
It looks like rain, now
I’ll go outside
and feel the rain.
Hell. I’ll be the rain.
poem by Robert Fort
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My Daily Bread
you do not believe when i tell you that i write everyday
it is routine to me
so my poems
are like
breathings
inhale
exhale
a poem
here a poem there
writing has become like a beating of my heart
so every beat
every pulse
is a poem made
like one kind of a factory
mass production
of breathing and beating
i have developed sort of too much familiarity with this kind of poetic activity and it has become so
so ordinary
and so much familiarity comes my contempt for my daily poetry
it is nothing extraordinary
it is like washing my face
brushing my teeth
cutting my nails
going to the office
teaching my class
reading books
walking the dog
taking a morning walk
lunch with my wife
listening to
lawyers argue
their cases
in court
all these are so ordinary
routinely clockwork
and they are nothing
they are
my poems
my daily bread.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Cool Clear Air
Sitting on the deck
in the early morning sun,
the start of a beautiful day,
breathing in the cool clear air
as you sit in quiet meditation
with only the wildlife for company
to the start of a chill out day
to begin a holiday.
You cannot ask for anything better
before the hustle bustle begins
when everyone else has woken up.
poem by David Harris
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There can be no prestige without mystery, for familiarity breeds contempt.
quote by Charles de Gaulle
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Watch
1.
Watching it closely, respecting its mystery,
is the note you've pinned above this heavy Dutch table
that takes the light weight of what you work at,
coaxing the seen and any mystery it might secrete
into words that mightn't fall too far short, might let you
hear how the hum of bees in the pink fuchsia
and among the buttercups and fat blackberries
is echoed by that deep swissshhh sound that is
your own blood coursing its steady laps
and speaking in beats to the drum of your left ear.
2.
When you watch the way the sycamore leaf curls,
browns, dries, and drops from the branch it's lived on
since spring, to be blown by a soundless breeze
along the seed heads of the uncut grass, then
the mystery that is its movement—the movement,
that is, from seed to leaf-shard and so on
to fructive dust—holds still an instant, gives a glimpse
of something that quickens away from language
into the riddling bustle of just the actual as you
grab at it and it disappears again, again unsaid.
poem by Eamon Grennan
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No Intentions Premeditated
I have no hustle to bustle,
Or boast to brag.
No intentions premeditated.
Or things wished to have done,
In a time gone and passed.
I live without regret.
Hoping I am yet,
Finished with challenges...
As I greet and leave obstacles met.
I feel blessed to take the steps I do.
And appreciate what is to be...
For whatever it is.
Especially if I am not making creative claims.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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One Day Traveler
Whenever I've traveled to a crowded city
I always think, 'Oh what a pity
to live in a city.'
For the skyscrapers there
so high in the air
have hidden the blue of the sky
except for the birds that fly.
The cold gray stone adorned with lights
never seem warm until the nights.
Their blinking neons can't compare
with the twinkling stars up in the air.
And again I think,
'Oh what a pity to live in the city.'
The hustle, the bustle and constant noise
have become for some the city's joys.
The screeching brakes, the honking sounds
is an abrupt assault to my head that pounds.
And again I think,
'Oh what a pity to live in a city.'
A one day visit and I'm ready to leave
and I know that I could never conceive
of being at home, never to roam
where the grass grows under my feet,
except for a country street
and again I think,
'Oh what a pity to live in a city.'
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Sanctuary
At times in the corridors of our mind,
we open doors in quiet moments
to find a daydream to keep us occupied.
Something in the vacant minutes
to take us away from where we are
to some far off peaceful sanctum
where we are who we are
with no mandatory hustle and bustle
that surrounds us everyday.
Just fluffy clouds to lie on
and dream our lives away.
28 January 2011
poem by David Harris
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City Nights
The city at night
Is like a ghost town
With one or two lost souls roamin its streets
For the most four
Business provide light to darkened streets
The dark corners provide refuge for the night crawlers
In the dark corners
Where un-needed to know things take place
Where undescribable things are done
From dusk till dawn
The city is theirs
It belongs to them
The night crawlers
They own this land
This City
At dawn they run
Run to their underground refuges
Away from the sun to underground sewers
Away from all life, the noise, the hustle and bustle of daily life
To being non-existant
poem by Cannita Melius
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