En.Citatepedia^®.ro

When No One Really Cares

my role has
always been
to fix
broken stairs

to oil the
rusty hinges of
the door &
wipe those
misty
glass windows
of their
haze

to plant the
runners
along the stony
pavements
of the house

i like it when
it is green
and covered
as things appear
cool
and vibrant against
the walls
beneath the sun

i replace old
lamps
i like it when
the room is
bright with
light
at night

i like it when
everyone of you
in this house
is comfortable with
warm soup on the
table
when the cold nights
of November
begins to
shiver

when you look
for a candle
and a lighter
i always have
them with
me

what i think is
hurting is that
i am not fixed
myself

i am a broken rail
a malfunctioning lamp
a dark room
a cold soup a
rusty hinge
a missing stair
and yet
no one
no one really
cares.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I Will Keep Broken Things

I will keep
Broken
Things:
The big clay
Pot
With raised
Iguanas
Chasing
Their
Tails;
Two
Of their
Wise

Heads
Sheared
Off;

I will keep
Broken
things:
The old
Slave
Market
Basket
Brought
To my
Door

By Mississippi
A jagged
Hole
Gouged
In its sturdy
Dark
Oak
Side.

I will keep
Broken
things:
The memory
Of
Those
Long
Delicious
Nig ht
Swims
With
You;

I will keep
Broken
things:
In my house
There
Remains
An

Honored
Shelf
On which
I will
Keep
Broken
Things.

Their beauty
Is
They
Need
Not
Ever
Be
'fixed.'

I will keep
Your
Wild
Free
Laughter
Thoug h
It is now
Missing
Its
Reassuring
And
Gra ceful
Hinge.

I will keep
Broken
Things:

Thank you
So much!

I will keep
Broken
Things.

I will keep
You:

Pilgrim
Of
Sorrow.

I will keep
Myself.

poem by Alice Walker
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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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Cold Dark..

I sit alone
In this cold dark room
No windows no doors
Just icy cold air

I live alone
In this cold dark room
No family no friends
Just loneliness to share

I stay alone
In this cold dark room
No voices no sounds
Just nobody to care

I probe alone
In this cold dark room
In my mind in my world
Just a room filled with despair

I roam alone
In this cold dark room
No way in no way out
Just a worn but rigid snare

I rust alone
In this cold dark room
Not because there is no other way
Just because its easier that way....

poem by Deep Dark Soul Poet
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I sit alone...

I sit alone
In this cold dark room
No windows no doors
Just icy cold air

I live alone
In this cold dark room
No family no friends
Just loneliness to share

I stay alone
In this cold dark room
No voices no sounds
Just nobody to care

I probe alone
In this cold dark room
In my mind in my world
Just a room filled with despair

I roam alone
In this cold dark room
No way in no way out
Just a worn but rigid snare

I rust alone
In this cold dark room
Not because there is no other way
Just because its easier that way....

poem by Deep Dark Soul Poet
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Soup of day

She said severely:
“God have said: the soup must be warm! ”
It was a Gazpacho, a cold soup to a warm evening.
I have mixed tomatos, cucumbers,
red and green peppers,
red onions, a few garlics,
a few parsleys and coriander.
This soup had a beautiful colour: red and green! green and red!
It was cold, very cold, iced.

I have warmed up her soup
I have grilled also some scallops
with a pistachio dressing
she said:
“It is delightful mostly the orange and red parts.”

It was only a question of colours
I have dreamt at a blue gazpacho, blue scallops
Blue like the sea but the sea is never blue
and the blue is not a tasty colour.

Then we have recited some french poems

This evening was quiet and tender
despite the heat wave.

I like to remember this iced soup
and the awful warmth.

poem by Jean Francois Le Goff
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Cold Dark Room

i sit alone
in this cold dark room
no windows
no doors
icy cold air
i sit alone
in this cold dark room

i live alone
in this cold dark room
no family
no friends
no life to share
i live alone
in this cold dark room

i stay alone
in this cold dark room
no voices
no sounds
no one does care
i stay alone
in this cold dark room

i sit alone
in this cold dark room
no way out
no way in
but i dont care
i sit alone
in this cold dark room

i live alone
in this cold dark room
in my mind
in my world
i dont want to share
i stay alone
in this cold dark room

i stay alone
in this cold dark room
because
it's easier that way

poem by Austin Beyer
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Cold Dark Room

i sit alone
in this cold dark room
no windows
no doors
icy cold air
i sit alone
in this cold dark room

i live alone
in this cold dark room
no family
no friends
no life to share
i live alone
in this cold dark room

i stay alone
in this cold dark room
no voices
no sounds
no one does care
i stay alone
in this cold dark room

i sit alone
in this cold dark room
no way out
no way in
but i dont care
i sit alone
in this cold dark room

i live alone
in this cold dark room
in my mind
in my world
i dont want to share
i stay alone
in this cold dark room

i stay alone
in this cold dark room
because
it's easier that way

poem by Sandy Nobody
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Second Sunday...

