Whirlwords
when you enter this room
you will meet us
you look at our faces
wearing different masks
when you smell us
you begin to think of dog's hair
you will be confused like a swirling door
we anticipated that from the beginning
scents interchange and
manners well studied get unpredicted
each gesture is mastered but
switching hands become a habit
you try the way we sound like moooo
listening carefully we waver for another idea
we anticipated that too
we have exchanged our tongues for some lips
not to be outwitted
you listen to the beatings of our hearts like native drums
you have heard everything from 'asshole' to 'zezbomba! '
now you have known me but who knows if
i have filled myself like a hot balloon
and then i am no longer there except the grass and the heat
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Related quotes
Do I Love You?
when you enter this room
you will meet us
you look at our faces
wearing different masks
when you smell us
as though we are dogs
you will be confused
we anticipated that
scents interchanged and
manners well studied
each gesture is mastered
switching hands
you try the way we sound
listening carefully
we anticipated that too
we have exchanged our tongues
not to be outwitted
you listen to the beatings of our heart
you heard it, and perhaps
now you have known the truth
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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You Come This Morning And Touch My Weakness
you two come this morning
searching the secret place in my body where my weakness lies
you gaze at me, like both of you are siamese twins
you scan my skin, you listen carefully to the beatings of my heart
you move your nose trying to figure out the smell
of that secret place
you frisk me, you strangle my hair hoping to find the secret
between the locks of my hair
on top of my forehead and behind the skull covered with
thick skin,
you try so hard to find what i am
what you find is what i am not because your hearts are hardened
by what you are not, in all the years that we have parted
i also listen to the beatings of your hearts
and in there there is no more sound of compassion
this time you must leave, i am locking my door.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Diabolick!
(Byron's governess, May Gray, would come to bed with him at night
and 'play tricks with his person'. According to Byron, this 'caused
the anticipated melancholy of my thoughts—having anticipated life') .
I lay awake, most every night,
Tucked in my bed at Aberdeen,
And waited for that footstep light,
My Governess, my Demon Queen.
I was but nine, or ten at most
When she climbed underneath my sheet,
I heard her breathing in my head
Her hands, ice cold about my feet.
And she would whisper soft to me
Would play strange tricks to rouse me there,
My teeth would chatter in my sleep,
Across my face, her perfumed hair.
Her lips were red, would seek my mouth
And I would gasp to catch each breath,
While she would threaten, 'make no sound,
Or you may seek the shades of death! '
Then she would mount, and raise her gown
And smother me beneath her sex,
While I would, desperate, look around
No Saviour came, no God protects!
My mother's alcoholic breath
Lay snoring in her favourite chair,
She called me lame, a little brat,
I saw no mother's instinct there.
The Governess, May Gray abused,
And beat me almost every day,
What chance had I to live and love
With women, in the normal way?
I lived, anticipated life
Before that I was even ten,
And so I rated womankind,
I loved and cursed them, even then.
So judge me not! My life was filled
With scandals that re-crossed my path,
And Caroline was most unkind
When she composed my epitaph.
She wrote the words you know me by
Once I had sought to let her go,
She sat in silence, scrawled the words,
'Mad, bad, and dangerous to know! '
30 May 2010
poem by David Lewis Paget
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Wooing
I sit beside
You, I am getting
Nearer to your
Breath
I catch
Some wafts
Of your
Glow
And I whisper
Let us talk
About
Sense
Of touch
Feel me
In the
Beatings
Of my heart
Hear the sound
Of drums
Listen
With your
Lips.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I'd heard a lot of Asian people were rooting for me, but I had no idea. I was stunned. They were... impassioned, especially compared to Japan. I couldn't even have anticipated that kind of welcome.
quote by Ayumi Hamasaki
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Virtue Of Self-reliance....
i wait for no one
and no one waits for me
copy: i am an island
i touch no one and no one touches me
does this sound like poetry at all?
does this sound like an existential angst of one who wants to hold on the hooks of words
fished out from the confused waters?
