What? ? ? ?
there are many things still to write
i should have written it directly like pen to paper
without any winding ways
i like to be blunt and candid and
spiteful and they will call me an angry man
a raging sea
a bully,
i stop short of this attack
it is not worth it
what shall i get when they will know about my
complaints?
they will just say, i am reflecting what i have
not achieved
that i am just spitting to heaven
as i am spitting to my face
i am tired, and i have transformed strength to
weakness
i am lost in what i want to see
i forget the beginning and sometimes i cannot decide
where to end
and what to say at the end
it is like this: i am mumbling, i do not really mean what i am saying
it is deep in the night
and i am sleepy and may be
hallucinating and you keep on reading because you are too
reflecting on the
inevitable,
you expect a wise retort? an ending with a clinch
or something?
there is nothing to this. Except
what? ? ? ?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Related quotes
The Love Sonnets Of Proteus. Part IV: Vita Nova: XCII
WRITTEN IN DISTRESS
We sometimes sit in darkness. I long while
Have sat there, in a shadow as of death.
My friends and comforters no longer smile,
And they who grudge me wrongfully my breath
Are strong and many. I am bowed beneath
A weight of trouble and unjust reproach
From many fools and friends of little faith.
The world is little worth, yet troubles much.
But I am comforted in this, that I,
Although my face is darkened to men's eyes
And all my life eclipsed with angry wars,
Now see things hidden; and I seem to spy
New worlds above my heaven. Night is wise
And joy a sun which never guessed the stars.
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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There Was I
(l. stansfield/i. devaney/a. morris)
Chorus:
There was i
Taking every step for you
There was i
Taking every breath for you
And all the time you were with her
I loved you
I spurred you on
Never wanting for myself
Adored you
For what I dont know
Cos you were loving someone else
And now youre spitting in my face
Telling me that someone else
Has taken my place
Chorus
Important
Oh how important you were to me
Eternal
Thats what I thought our love would be
But now youre spitting in my face
Telling me that someone else
Has taken my place
Chorus
And now youre spitting in my face
Telling me that someone else
Has taken my place
Chorus (x 3)
song performed by by Lisa Stansfield
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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To be a writer
They say, when you have nothing to say
Do not say anything
They say when you have nothing good to say
Do not say anything
He is not convinced
He wants to be a writer and to be one he must write
What is in his mind
To be a writer he must write and write and write
Even when there is nothing to write
Even when there is nothing to say even when nobody listens
Even when the word is dead even when there is no sense at all
Even when he gets blind and deaf and mute even when his fingers are cut even when his mind is blank even when his consciousness is lost
Even when you are angry even when you say what is written is nothing
But trash, dung, cadaver, corpse, poo, pee, even when there is nothing
Anymore,
He writes because he is a writer and no one can stop him now.
he is
he is writing
he is writing always
he is writing always whatever that needs to be written
and here you are foolishly reading. thanks to you, audience of one.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I'm Tired Of It All
I am tired of it all
I am tired of today
I am tired of the summer heat-
I am tired of all the years of trying to be something
And still being nothing and no one
I am tired of myself and my ambition
I am tired of reading the great poems of others
I am tired of Poetry
I am tired of being old
I am tired of no longer having the means to help those I care for-
I am tired of having written for so many years
And having so little to show for it-
I am tired of being an old man getting older -
I am tired of being afraid of what is going to happen to me
And those close to me
I am tired of having so many sick friends-
I am tired of having more and more people I have known who are dead
I am tired of a world in which violence and stupidity play such a great part
I am tired of all the problems that should have been solved years ago
And yet persist-
I am tired of cruelty
I am tired of rudeness and petty selfishness
I am tired of seeing the evil get away with it
I am tired truly tired
Tired of being tired also
Tired of myself and my complaints-
And my failure all these years
To make things right-
And yet and yet with all the tiredness
I know there is so much else even in myself-
I still want to live and dream and hope and help those I love
I still want to write still a few lines of poetry
that will be read by others
And help them
Dream to begin again
I still want to give to those I love
The little I still have to give
I still want to live
For life itself is life itself is still good
Despite the tiredness.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Reflecting
Reflecting on clouds that slowly creep,
Across the vast skies like woolly sheep,
The blues of heaven, the red sunset,
All sights that nobody can forget,
Sunshine and rain, crisp white frost and snow,
The softest breeze, and strong winds that blow,
Though I will gently doze, yet I may sleep,
For within your spirit my love you keep.