february is fickle
one gets inside a room, closes the door,
and spreads the mat and
turns off the light, but february does not
sleep, it boasts of love
till dawn,
there is an exit door at the left side
of the room
covered by a waterfall and
the sound of
birds mating, you know, calls, like that,

somehow, february is fun,
funny, makes the hearts of lonely people beat again,
dances under the moon,
begins to love again the rain at midnight
plucking rusty guitar strings
and kissing moonbeams
passionate as the
night blanketing the tall trees
erect to the
cold.

i like february, but i have none
for now.
the second sunday may prove
myself wrong,

she is coming, literally.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Stare

a stare is like a stair
it has steps
and there are feet
walking,
and leaving,

you stare at me,
and i see stairs, where you walk
and climb and stop at the middle
and then take the stairs layer by layer

that is what you like to do, to look at me
as though i am this room where you build the stairs
and you want to go inside my room and lock me up

and take all of me with your tongue and hands and
mouth. You mouth me. And i receive the life you have.

and then your stare subsides. the stair is gone.
the room vanishes. I am free. And you are inside me

your stare has become the memory lingering inside me.
i become a bird and you are inside my wings.
Your stairs become my feathers. Your stare
becomes my eyes.

in love, we make the stairs leading to a house.
and there we feast, and live and sleep.

yes, there are wings and windows.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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End of Time

Wild breeze sighing cold
Looking a chance to enter this room
The rain tears dripping
Kissed on my windows
Oh what a sorrowful midnight

Today a bit different,
Room without moonlight
Silent, lame and dark
Withstand cold, surfaced on my skin
Hold my arm tight, keep warm inside
I wake up and staring outside

Everywhere just so dark
Only you, a candle
Stand bravely
On the side of this table
Shower the light in this space
Tonight only us, you and me
In the bright island middle of the dark sea

Together we stay tonight
As close as i can reach you
Feel the touch of your light
As far as your touch invading me
Send warm deeper, core of my body
As deeper as you now illuminating me
Straight to my soul, release your spirit in me

This silent night
Via the light, i listened all
Your spirit embracing my soul
Whispering deep precious words
About life, of you as for me
In age of your length, you burn it all
Sacrifice all you have till nothing left
Say you will bright the dark till end of life

Through the shaken windows,
The lost wind enter and flows
Flying in each corner
Wander all the edges
Come and meet you my candle
Sway your flames for a dance
Whispered in the soft moves
Seduction to surrender
To lose a guard of spirit
Convinced to live in cold ambiance
Dont trust! , you tell me as this life is not a trade
Said, 'Believing sweet lies made strength to fade
My heat is a spirit, in this light another form of it
I was made to bright not created to be wasted'

But we know sometimes it's hard to keep bright
And i saw you sometimes warmly cried
Drop down, Your tears flows
Drop down, another goes
It's not a shame, nor to loose
You told me, cry may dissolve a feeling
Let it down, these tears wax for better stand
Stronger base and the broken will mend

Only with a single flame,
Darkness lost by your light charm
Nothing you left before you warm
Remind me, In life, in the length of age
Flames yourself to brighten the road
As soon it be so clear to travel anywhere
Even make a dream emerged from nightmare

Those words, the touch
Your warmth, tucked me in a dream
Protect me from cold, the whole night
Till I lost you in the morning
You gone and forever leave me
But your spirit united in my soul
Released through your warm, by your light
For me to warm when it's cold, be bright when it's dark

Tomorrow could be beautiful as always
Somehow in a good day in a crowd
Leaving to spend a time alone far away
To feel and remember our last day
The moment you waxed all your words in me

Till the end of time,
The end of my breathe,
I wont give up on anything
As my life not a waste
As you said