for one, i haven't heard the cries for help
there is only the sound of feet and hands flapping like the fins of a fish
as though
someone is short of breath
and about to die
i like this,
this way to the door of the music room
sitting on a bench
facing a piano
as i begin to press and let my fingers travel distances
each note
takes me to nowhere, relying only on the sound of its longing
no destination, no purpose
ah, like a cocoon hanging on a leaf
merely passing the time away
without the dream of a butterfly
inside its darkness
ah, everything blooms,
everything opens
let us see how can this happen to me
watch me as i too watch you
this must be life then, surprises all surprises
how can boredom be so real?
how can jejune be June?
what about the numerical ennui on the month of May?
listen, listen
drink the silence
savor this inner peace
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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In That Common Room Where You Are No Longer Alone
your eyes are open
as you are fully alive when you go
back to that old house
by the river
named after
sin,
you open the door
your hands are too willing
and you enter
a dusty room
where you shall be alone
for a while
you smell sin there
and you
get to know it better
beyond its name and
place of origin
you identify with it
and there is no fear now
you talk for a while
and then
it urges you to go naked
and close your eyes
to enter upon
a world where everyone is
welcome
you drink and dance and
become tipsy
lights begin to play
and shouts of joy are heard
in this totally
transformed world
you are not alone now
in this indulgence
you have become counted
without
any hesitation
your mind explodes into
four seasons
compressed in time
and the guarantee of
total satisfaction is handed to you
like a key to
your permanent room
since then
you are so alive
and death has become
too irrelevant
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Allegory Of The Cycle Of Doors
and so there is this door that appears before you
and you open it
and then when you enter the room
another door appears
this is the cycle of doors that keep on appearing and you
keep on opening
but the room still appears from a distance
always distant
from your eager feet to enter
you say to enter the room i must please the door
but the room moves away just the same
and the door tells you
to keep the room
you have to burn it and when the room is burned
the door finally disappears
and then both the door and the room shall tell you
now be happy
for you now have a house of your own
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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In the Beginning
In the beginning was the Word…
what’s a beginning, then?
a beginning, perhaps, not in time;
a beginning, perhaps, with time itself;
in our time, the recognition’s all;
beginning known within our being;
being that is beyond beginning;
and so, always being; always beginning..
so, in the beginning – is - the Word..
the Word, a sound? yet heard before the ear;
a speaking and a listening,
waiting to be heard…
the Word, finding for itself a time;
finding for itself a place;
a wakening; a becoming;
for this, we know:
a beginning; a becoming;
the word becomes, as things become;
every word is a becoming;
that, the yogis hear;
that, poets listen for;
that spurs all philosophers;
every becoming is the Word;
every word is a becoming.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Bonfire Night
How eager are the children as they look up into the sky,
Reacting to a theatre of sound, colour and light,
A euphoria of expectation, the holding of breath,
The lighting of the bonfire, on top sits the awesome guy,
The igniting in the centre, then the flames that glow so bright,
And in all this heat the guy will meet his death.
The sudden whoosh as the bonfire now takes front stage,
The roaring flames devouring the stack with energy so strong,
Heat growing with each lick from those great feasting tongues,
Crackling, spitting, shooting sparks, turning violent with rage,
A deep orange glow reflected in the faces of the staring throng,
Smoke rising into the hair, the eyes, the nose and then the lungs.
With the fireworks carefully set up, the show can now begin,
With noise from all the pyrotechnics, assailing the ears,
What brilliant hues flash before illuminated lively eyes,
The cheering becomes louder, quickly rising to a din,
Then the cold night enfolds your body as midnight nears,
And the mighty fire, mighty no longer, crumbles and dies.
A pile of ash is all that is left,
The bonfire, guy, fireworks, all are gone,
Like a dream, into your memory.
poem by Ernestine Northover
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Freelanced Delusions
Trite expressions exchanged,
Are as satisfying as scheduled rehearsals...
For an anticipated wedding,
That has no performance date to occur.
Or a sermon heard that is preached,
About the evils of sin.
And the evils of sin are taught to teach,
Over and over again.
