Working On Some Symbolism
lately i have been working on certain
symbolism of his poetry
and some paintings: an old man without a foot,
a nude woman inside his open stomach,
stuff pegions fishing for a parachute
or an air balloon and a fish in air
a red jacket without a body
a man with the head of a big chinese fan
a secret exit where a hand feeds
a hidden snake.Max Ernst your painting pains me.
I am lost but soon in your symbols
i shall find the entrance
of understanding the world within the four corners
of your brightly colored canvass.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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To The Hand Painter Who Goes Offline When I Go Online
i lied
when i said i like your painting
it is a pity
no one
buys it.
the truth is
what i saw in that canvass
was a man deprived of happiness
craving for
sex
but cannot simply accept
that his body
needs it
warmth is not all jacket
it is better
done with skin
to skin
inside a room where you are naked
and so private
with another body looking for that much
needed intimacy
in the middle of this city where
indifference
seems to be the mother of mankind.
i wish sometimes that you better
do a portrait of yourself
in black
and while
sketches
from a sharp charcoal
on a
very white and thick
canvass.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Lead Balloon
Kiss my ass! I said
And I threw my drink
Tequila trickling
Down his business suit
Must be the irish blood
Fight before you think
Turn it now
You cant cowtow
You cant undo it
Its his town
And that went down
Like a lead balloon
Lead lead lead lead balloon
He said sic her, rover
That went over
Like a lead balloon
Lead lead lead lead balloon
Lead balloon
An angry man is just an angry man
But an angry woman
Bitch!
I had to ask him for a helping hand
It came with the heart
Of a bonaparte
Of a frozen fish
Its his town
And that went down
Like a lead balloon
Lead lead lead lead balloon
He said sic her, rover
That went over
Like a lead balloon
Lead lead lead lead balloon
Lead balloon
Lead balloon, lead lead lead lead balloon
Lead balloon, lead lead lead lead balloon
Lead balloon, lead lead lead lead balloon
Lead balloon
Its his town
And that went down
Like a lead balloon
Lead lead lead balloon
He said sic her, rover
That went over
Like a lead balloon
Lead lead lead lead balloon
Lead balloon
Lead lead lead lead balloon
Lead lead lead lead balloon
Lead balloon
song performed by by Joni Mitchell
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Painting The Walls
painting the walls,
rolling over handprints,
cobwebs, and smoke stains....
over splashes of color,
over peels of time.
painting over the sounds
of voices whispering, laughing....
painting over tears hidden
from the world, from each other.
painting over running, and working,
working all day and half the night.
painting over children, and dreams,
folded like old clothes, and put away.
painting over notes from God,
that were often barely noticed...
painting over the nail that held
up the clock, hands moving slowly,
turning the seasons of living....
painting over the final words,
the last breath held in the hands,
of lives written in the grain....
the testimony of each feeling....
painting the walls,
and brushing the corners,
as if we never lived!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Marx Ernst, The Ghost In The Abstractions Of Kandinsky
an old man leaning on a black pole,
a nude plump woman of the renaissance
inside a stomach,
a man with a big fan as face
his hands mere sketches of helplessness
pointing to the culprit on both sides
a black bird flies away
like a comma of a poem
they form a stress of a family portrait.
a hand is cut. the old man has no foot.
i shifted from the eyes of marx ernst
his eyes are shadows his hair clouds
his face a misty mountain
moving on to kandinsky he finished
life with the strokes of bright colors
and he titles it Fugue, a Black Mountain
to an Unknown Voice.
my first time to see them both.
i am stricken with the beautiful colors of happiness.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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031210 A Set And A Round
i meet this guy today
for so many years
we used to fish the bay
we drape the sea with nets
caught from flounder to snake
night time when all were asleep
he is visiting from florida
to take care his grands in area
i was surprise he hadn't age bit
i was told fishing is the secret
oh! would i have to buy gill net
to trap those fish as they fled
what will i do with fish, give away
yes, just what we do previously
i have done my fishing journeys
i shifted to playing golf and tennis
few dollars i could buy few pounds
and i could play a set and a round
poem by Manonton Dalan
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for John on his first frustration
let me draw you a house
with an entrance gate
leading to an entrance
door and some windows
to let in air.
just that, there will be no
exit doors, no exit gate,
all the windows open,
not designed to close,
that precisely is success
and failure.
there is a sense of
entrance triumphant
ditto an exit for some
ordinary and even
inevitable failures of
our lives.
the windows are some
of our other options, we
let in air to breathe
for a while. we must.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Fishing In The River At Autumn Night
The moon shines on the river while autumn wind is blowing.
