Where Am I And Where Am I Going
those are not questions now.
and i do not need to answer them.
for you.
where am i, i am here, my hands
owning a set of fingers. fingers that
grope for words. for us.
i like to think
i am groping for
the words of love. for you.
i like to see how a leaf sways
caressed by the wind that
loves it. gently. for us to think about
for a time, being, here.
where am i, i am beside
a big box. a house. i am inside.
this big empty box, where
a loud music is played
and my ears are dying
to be sealed by fate
to deafening indifference
of you. from me. i am here.
saving on words. scribbling
some meanings. for us.
i am in the middle of
an overuse. i am in need
of a recluse. for us. to fuse
again.
some birds tweeting
the sound of departure.
is this the mating season
of the wind and the water
and the river and the sea?
where am i going?
i am going nowhere.
i am staying i am loyal
to this seat
i am warm like
a palm. i am going,
let me tell you honestly,
i am going to make a difference.
for us. we shall never be the same again.
you grip my hand. I escape through the fingers
of my watery self.
as usual, you will see me: a river, and then i am
the sea.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Related quotes
Do You Really Find It Hard To Write A Poem?
let me tell you
it is not hard to write the poems in your mind
they are already there in the first place
inside your heart
always wanting to be written
all you need is just your way of waking your fingers in deep sleep
let them be
let them write the words
at the tip of your fingers
let the words speak for themselves
do not intervene
let them be
let the emotions dance like the wind
let the thoughts trickle like the rain
let them be
follow the river as it winds along the banks of your feelings
then watch
how all the waters of your self fall like
a water fall.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Talking River
I hear the river
Words flow down the pebble creek through my heart
Defy my understanding
It comes from unknown source, and
Proceeds to unforeseen destinations
It mirrors everything in my life, and says
It’s okay to make mistake sometimes
River passes us by, and
Flow on to other places
So often I listen to it for a second
Hold the words in the palm of my hands
Before it slips through my fingers
Always the river
Remind me love and hatred has no end
So are words has no limits
I will listen to what you say, and
We listen to the river again
The talking river holds its promise
Its steady flow forgives all blemishes
Its current washes off sinking debris
Cleanse our heart as we listen to it
Binding The Wind
You are breathing
It is cold
And your breath
Is seen in the wind
As white smoke
As you speak
I see your
Words in the air
And the wind
Carries them
All to me
In my nostrils
Then to my heart
I take my fingers
Touching your
Mouth feeling
Your lips
Molding some
Words of white smoke
To this cold day
I am cold
And weak
But I shall have
A way of making
My fingers coil
Into a rope
And I shall
Bind the wind
Where your words
Are contained
My fingers
Ropes of this
Meticulous mind
In this lovely chase
It is cold today
I am weak today
I bind the wind
Your words of
Love your warmth
In affection
And I bind them
All as I bundle
Them into a pillow
On my head
A pillow in my heart
On this cold day
I will not be weak.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Two Words
Two words
that leads me on
others, talk about me
Ardour and Ardent!
One is the fire in the dark
I grope with my fingers and tongue
Other, is fire, almost there!
In one of them i have delight
The other burns with desire.
And i have two lovers
one rests me, the other overflows
time consuming me gently
between two words
that keep burning
Because there exists two beautiful words.
poem by Mirna Morgan
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Fingers Of Love
Can you imagine this
An itch to sensitive to scratch
The light that falls through the cracks
An insect to delicate to catch
I hear the endless murmur
Every blade of grass that shivers in the breeze
And the sound that comes to carry me
Across the land and over the sea
And I can't look up
Fingers of love move down
And I can't look back
Fingers of love move down
Colour is its own reward
Colour is its own reward
The chiming of a perfect chord
Let's go jumping overboard
Into waves of joy and clarity
Your hands come out to rescue me
And I'm playing in the shallow water
Laughing while the mad dog sleeps
And I can't look up
Fingers of love move down
And I won't be hit
Fingers of love move everywhere
There is time yet
Fall by the way
From the cradle to the grave
From a palace to the gutter
From beneath the dying waves
To the sun like fingers of love
Through waves of joy and clarity
A fallen angel walked on the sea
And I'm playing in the shallow water
Laughing while the mad dog sleeps
And I can't look up
Fingers of love move down
And I won't be hit
Fingers of love move everywhere
There is time yet
For you to find me
And all I want
Fingers of love move down
song performed by by Crowded House
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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When Time Clicks Upon A New Point Of View
if you think that poetry is free time,
that is, you only do it because you have nothing to do
you are wrong. It is at the top of the busy day
when pressure becomes too much
when you see the two hands of the clock
in a race
when not one hand knows how to stop
when it is about to have a broken knee
when the numbers become like
a gasoline meter
you stop a while
touch your neck
rub a little balm of balsam
or vick's vaporub
you massage what hurts
with the gentleness of your hands
you run your fingers
as though your vertebral column
is a piano
you make music now
so gently
you free your fingers from that tired body
face the monitor
free your mind
let loose the blue bird inside your mouth
and let it sing
now, you have it
it clicks
the words begin to come out
like hermit crabs from their borrowed houses
made of rugged shells
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Unheard Music
Unheard Music (Mozart)
The fingers on my left hand move all by themselves
like they are playing piano that produces music
I cannot hear. I watch my fingers play but it makes no
sense so I try to stop by holding them still with my
right hand’s fingers. So I sit like a vicar contemplating
the Sunday sermon, a mild one who hasn’t an arsenal
of fire and brimstone speeches, but would rather talk
about the coming spring. My wife brings me a glass of
water and a pill, fingers rest, but I would liked to have
heard the music they played, for all I know it could
have been music brought to me in a dream by Mozart
who died so young that he can’t believe it yet, and
tries trough, me to play his latest masterpiece.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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New Niche....