A repetition done dawns on the listener,
With a purpose served...
That becomes less effective.
And affects discouragement.
Why can't folks just be upfront?
And be for real.
Instead of killing time...
To appeal to one's mind.
Why can't folks just be upfront?
And confront the truth.
Instead of diluting it...
To soothe with freelanced delusions.
Trite expressions exchanged,
Are as satisfying as scheduled rehearsals...
For an anticipated wedding,
That has no performance date to occur.
Or a sermon heard that is preached,
About the evils of sin.
And the evils of sin are taught to teach,
Over and over again.
Why can't folks just be upfront?
And be for real.
Instead of killing time...
To appeal to one's mind.
And why can't folks just be upfront?
With a confronting of the truth.
Instead of diluting it,
To soothe with freelanced delusions.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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What we could have had
If you only knew, that I, ‘Oh of course, you heard it over the news, though I would have preferred it personal heard a lil’ bird beat me to it, so you overheard.
I was over my head; I was over the hurt, when you appeared, Unannounced, without a heart’s pound, without a sound…
Why did you come around when you knew I was about to ask you out? I had said it out loud, that I needed you around, so you must have found out. It was never supposed to come out, but knowing your crowd they must’ve announced.
But on my account, I would’ve loved you hadn’t you found out, that I was in love (with another heart) . It would’ve been nice…
You know I thought twice whilst listening to advice from a guy less wise, so I anticipated my lies to be true for you.’ Cause when I think, I Only Love You.
poem by Thato Maluleka
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Heaven Came To Mind
Whenever I walk this riverside path I can't help but think back,
to when I was fifteen years old… oh what bliss.
In my mind's eye I see myself walking hand in hand with my love
stopping every couple of paces for a passionate kiss.
I can clearly recall that summer as though it was only yesterday,
we decided to sit near to the cornfield to kiss and caress.
The grass was lush and long, and hidden from the path,
silently we lay holding hands, this was togetherness.
The hypnotic sound of the nearby river silenced us as it passed by,
what a beautiful, warm and peaceful day… heaven came to mind.
Just listening to the ripples enriched the happiness in our hearts,
we wanted to remain there together until the end of time.
I could smell her hair and told her that I liked her perfume,
and she said thank you, but it was only the shampoo.
She smiled, and kissed me softly on the lips to express her love,
through the heat of passion we became an inseparable two.
Afterwards we talked and were shocked by how far we had gone,
our parents certainly wouldn't want us to be together.
Despite that we made the decision we would do it again very soon,
in any suitable place and whatever the weather.
poem by Tex T Sarnie
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How Sweet Love Is
To meet her and instantly be in her arms.
Holding her kissing her feeling her presence.
Is passionate romantic stuff Hollywood movies sell on.
Within minutes to be stripping naked
while still holding touching kissing
tripping on magic of precious moments;
finally in your lovers arms after five days absence;
is the great joy of a true compassionate love.
The taste of your lovers lips
the feel of her soft skin
the caressing of her soft golden hair;
as you run your fingers softly through;
the embrace of her warm naked body
all contribute to the magic of this
the first magic moments of our meeting
the eager anticipated heat of our greeting;
our souls and our bodies are ever seeking;
the way back to our partners heat and presence.
Oh our sweet our love is.
Oh our sweet our heat is.
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Brain Constipation
Somebody hear me, somebody listen to me
Am I alone in this world
Is there anyone listening?
Appease me, cant find a reason to be
Alienation, is taking over me
Im going away, cant go on any longer
I really dont know why I just gotta die
I never thought this was how it would end
The body swinging,
I see it over and over again
Vanian singing, can I ever listen to it again?
A cry for attention was a cry never heard
With no one listening,
There was nothing to be heard
Nothing to be heard
song performed by by NOFX
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Where Have Gone Those Masks?
Where have they gone?
All those masks of the past!
Many masks hiding faces of the ones clever.
One was of love pure,
Another was of friendship innocent
And another was of care entwining.
Those masks had a power
That mesmerised the weak minds for some time.