At night, I invite my friends to go fishing and boating.
Rowing our oars, we seek a shoal of fish gladly.
Mooring to pillar of the bridge, we act quietly.
My partner catches a red carp with his fishing bait.
Shaking its head, the reed wonders the old men's fate.
Is the strategist of Zhou Dynasty still fishing?
No! He migrates to the land of peach blossoms sleeping!
Chinese paintings & calligraphy about all Charles Wu's poems
http: //poem.bestfd.com/bbs/forum.php? mod=viewthread&tid=12101&extra=page%3D1
poem by Charles WOO
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The Doors Are Locked
From inside of this room
I shall not exit
I have locked the doors
To the world outside.
It does not matter to me what is happening outside, because
Behind these locked doors
Is the world that I live in,
This land of my dreams that
I have fabricated for myself alone.
I recall my father recently reading me a story-
Of a woman who created a world within her dreams-
There she lived and locked herself
Inside of the doors that
Barred her from all that is real.
My father's hope was that
I would find my way out from
This place he called the land of my delusions.
This place which he calls the land of my delusions has become
My only veracity.
From the inside of this room
I shall not exit-it is here I safely converse with
The voices inside of my mind.
The doors to this room are locked, but
I can still hear my mother weeping, and
I hear my mother cry out from the midst of her tears-
What has become of my only child?
Inside of this room, I have constructed a world.
The doors are locked and
I have shut reality out-
The doors to my room are locked and
I have lost the key.
My mother is still weeping as her one and only
Has lost the key that would open the doors
To the world outside-
My mother is sobbing; the key is lost and alas-
Her only child's sanity has also been lost.
poem by Claudia Krizay
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The Craving Of The Flesh
when i write this
i am full, my stomach bloats
i am holding something
inside me
with all restraintand if i do not follow
the law of
expulsion
i may die of this
poison
i must empty
what is here inside
to make me feel well
there is poetry in my head
poetry in my stomach
soon
if i keep them and not let them
go out
i may die
and so here i am
noting this metaphor of expulsion
to let you know
that i cannot stop writing
for health reasons and not
for anything else
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Put Your Hand Inside The Puppet Head
As your body floats down third street
With the burn-smell factory closing up
Yes its sad to say you will romanticize
All the things youve known before
It was not not not so great
It was not not not so great
And as you take a bath in that beaten path
Theres a pounding at the door
Well its a mighty zombie talking of some love and posterity
He says the good old days never say good-bye
If you keep this in your mind:
You need some lo-lo-loving arms
You need some lo-lo-loving arms
And as you fall from grace the only words you say are
Put your hand inside the puppet head
Put your hand inside the puppet head
Put your hand inside
Put your hand inside
Put your hand inside the puppet head
Ads up in the subway are the work of someone
Trying to please their boss
And though the guys a pig we all know what he wants
Is just to please somebody else
If the pu-pu-puppet head
Was only bu-bu-busted in
It would be a better thing for everyone involved
And we wouldnt have to cry
Put your hand inside the puppet head
Put your hand inside the puppet head
Put your hand inside
Put your hand inside
Put your hand inside the puppet head
Memo to myself: do the dumb things I gotta do
Touch the puppet head
Quit my job down at the carwash
Didnt have to write no-one a good-bye note
That said, the checks in the mail, and
Ill see you in church, and dont you ever change
If the pu-pu-puppet head
Was only bu-bu-busted in
Ill see you after school
Put your hand inside the puppet head
Put your hand inside the puppet head
Put your hand inside
Put your hand inside
Put your hand inside the puppet head
Put your hand inside the puppet head
Put your hand inside the puppet head
Put your hand inside
Put your hand inside
Put your hand inside the puppet head
song performed by by They Might Be Giants
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Inside The Puppet Head
As your body floats down third street
With the burn-smell factory closing up
Yes its sad to say you will romanticize
All the things youve known before
It was not not not so great
It was not not not so great
And as you take a bath in that beaten path
Theres a pounding at the door
Well its a mighty zombie talking of some love and posterity
He says the good old days never say good-bye
If you keep this in your mind:
You need some lo-lo-loving arms
You need some lo-lo-loving arms
And as you fall from grace the only words you say are
Put your hand inside the puppet head