Reflecting on mighty oceans deep,
Stark mountains so craggy, tall and steep,
Valleys all filled with rich luscious green,
There’s such immense beauty to be seen,
But you are not here to see it too,
I can’t share these wondrous things with you,
You said not to cry though, nor will I weep,
For within my spirit your love I keep.
poem by Ernestine Northover
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And I Wonder
Im going out, I dont know why, theres no need at all
A kind of turbulence outside and I cant resist the call
I hear a siren, I might be late, fire flickers on a barricade
A piece of smack melts in my brain as I watch the police deploy
And I wonder
Did not expect to meet you here in the middle of the fights
I should have known, you got it all, you wanna burn tonight
Out in the riots you looked somehow devine
You gotta kill a cop sometime
A random motion thats what you are, these days are so bizarre
And I wonder to see your face in a place like this
Reflecting the flames
You see the market there across the square
Its closing time but all the doors are broken
Why dont we step inside, its free for everyone, you see
Its paradise, well alright
And I wonder to see your face in a place like this
Reflecting the flames
Gold/1987
song performed by by Alphaville
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Some Notes About You
reading what you have
written
excites me.
I salute your
sweetness in
being candid to every word.
reading one poem leads to
another
until i get to know you
every hair lock
every nail
bite.
and then i experience
not just the
high of your thoughts
but the
fear too, that i can be soon like
you
lost, sad, and in pain.
and so today i call it quits.
after reading you
it feels like visiting Beijing
and then
promising myself that
i shall not return
to such place
again.
there is this exhaustion,
that rises above
the respect for what is old and
miserable.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Moon Light
Moon light
Reflecting the wishes
Reflecting the dreams
Reflecting the hopes
Moon light
Shining on the flowers
Shining on the sweet singing birds
Shining on the people of earth
Moon light
Brightening the smiles
Brightening the laughter
Brightening the people
Moon light
All night its reflecting
All night its shining
All night its brightening
Moon light
All night
poem by Echo Moonlight
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Under Ice
Its wonderful.
Everywhere, so white.
The river has frozen over.
Not a soul on the ice.
Only me skating fast.
Im speeding past trees,
Leaving little lines in the ice,
Splitting, splitting sound,
Silver heels spitting, spitting snow.
(sonar says...[inaudible]...deep...[inaudible])
Theres something moving
Under, under the ice,
Moving under ice,
Through water,
Trying to get out of the cold water.
Its me.
Something, someone--help them.
Its me.
song performed by by Kate Bush
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Love Letter
She wonders how to begin her letter
She knows he will read each word
Greedily for any hint of love. She knows
He will sniff the paper for any scent of her
She leans an elbow on her writing desk
And clutches her pen tight. She has got
As far as, Dear John, but then the words
Stopped coming. Before she had sat down
To write, the words flowed through her
Mind like a rushing stream, now nothing
She sucks the end of the pen. Say what
You would if you were face to face, her
Mother always said. She tries to imagine
He is there before her and what she would
Say if he was, but still no words will come
He writes to her so fluently when he writes
He always seems to know what to write
And how to put it into words. She tries again
Puts the pen nib onto the paper, gripping
The pen tighter. She reads what she’s written
Dear John. The pen moves, the words begin
To flow, her hand moves across the page
The images come into her mind as she writes
The things that they said last time they met
The things they did, she blushes slightly
That almost being caught out by the maid
In a state of undress. She pauses the pen
And sits gazing at the painting on the wall.
She looks back at the paper and starts again
The words tripping over themselves to be put
Down in ink upon a page; the images open up
In her mind, the colours, the smells, the events
The pen now stops. The love letter is written
The writing done. She looks at the words
Then she seals it in an envelope and writes
His address. She pictures him reading it: in bed
In his room, sleepy, in a state of his usual undress
poem by Terry Collett
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Ever After
The life of a fairy tale.
Can be like our own.
The ending is happy.
But the story unknown.
The story begins.
Then there’s always a twist.