Where are those masks?
No one sells them as the marketeers
Don`t have much to fill the wallet
From these little transparent masks now.
Masked faces have faded out from amidst us all
And there walk many without faces at all!
The poet himself has none.
poem by M.d Dinesh Nair
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So Right To Begin
When Autumn comes to go to show,
Just how beautiful this season can be!
And leaves that fall from the trees,
Vivid and bright...
Cools those nights enjoyed peacefully.
So right to begin,
Anticipated holidays.
So right to begin,
A festival of feasts.
and so right to begin,
Preparing for a new year...
As an old one ends.
So right to begin,
Anticipated holidays.
So right to begin,
A festival of feasts.
and so right to begin,
Preparing for a new year...
As an old one ends.
When Autumn comes to go to show,
Just how beautiful this season can be!
And leaves that fall from the trees,
Vivid and bright...
Cools those nights enjoyed peacefully.
And so right to begin,
Preparing for a new year...
As an old one ends,
to welcome fresh beginnings.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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In The Hills Of Shiloh
Have you seen Amanda Blaine in the hills of Shiloh
Wandering through the morning rain through the hills of Shiloh
Have you seen her at her door, listening for the cannon's roar
And a man who went to war from the hills of Shiloh
Have you heard her mournful cries in the hills of Shiloh
Have you seen her haunted eyes in the hills of Shiloh
Have you seen her running down searching through the sleeping
town
In her yellowed wedding gown in the hills of Shiloh
Have you seen her standing there in the hills of Shiloh
Wind a blowing through her hair in the hills of Shiloh
Listening for the sound of guns listening for the rolling drums
And a man who never comes to the hills of Shiloh
Have you heard Amanda sing in the hills of Shiloh
Whispering to her wedding ring in the hills of Shiloh
Hear her humming soft and low, poor Amanda doesn't know
'Twas ended forty years ago in the hills of Shiloh
poem by Sheldon Allan Silverstein
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About Me
This is your one and only chance to really get to know me well
And automatically take me more seriously
I know I tried to deny what theyre saying about me
And I guess that its all true, though I never wanted it to
To work against me this way, they openly condemn me
Its just the way that things go, so I hereby declare
Listen to me carefully, theres something you should know about me
I dont care about other people
I doesnt necessarily mean that I am an asshole
Though to describe my personality, were getting awfully close
I cover up the truth, the words that I seek are used to find excuses
For the pain that I cause, for the cause of my own good
Listen to me carefully, theres something you should know about me
I dont care about other people
Dont fear what youre about to hear, cold words as they pass my lips
Im not who I wanna be, I am on an ego trip
Really not who I wanna be, I am on, on an ego trip
song performed by by Undeclinable Ambuscade
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Drying of Hair.
Jane's mother gave you both
a towel from the airing cupboard
after you had been caught
in the rain
running from the church porch
to the parsonage
and then she went off
to carry on
with her pie making
and Jane took you
along the hallway
to her bedroom
and opened the door
and after you had entered
she closed the door
with a soft click
and you both stood there
in the quiet room
rubbing you heads
with the towels
pushing away
the wetness
from your hair
and you smelt the room
the smell of polish
the lavender scent
the smell
of fresh linen
and smell of the flowers
outside caught still
in the rain
and Jane said
You are only here
because she trusts you
she seems to see through
people's veneer
and weighs them
in the scales
in her mind
and you stood still
rubbing your hair
looking at her
the way she had
the towel in her hands
over her hair
the hair all messed up
and she having
that sparkle in her eyes
like the first spear
of the sunshine
pushing through
the window at dawn
and she gazed at you
with her eyes
like polished marbles
and her words
hung there
on the air
like musical notes
on an invisible stave
and you said
I'm glad she trusts me on
just the one look
and Jane smiled
and kissed your lips
her flesh on yours
and the pressing
of skin on skin
and she gently
moved away
and pointed to the sky
and said
Looks like more rain
and you just nodded
wanting her to kiss you
once again.
poem by Terry Collett
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