at first we walk hand in hand
tighter is her grip on my palm
my fingers are getting numb
choked
existential disaster
so i slowly slip my hands from your hold
and you notice
so you also let the slip lose
and my hands are free now
and we do not speak about this matter
perhaps because we like it
to happen
and you have seen another part of this life
a slice
sweeter to your taste
the one than can please and appease you
and i let you go
and i imagine myself as the new wind from the sea
spreading in all directions
as i too let myself go
thinking that i may be happier in this
ah, you throw me away as a cat from the window
midway
i have become a turtle now
gladly
swimming in my new river
which i must invent in order to survive
and thus
be not hurt
as you must too understand
as we both look for the same thing
something loose and free
windy and cool
and worth inhaling
i like this water
that makes me fluid
like a squid.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I See You in Your Fingers
I see your fingers
I see you in your fingers
I see your history from your fingers
I feel your touch from your fingers
They don't tell a lie to me
They don't give me a fake smile
Or promising kiss
But they give me a warm hold
and tickling touch
I see you from your fingers
I see the truth from your fingers
I see you in your fingers
poem by Maria Sudibyo
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Untitled 15
there is a mountain of words
an ocean of words
a continent of words
there is a rain of words
a flood of words
a river of words and true to their being words
they also disintegrate as syllables
on the other hand some form the clauses
conditions and terms
some make sentences and paragraphs
a world of words full of words
i am not a word and i am buried in a mountain of words
a sea of words i drown
a continent of words i am condemned to walk all the days of my life
too may words my ears do not listen anymore.
my eyes do not like to read anymore.
i like something not having to do with words.
what about a touch? what about a picture?
what about a kiss?
why don't people just make love without saying a word?
let us start touching the hearts of people
to avoid this war of words that lead us to our own perdition.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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What Words Can I Say?
i make life
i want to make life for both of us
the one filled with cheers like the sparkling
champagne on a thin, fragile, transparent glass
so we too can have
very careful fingers to hold it
or it breaks
shatters on the stone floors
and you weep picking up the pieces
your tears cannot ever glue them
whole again
i want to make life and love with you
on words
no no no, not on words alone
on actions and concrete hands that touch your face and make it
warm
i put the sun
and let the water run on the rivers
i want to make love with you
let us leave life for a while
let us close our mouths with words and letters and lines
tonight, i will put the moon and the stars
i like the windows closed
it is too cold
and my bed is small for both of us
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Across The Miles
For Suzanne Gaddess
A voice with no sound
Stretches across invisible miles
A voice of words like an outstretched hand
Its fingers waiting to be touched
By another in a much sought bond of friendship
The words are read and treasured like precious jewels
The fingers have touched
Another voice of words
Extends itself across the miles
Like an invisible thread
The much sought link is forged
Friendship through words of unseen faces grows
Trust follows in the distance
As words of comfort, sorrow and joy
Move back and forwards along the invisible thread
28 December 2006
poem by David Harris
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Carpe Diem
actually my dear, the most that matters is
now. This is the moment. There is no other.
what is inside my palm is not yours to guess
for i may not follow your wish
your dream, what is here inside me is alive
but only for this moment, there is no time to think
or imagine. This is only the moment. The now.
This is the only moment. It is now.
Hold my hand. As we pass the river of our lives.
Do not look back, as the rush of the water may be
too harsh. Look at my eyes. This is the only moment.
Do not look down at your feet. The water is flowing.
And flowing. There is nothing that you can hold
with your fingers and drink. It is and it will be impossible
to grasp, a past reality, a future possibility.
This is the only moment.This is the only truth. Grab it
with both hands and tell me. Now, is the only truth. This
moment of our lives. You hear the sound of a cascade.