You can’t get to the ending.
Unless you persist.
Some stop reading the story.
When things, they look bleak.
They don’t have the strength.
Their hearts are too weak.
So they grab a new tale.
Then the reading begins.
If it ends in the middle.
Then nobody wins.
So things just seem hopeless.
Because we always quit.
We don’t finish the story.
To the fear we submit.
God tells us, “Hold on.”
“The ending is near.”
“Just keep reading the story.”
“Don’t give in to fear.”
“Believe in My ending.”
“Believe and then hope.”
“That the hero will climb up.”
“From the end of his rope.”
And so you continue
The prince finds his queen
The greatest fairy tale ending
You ever had seen
But had you not finished.
The true ending unknown.
The prince would not have a queen.
To share with his throne.
Fairy tales are filled.
With both sadness and laughter.
Where you finish the story.
Becomes your ever after.
poem by Ryan Lee Morris
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Same Ending...
stories about the lives
of people
i've read them
throughout the night
after work
i hear no footsteps now
on the road
where this window
faces
the trees are as still
as a picture
of trees in colored
books
it is still the usual
sameness of
things arranged
every day and
night
a dog sits
beside my feet with
my brown socks still on
fitting themselves
on yellow
rubber slippers
it is the same ending
composing a
poem like this one
that you are reading
there is no option to
be unique
or different or
outstanding
so you can notice
what i am
not or what can i
be in the
next few minutes
i have no other ambition
but to take another
sound sleep
tonight and so
we have to part ways
again
it is my night now
as another morning in
you begins
to unfold like an umbrella
that you have to take
because you have
conceived another
rain...
well, rain is a good
beginning
as a sound sleep that
visits a very tired man
makes a good
same ending.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Of course, sometimes when you write personally, you are also writing about society, obliquely reflecting topical issues, but not in a way that people would expect you to or in the way that someone trying to make a point would.
quote by Suzanne Vega
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Fear Of Ghosts
Like a feeling that i'm down
Down inside my heart
Like i'm looking out through
Splitting bloodred
Windows in my heart
From a higher up than heaven
And a harder down than stone
Shake the fear that always clawing
Pulls me clawing down alone
As i spitting splitting bloodred
Breaking windows in my heart
And the past is taunting
Fear of ghosts
Is forcing me apart
And the further i get
>from the things that i care about
The less i care about
How much further away i get...
I am lost again
With everything gone
And more alone
Than i have ever been
I expect you to understand
To feel it too
But i know that even if you will
You cannot ever help me
Nor can i
Ever help you
song performed by by Cure
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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How Lyrical?
she chops what should have been
seen as a straight line, and we who believe in her
think that there is something strange
i think, deep in my heart that
it is ugly, but those that surround me
believe that what she does like the way she
holds her glass, putting red wine in it, and spitting out
something bitter, is lyrical...
'this is art' she says,
i am attuned to something direct and clear and logical,
and i stand up and say
'that is the ugliest thing that i have ever seen
and i am telling you
i detest it, i dislike it'
i leave, and i tell the world that there is something wrong
with her.
the world claps its hands. the people bowed.
they say, she is beautiful and everything she does, no matter what,
like her spitting at me,
is beautiful, a work of art, a mark of history.
i sit here asking still some questions to my hands.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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When You Read This
when you read this
poem, i am letting you know
that i still care,
when you continue reading on
the next line
you are letting me know
what i still know
that you still care for me too
and then you are angry
about how presumptuous can i be
and so i make another line
and another line and if you continue reading
more of these lines
in this poem
you are letting me know
that you are still angry about
my untimely departure
that moment when love was
still strong
when desire was at its peak
and then you think things over
how you have been
unwittingly betrayed by my words
and you keep on
reflecting if these lines still
say the same
meanings and i keep on writing
more lines
hoping that you will understand
what i have not said
because i cannot say them
because my self
cannot lie by saying them to
you because i do not wish to
hurt you because i still
love you and then i write lines
that ask
if you still love me but then
i must put an end to all
these useless writing
time has spoken
as the lines of fate and
destiny still have it
we were never meant for
each other
the love is there
the bodies still alive
our hands never reach
till then
perhaps in the next life
at the right moment
perhaps when
our parallel lives meet
at some point
of convergence
and as you read let me put
the last line: goodbye
May God make us
meet and love again.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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rAT 1
IF you read any of my poems
do not think that i am in there.