: : : : : : : : : : : : : A Spirit to protect: : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : :
The first poem from my 'Rise from the Ashes' project, i always feel like a child, to speak everything around and they replied me. I use many things around to learn about how they spending their life. For me there's always a reason to inspire our life, to heal brokenness, even to be better by looking around us, either dark or bright. A candle, alone can bright a part of room, and you alone can bright your own life..No one cant help if you cant trust yourself..As we keep our spirit alive, there's a door out for anything. Well like 'my friend, candle' said life not to waste.. Nothing is precious like you..uniquely you :) ..Thanks for reading this long poem :) :)
Cheers! ! ! _Unwritten Soul

2nd poem from my project: Desert Rose

poem by Unwritten Soul
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Four little giraffes

Four little giraffes
Stare at a broken hinge
A broken hinge in the door

They sat and pondered
How were they going to fix that hinge?
That broken hinge which was in the door

They were no bob the builder
But surely they could fix it just as well

They hammered and they wrenched
All day and all night long

And with hooves wiping sweat off from brows
And purple tongues slurping up some water by the gallon
Soon that broken hinge was no longer a broken hinge

Yes indeed
They surely weren’t bob the builder
But they sure were one thing
Great hooves for feet, purple tongued hard workers

poem by Storm Pedersen
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Last Night I Was Talking To Myself

last night i was talking to myself
asking and making answers
like the way i make a knot and
then untie them from a cemented
post at the port
so that the wooden boat
may finally be let loose
and be free to sail
to its chosen destination

the sea was so wide
like all seas that you have seen
but the night was so dark
like no other

last night i was formulating solutions
to a very common problem
like how to cure a cold
with just a glass of water
like how to appease the coldness
of a room with nothing but
a piece of a woolen blanket
and curling feet and
hiding hands in my pocket
so i can have the exact warmth
so i may finally have my much
needed sleep and
dream about the peace
between the clouds
and the stars

last night i could not sleep
and you are beside me
last night i opened the window
of our room while you
were there snoring
last night i was silently
talking about the absence of
stars the loss of the moon

and then the rain fell
heavily on the roof of this house
and then i closed the windows
and then i listened to every sound
and then i noticed a faint light coming
from a leak of these walls

i know
another morning has finally
come
it is broken they say.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Christmas Eve

It's the night before Christmas
and the moon is shinnin' bright.
Stars are lightin' up the heavens
on this cold Montana night.

The rugged mountains tower high
capped white with snow.
Frost is settlin' heavy
on the peaceful valley below.

Smoke from woodstoves blanket
the little cowboy town.
The glow from oil lamps placed in windows
can be seen for miles around.

The road to the ranch house is frozen hard
and slick like slate.
The rusty old hinges let out a moan
as the wind blows the corral gate.

The horses are fed
and tonight they're not puttin' up a fuss.
For even they seem to know 'bout this gift
the creator has given us.

The little farmhouse is filled
with the smell of fresh baked bread.
And the family is gathered 'round the fire
as the Christmas story is read.

Tonight all the troubles from the year
'jist seem to be put away.
For now our thoughts are towards the Christ child
and the manger where he lay.

The conversation among the family is joyful
not a cross word is said.
And no one seems to be in a hurry
to be rushin' off to bed.

When the last of the hot cocoa is finished
and the family finally turns in,
we ask ourselves if there was a knock at our door
would there be room at the inn?

(-written by cowboy poet Tic Palmer of Stevensville, Montana, U.S.A.)

poem by Smoky Hoss
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Things That May Greet You One Day

a faucet that leaks
a computer that shuts down
a cell phone on low batteries
a flashlight that does not light
a dark bathroom
a malfunctioning vcd
a car that does not start
a study lamp with a broken
switch

some things broken
you wish they were not

but just the same
you go on with what
this broken day has to offer

you relax on sad thoughts
you mend what you can
such are your days
and she never knew

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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i do beleive in God

there may be doubts
like pebbles along the path towards a house
there may be darkness
at the end of day
but there is still a candle to light
a gas lamp by the side
of the door
outside the house covered by a glass

you see how even during the storm
through the window
transparent on the curtains
there is still this flickering light
despite the wind
even in my sleep my nightmares
faith still glistens
like a distant star

amen.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Zoom-in

Snow flowers in the midst of lonely night,
Lonely moments wrapped in the mist,
The walkway, lit with the dim light of moon,
Cold and black road at
The gate of deserted house,
A forlorn voice, clings desperately to the window,
Doorsill, drowned in an unknown fear,
Everything, bewildered andspeechless,
Weary and desolate,
A lone candle on the table,
With the head thrown back
Eyes, fixed at the door.
Coffee cup on the table, cold and quite,

Distressing thoughts, daydreams and I,
A lonely book, in my cold lap and I.

poem by Amjad Islam Amjad
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No place for a courting-candle

A girl’s voice laughing softly
cuts through the night
and enters by the room’s window
and wide awake
I (six year old child) sneak out
to find the source of the excitement.