Put your hand inside the puppet head
Put your hand inside
Put your hand inside
Put your hand inside the puppet head
Ads up in the subway are the work of someone
Trying to please their boss
And though the guys a pig we all know what he wants
Is just to please somebody else
If the pu-pu-puppet head
Was only bu-bu-busted in
It would be a better thing for everyone involved
And we wouldnt have to cry
Put your hand inside the puppet head
Put your hand inside the puppet head
Put your hand inside
Put your hand inside
Put your hand inside the puppet head
Memo to myself: do the dumb things I gotta do
Touch the puppet head
Quit my job down at the carwash
Didnt have to write no-one a good-bye note
That said, the checks in the mail, and
Ill see you in church, and dont you ever change
If the pu-pu-puppet head
Was only bu-bu-busted in
Ill see you after school
Put your hand inside the puppet head
Put your hand inside the puppet head
Put your hand inside
Put your hand inside
Put your hand inside the puppet head
Put your hand inside the puppet head
Put your hand inside the puppet head
Put your hand inside
Put your hand inside
Put your hand inside the puppet head
song performed by by They Might Be Giants
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Racism In Poetry
Prejudice cannot be hidden,
Arrogance for the color of skin.
Its ugly head is here again
Racism is lurking within.
Disguised as mere poetry
Seething hatred shouts,
Name calling carelessly-
Gangrene inside out.
Our blood is all red-colored
Our hearts all colored rainbow,
Racist poems you authored
Your character, they show.
I was not brought up to be mean,
To racism I am not bent,
If that's where you have been
It's such a waste of your talent.
'A man of knowledge uses words with restraint, a man of understanding is even-tempered.'
Proverbs 17: 27
'Wise men store up knowledge, but the mouth of a fool invites ruin.'
Proverbs 10: 14
........................................... ................................................. ........
May 3,2008 Tarlac City
poem by Cynthia Buhain-Baello
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Two Of Us Inside A Room Of Fear ....
since i am
grappling in
the dark
and you too
lost inside
this room of
less air
and we are
all alone
trying to figure
out where to
take the
exit
the possibility
is
you may soon
touch me
and i may soon
find you
we are anxious
our fears are like
worms inside
our guts
but if i may soon
hold your hand
and touch your
face and your
body
who knows
if there is a switch
there
where i can
turn on
light
so much light
that will guide us
both
to another
world
find me
who knows i
am a switch myself
who knows
if i also own
light
so much light
untapped
undiscovered
discover me
i am waiting
in fear.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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From Cubism To Realism!
The Art Gallery was full of prominent guests from all over the World.
The Cubist introduced himself in a polite manner 'I am Bogus.Richmond from Iceland'
Everybody appreciated his magical style especially the painting
'Mermaid and the Shark in the mysterious deep sea.'
The Ambassador from the Hell bought his realistic painting 'The nude Woman' for Million Hell dollars with the check of Banco Underground.
And he whispered to the Artist;
'You know why I spent so much because it's like my wife's stolen photograph.'
The real painter Sam de Poor still begs on the road with Richmond's given lump sum for all the paintings?
*For DavidPaulley in gratitude!
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Is it really like fishing?
They say there is many fish in the sea to choose from.
But have you ever gone fishing?
They say do not worry they are like fish you lose one then get a fresh one.
But have you actually gone fishing?
They say you can be picky when fishing your fish.
But have you been in the sea and fished?
They even say some actually smell like fish.
But have you really smelled a fish?
They say there is plenty of fish in the sea.
But have you actually gone and counted the fish in the sea?
They say once you catch that perfect fish, you are bound for a good life.
But have you caught that perfect fish they all speak of?
They say some fish can be beautiful.
But have you seen any beautiful fish?
How can one compare a fish?
They are not alike.
How can one say it is as easy as finding a fish?
It is not a simple task.
How can they say there are so many fish in the sea?
When there are so many fishers who have yet to catch.
Can you really compare life and love to a fish?
The answer is of course not.
You can’t.
Impossible.
Unreal.
Not imaginable.
Unbelievable.
Unrealistic.
A fairy tale.
poem by ReubenJames Rodriguez
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Bible in Poetry: Revelation 10
1Another mighty angel came
Down from heaven, robed in a cloud,
With a rainbow above his head;
His face shone brightly like the sun,
His legs were like fiery pillars.