if you think that i am in there
you will lose yourself
you will be like a stone dropped
in the middle of the ocean
thinking that i am part of the corals
or that i assume the shape of the
shark
or hitch upon a sperm whale
and then you expect that i can take
you to places
No. If you read any of my poems
think that it is not me in there
but someone else, like a rat
or a pig, or a dog
the one that looks for something else
you know what rats look for
cheese, you know what pigs look for,
left-overs, you know what dogs look for,
the bone
then if you have finally finished reading
the poem
try reflecting light from the mirror under
the bed
and see if there is a face inside it
try pondering
or try not even thinking about any of those
that drifting cloud resting upon the shoulder
of the hill
or the sun shining like a king
or the moon cool upon the marshes
savoring the peace of the night
upon the river's face
now, you are here
there is nothing in there except those
feelings.
and you know of course what feelings are.
because you are one of them.
cool air, silent sighs, heart beats,
rushes of red blood on your cheeks
the angry word, the proposition of solitude
the pat on the shoulder
and then the drying of tears
and too
the unstoppable laughter
the smile.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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This Is Mumbling This Is Rambling
do not care to read me carefully, just skim over
some words that may call your preferential attention.
do not mind the smaller ideas, or the images that
you find hard to imagine. They may not be images
after all but just blotches of my stains, the negligence
of my trembling fingers, the lapses of my brains,
the slip of my tongues, the cliches of humanity,
seeking meaning in the meaninglessness of words.
this is mumbling, this is plain rambling
do not ever mind what i am writing. this is not about you.
or myself, or the society that like sheep simply graze on the grass
not knowing that on the next step is the landmine that kills them,
or why look for the meaning of loneliness in words or lines or poetry.
are you going home tonight? on a train. sit there. look over the window.
see the line of trees, do they shout at you? No.
and move your eyes, as though you are scrolling for names on the
cell phone, like roving camera, you do not have to look that far on the
20th person sitting across the other side.
someone is sitting next to you. listen to his silence.
feel the vibrations of all his problems. try to unmask the cover of his face.
are there words covering his face? none.
or if words cover his face and body, try reading them all silently.
most of the truths are not said. Not even written. You always see them
next to you. Be it on the train, the bus or the plane. Or simply when you
walk along the cemented paths of the park. Here comes another
lost soul. Talk to him. Do not write poetry.
this is mumbling this is plain rumbling. Do not speak poetry.
write them and let them cover your face. That is the best way to speak.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Fit For Forgetting...
i do not wish to
understand you
it is no use
at all, i only have
to have you
perhaps
but i may not have you
for certain
there are no things as such
or
persons personified
in wood
and stone
i do not wish to hold you
i do not have
that power
i am tired
of being lonely and broken
perhaps some parts of me
automate
some parts adjoining to
make a whole
of me again, perhaps
and so i do not wish to have you
and hold you
and even remember you
the years have
taught me
that you are only
such a beauty for my
forgetting
distance fold like
waves
of the sea
spitting foams and
touching skies
and wandering at sunsets
and then
face away like
gentle light
finally embracing the
arms of
night.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Before It Becomes Too Late
Death, be not unkind.
Do not hold her long in your embrace.
Do not cause more pain by her unwanted continuance of this life.
I know that transition is inevitable, though I grieve
To think of her departure.
Suffering in the vacuum of her absence,
I shall not mourn, lest my mourning hinder the flight
of her soul.
But, hold just a while that I may talk with her.
That I may say the things I should have said:
Of her courage; of the void she has filled in my life;
Of my love for her. Why do we wait to say
The things we should have said.
What? I have said those things before, you say?
Surely not. Surely, not enough times.
I fear she does not know.
You say I delay conclusion? Yes, if I could.
Reluctantly, I let go of her soul that it may fly
Like a fragment of dawn, reflecting upon the face
Of the Waters.
As an impassioned phrase from some familiar
Line of verse that touches one's heart, a majestic
Quiescence moves across her face. Deep sleep.
The closure of this sojourn is now complete.
poem by Lynn W. Petty
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