Gardiël studies with Martin
that boards with us
and both are matriculating
because he complains
that his eyes burn
from the old paraffin lamp
that gives light
at their farm house
where there’s no electricity.

A bright electric lamp
burns in the room
hanging ten centimetres
beneath the ceiling
and big moths
fly dark brown around it
caught in flight paths.

Another table lamp
throws a bright yellow glow
that brings heat in the chilly
highveld winter.

I see them through the window
drinking coffee and eating rusks,
before both of them
again turn pages in books

and crawl into the shelter of a bush
to stay hidden from them
and suddenly somebody moves
next to me
and I see her bend
to pickup small stones
that she throws lightly
against the room’s window.

The window opens wide
and I hear them talking softly
without hearing what they say
and the girl again laughs
before she walks to the front door
that opens noiselessly.

l’Envoi
It must have been only ten minutes
before uncle Hendrik (Gardiël’s dad)
comes running along,
open the garden gate with might
almost run the front door
out of its sockets
and with a walking stick in his hand
(that is stronger than a broom)
smashes out the light in the roof,
the table lamp
and the window
in Martin’s room

and I hear lashes
with thudding sounds
fall on both boys
and the girl
screaming hysterically
while she
also get lashed
and he shouts in anger
that this is no place
for a courting-candle.

[Reference: The word uncle used here out of respect and local custom and not to point out family relationship.]

poem by Gert Strydom
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A little Ghost Story

As I was going to bed
I turned out my light
tucked myself in
on a long winter's night
All of a sudden
I heard a door squeak
I thought someone was in my house
so I decided to take a peak
I heard the wind blow hard
and started to shiver with fear
and heard some noises again
but this time I knew I was near
I went into the living room
and noticed my door was opened wide
squeaking back and forth
I laughed so hard I almost cried
So I decided to go back up to my room
When I heard some terrible cries
I rushed to my room real quick
but a ghost stopped me in surprise
I ran and yelled
and I ran outside my house right then
and decided I would never
go back to that house again
At my new house
I turned out the light
you can probably guess
what went on that night

poem by Shaina Lloyd
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Coming Home

The railings were old and rusty,
The door paint was faded and chipped,
The poor old house had seen better days,
The roof, made of slate, had now dipped.

The windows showed broken hinges,
The path to the door, overgrown,
This was the place where I was born,
The only real home I had known.

The 'rambler' that clung to the front porch,
Was a rose in the deepest red,
Now looking forlorn and so straggly,
I thought that maybe it was dead.

But tiny buds were shooting,
From the root beside the door,
And I was sure that, with a little care,
The house would come alive once more.

I watched as the 'SOLD' sign was erected,
And I felt I had reached home at last,
I knew that I would be happy here,
After what had been in my past.

I washed, swept, scrubbed and polished,
Until everything looked 'brand new',
Then my heart sped back to my childhood days,
My return home, was well overdue.

poem by Ernestine Northover
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Bursting Through

I'm counting stars
Lying under
Watching you through my walls
All the lights have gone out
I know you're listening now
You've been spinning around
Turning slowly
Orbiting round my house
It's a feeling I guess (Single Version: "It's a feeling I get")
I know you're listening now
Warm me today
Warm me today
Filter in my lonely room
Warm me today
Warm me today
Look outside the sun it's
Bursting through
Bursting through oh it's
Filling up this room
Now my fingers are cold
But I have touched you
You're all I need to know
Don't fade from me now
I know you're listening somehow
All you can give
All you can give
Twisting bright
It's more than light it's
All you can give
All you can give
Look outside the sun it's
Bursting through
Bursting through
Oh it's filling up this room
Warm me today
Warm me today
Look outside the sun it's
Bursting through
Bursting through
Oh it's filling up this room

song performed by by Bic Runga from Drive
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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