That is what we are now.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Sleepless In Mindanao Island
the mind is nude
the air is warm
inside this darkness
a single lamp
flickers... i am sleepless
again in Mindanao island
the last window is closed.
the monitor lights and blinks
and the sound of the keys
start to run, fingers playing
on words, words
making love with thoughts
the ecstasy is felt once,
twice, and then the rapture
of beauty, the dance of grace,
the steady trickle of
emotions, there is music
this poem for you.
love and sleeplessness.
lust and restlessness.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Hazard
My mother came to hazard when I was just seven
Even then the folks in town said with predjudiced eyes
That boys not right
Three years ago when I came to know mary
First time that someone looked beyond the rumors and the lies
And saw the man inside
We used to walk down by the river
She loved to watch the sun go down
We used to walk along the river
And dream our way out of this town
No one understood what I felt for mary
No one cared until the night she went out walking alone
And never came home
Man with a badge came knocking next morning
Here was I surrounded by a thousand fingers suddenly
Pointed right at me
I swear I left her by the river
I swear I left her safe and sound
I need to make it to the river
And leave this old nebraska town
I think about my life gone by
And how its done me wrong
Theres no escape for me this time
All of my rescues are gone, long gone
I swear I left her by the river
I swear I left her safe and sound
I need to make it to the river
And leave this old nebraska town
song performed by by Richard Marx
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Taking A Glance At You
taking a glance at you
is poetry in itself, by itself and for itself.
there are words in my eyes
they speak in silence. They long to tell you what i feel.
there are hands on my lips. There are fingers there.
They long to go near you and kiss your lips too.
i see you as words too. Your eyes are images of my
own happiness. Your lips are shaping the shapes of ships
and they have sails to take me away to ecstacies.
i feel you as words of love, and lust and desire insatiable.
my fingers want to read every syllable in your face.
you have always been my poem.And there are so many of you
in all of them.
words, and images, and ecstacies. faces and compositions.
i love all of them. And this time i take a glance again.
at you. this poem. this is you. Believe me.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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One-Finger Typist (Fun Poem 122)
I used to be a one-finger typist
and as the one finger wore down,
I discovered how to use two.
Finding that easy to score
and with the added bonus
of being able to play
chopsticks on the piano as well,
I decided to add a little bonus
and increased my fingers to three
and then on to four.
All on the same hand, I might add.
One day my left hand
feeling left in the lurch
decided it was going to join in
and my fingers typing doubled
to the number eight.
The thumbs then got jealous
and came into play.
Now both hands of fingers and thumbs
dance merrily across the keys,
but there I have a problem,
as they all want to press a key simultaneously.
Slowly words with three or four letters
were getting left behind
and I could only type words
with eight letters with two hyphens in between.
Confused? I was as well
as everything I typed became double hyphenated
and made no sense at all.
In desperation and frustration,
I reverted to being a one-finger typist
and now you know the story of my plight.
As for the other fingers,
well they got a new position
of multi-tasking elsewhere.
poem by David Harris
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What Is This Love?
What Is This Love?
What can it mean?
Every time I meet her
I take her by the hand.
In my arms in my thoughts
I hold her, comfort her,
a million times a day.
The words ‘I love you’ are words
that to her I repeatedly must say.
When I am with her I am swallowed
within the haunting, sea green depths,
of her bewitching heart devouring eyes.
My heart my soul within me, my God
above me, tell me our lives, eternally are tied.
The sun shinning upon her golden hair,
the wind softly caressing, the features of her face;
the loving touch of her gentle fingers,
the feel of her lips, her skin, all cause my heart to race.
My soul soars exalted, far above enraptured me,
I dream yet breathe, the surging river of her love;
With her breath, her unspoken words, she guides me,
time mystical electrical, I breathe yet breathe not, the opium of her love.
My heart is sealed like a scented letter
with the magic of a blood red melted wax;
within sacred words are nobly scripted
with my inherent honour code, I attest to every martyred fact;
within my heart, without you, I cannot lie,
I but die, the cruel death of abandonment, a million gutted times a day.
One day carved in stone, upon my tombstone;
these words in gold leaf; you could truly say.
To Louise with love.
Like countless lifetimes
spent I looking for thee.
Coming to you was like
climbing. To the sun.
Your soul has walked with me,
in the best, in all my ways.
Alone I was lost.... (22-37) 1
And of all women
I do confess
Of them all
I love... thee best. (45-48) 2
Copyright © Terence George Craddock
1 Quoted from “In Search Of Starlit love” by Terence George Craddock, written in October 1987.
2 Quoted from “Look Across Time” by Terence George Craddock, written in September 1983 and September 1984.
poem by Terence George Craddock
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A waltz of words...
Like ingredients in some magical cosmic recipe,
I pour my words onto a blank empty page,
My fingers caressing the letters on each key,
Like the instruments in an orchestra without sound,
Each sentence paints a picture in words,
An alphabet of paint I have come to know so well,
To free my words from the page all you need do is read,
For only then may they swirl through the air,
Alive with their own meaning and motion,
A waltz of words... Dancing within your synapses...
Spread the love... The peace will follow...
poem by Cosmic Dreamer
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I Breathe Poetry
i confess, i am the master
and i am asleep for years and years
because the curse is there hiding my name
in the tomb of fear and shame
i am the master who has not used the power
of words for years and years because
my tears were frozen
inside my eyes and i have not tasted salt
inside the niche that was built for me
now you come into my life like the winds
of the spring bringing me the flowers
and the rain and the sound of the river
and the songs of the little birds
the hush of your sorrow has given me rebirth
from the deep sleep.
i am the master, and i wake up with words
buried inside my lips. Now i breathe poetry
inside your nostrils, and you too become alive.
come hold my hand, and our shadows fuse as one.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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