2He held an open scroll in hand.
He planted his right foot on sea
And placed his left foot on the land,
3His voice was loud like lion’s roar;
As if the seven thunders spoke.
4And when the seven thunders spoke,
Just as I was about to write,
I heard a voice from heaven say,
'Seal up what seven thunders said
And do not write it down at all.'
5The angel raised his right hand to heaven.
6 He swore by Him who lives forever,
Who created all the heavens
And everything that is in them,
The earth and all that is in it,
The sea and all that is in it,
And said, 'There won’t more delay!
7 In the days when the seventh angel
Is about to sound his trumpet,
God’s mystery will be accomplished,
Just as He told to His prophets.'
8The voice I had heard from heaven spoke
To me once more: 'Go, take the scroll
That lies open in angel’s hand
Who stands both on the sea and land.'
9 I asked the angel for the scroll.
He said to me, 'Take it and eat.
It will turn your stomach sour;
Your mouth will have honey’s sweetness.'
10 I took the little scroll and ate.
It tasted as sweet as honey,
My stomach turned sour thereafter.
11I was told, 'Prophesy again,
About many peoples, nations,
And languages, races and kings.'
poem by John Celes
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Monologue Of A Commercial Fisherman
“If you work a body of water and a body of woman
you can take fish out of one and children out of the other
for the two kinds of survival. The fishing is good,
both kinds are adequate in pleasures and yield,
but the hard work and the miseries are killing;
it is a good life if life is good. If not, not.
You are out in the world and in in the world,
having it both ways: it is sportive and prevenient living
combined, although you have to think about the weathers
and the hard work and the miseries are what I said.
It runs on like water, quickly, under the boat,
then slowly like the sand dunes under the house.
You survive by yourself by the one fish for a while
and then by the other afterward when you run out.
You run out a hooky life baited with good times,
and whether the catch is caught or not is a question
for those who go fishing for men or among them for things.”
poem by Alan Dugan
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A painter
A painter on study
sketched two nudes
In canvass, a nude
Man & woman
The man in hard
Solid lines his torso
His thighs his legs
Well chiseled by
The dark colors
Of his brush, and
The woman in
Smooth lines, her
Fragile hands, her
Soft breasts, her
Thin lines in light
Feminine colors,
He so admired
His nude creations,
And he stared
At the magic
He just painted,
And tired for
Hours, he just
Blinked a while
Wanting a little
Slip, he faltered,
He blinked and
Winked for a second,
Surprised, only to
Find out that the two
Are suddenly missing
not looking for food
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I've Found The Secret
I've found the secret.
It's not hidden anymore.
But I must hide it
like it was before.
It needs to be hidden.
For it is forbidden.
I know the secret.
But I'll keep it still.
I must never divulge it.
It must never spill
into the mind of anyone
to let their peace come undone.
I hate the secret
for it ruins my sleep.
But the secret is mine,
mine to keep.
The secret I know
can be yours.
If you find it
it will open all doors.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Poetry is the Divine Part of Man
Poetry haters love to make fun of the touchy-feely stuff
as though that defined who or what poetry is.
Poetry is the last time the sun gets reflected
in somebody's eyes, when they're saying goodbye-
maybe for forever.
And it's that first dropp of rain, touches the new brides veil,
blesses her; as she's lifting it off her face
for the first time, after being kissed in the marriage ceremony.
And poetry might be that bubble,
over the sink.. keeps floating away, fully intact;
even though all the laws of physics and gravity may be saying
it ought not be able to go on existing;
And poetry in motion
is a baby, trying to walk and falling down
again and again;
refusing to give up, surrender
less painful though that might be.
And poetry could even be your hand over my mouth,
because you know that I can never really say
what I am trying so hard to say;
as there's another form of secret communication
connects soul directly to soul,
without confusing or complicated words.
And that is some of the invisible poetry,
lives in the eyes, the hands; the heart of the mind;
and all the hidden, inner recesses of a human being; and even though
something may be a form of poetry for one; it may not be for another.
Finally, if you balled up the emotions together, and then just threw them up
into the open air, not knowing where they might come down, or even if;
this too, could be one of the purest forms of poetry.
My words could go on flowing forever, like a stream, and that could be poetry;
or they might stop without warning and
poem by Patti Masterman
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