You in your closed bleeding hands
The palm that closes
Cannot hold anything
Just like this narrow mind
Unable to grapple with
What is newly given
I see your fingers are closed
I tried to tickle you so they may open
I tried to tell you something puzzling
You closed your fingers some more
What is it that you are hiding there?
It is causing you so much pain
Your hands bleed, please open them
Is it the nail? Is it a broken glass?
You are not nodding still
Is it something so important?
That even with death you still refuse?
You are not nodding still
You shake your head, you keep mum
And numb to what I am asking
So be it, close your fingers
Hide the lines in your palms
Let your hands bleed some more
We shall wait what happens next
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Related quotes
Our Truths
i
they were first
the baby's hands opening
slowly as fingers
ii
God has a fan that
He spreads open
to display
iii
then he closes it
all fingers as one folded
fan
iv
it is us
all truths kept back
to the Hands of God
so lovingly kept
back to its
proper place
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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United In Pain
my fingers
are not mine anymore
they are running
out of control
i do not wish
to write some more
to infuriate you
but my hands are
rebels
coming out from
my arms
into their
fingers
writing these
lines
i am detached
severed
from the rest of my
parts
i have no more control
about
destiny in the making
birds of blue
feathers
are coming out
from my mouth
and they are not
coming back
my fingers are
automatons
writing now on
their own
i am not
responsible for your
anger
i am a useless man
and my fingers
are not mine anymore
my C5 chokes a nerve
i am numb
my fingers are at war
against
each other now
thoughts converge
without much meaning
united
in pain.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Undivided
Searching through broken pieces
Same old news, the more I bleed
Crucified again, the more we choose
Sacrificed again, the more we lose
But he said
I will be there if you will come
To give myself, to save my soul
I will be there if you believe
The more I wait, the more I bleed
The more I bleed
Twisted hands, worn and broken
See the man, across the heat
Holding back the blade, he can believe
Reaching out again for somethign real
He said
I will be there if you will come
To give myself, to save my soul
I will be there if you believe
The more I wait, the more I bleed
Cause I am alive (Alive, alive...)
Can't open my eyes and see
Look up to they sky and breathe again
Back's to me
Fill the spaces
Still I hope to be
Undivided
You don't see it
I can't see it
I will be there if you will come
To give myself, to save my soul
I will be there if you believe
The more I wait, the more I bleed
I will be there if you will come (Look up to they sky)
To give myself, to save my soul (You're so far high, again)
I will be there if you believe (Look up to the sky and see)
The more I wait, the more I bleed (Alive, alive...)
I will be there if you will come
To give myself, to save my soul
I will be there if you believe
The more I wait, the more I bleed
song performed by by Feeder
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I Dreamed.... (Hands)
i dreamed last night...
and all i could see were hands.
sometimes hard and calloused,
sometimes soft and feminine.
skilled hands, laborer's hands,
loving hands, nurturing hands....
fingers digging in the dirt,
fingers holding a pen.
fingers playing a piano,
fingers unbuttoning blouses.
hands extended, hands gripping the rope,
hands holding the shovel,
hands covered with resin.
hands folded in prayer,
hands balled into fists.
hands stuffed in empty pockets.
hands that define both history,
and destiny!
hands scarred and bruised,
hands covered with age spots.
hands that speak many languages.
hands that know mistakes, and failures.
hands that built fires,
hands that put fires out!
hands that wiped away tears,
that picked up trash,
and revealed souls....
whose hands?
my hands, your hands?
god's hands?
does it really matter?
hands engaged and involved,
in the very act of living!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Hands of Fathers and Sons
Full from the heart without a sealant of coy,
Five little fingers curled to daddy's thumb,
To his lips in render of his unmeasured joy,
A kiss of truth that only father could add up.
Full of strength without defiance of charm,
Now bigger fingers grapple to daddy's arm,
To his balding head tap by surprising defeat,
Sense of truth that son to father's no threat.
Full of love but without resistance of shame,
Two open hands locked to weakening frame,
That was once so gentle and fragile to hold,
The etymon of truth, future is now foretold.
That long before he's the son; he's the father,
With same name to carry, write, and spell,
Either left or right, these hands will not falter,
Their strength to give and care is their will.
poem by Efren Petalver Carranza
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Open
Do not hide in the living room
amidst the familiar and well thumbed
Open the door
Feel the air trace its fingers
along your face and hands
Open your hands
Breathe in
Open your eyes
Breathe out your
mark upon the day
poem by Diana Rosser
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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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There Is Something In Us Always
there is something in us always
that closes and opens like fingers
there is something inside that watches
for love, and waits, and anticipates,
something that feels home, and
goggles for familiarity, and when it
finds it, it opens so confidently,
unmindful of any pain, expectant
of the excitement, promised and
betrayed, and mourning, and then
there is something in us that closes,
no matter what, it is still closed,
despite the death of time, it still
closes upon itself, curling, thickening
unwilling, wanting to die, but couldn't.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Eat The Music
Split me open
With devotion
You put your hands in
And rip my heart out
Eat the music
Does he conceal
What he really feels?
Hes a woman at heart
And I love him for that
Lets split him open
Like a pomegranate
Insides out
All is revealed
Not only women bleed
Take the stone out
Of the mango
You put it in your mouth
And pull a plum out
Take a papaya
You like a guava?
Grab a banana
And a sultana
Rip them to pieces
With sticky fingers
Split the banana
Crush the sultana
Split em open
With devotion
You put your hands in
And rip their hearts out
Like a pomegranate
Insides out
Hes a woman at heart
And love him for that
Take a papaya
You like a guavva?
Grab a banana
And a sultana
Rip em to pieces
With sticky fingers
Split the banana
Crush the sultana
All emotion
And with devotion
You put your hands in
What ya thinking?
What am I singing?
A song of seeds
The food of love
Eat the music
song performed by by Kate Bush
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Open For A Moment, Even Just For A Moment
open your hands you may soon close them
like the child playing his fingers to the moon.
open your mind you have nothing to lose
there is everything to gain even for a moment
i have seen how the flowers open their petals
during the rain and how some petals even fall
to the ground and get crushed and muddy but
oh, i have seen how meaningful it was, how
beautiful the surrender no matter how poignant.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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L8,2212
There is a door which you open
you enter, and then it closes you
behind you
forever,
there is no force here,
but only volition,
you enter it
with all the warnings,
that the
possibility that it will close forever
has been told to you
over and over
again,
somehow, you do not make it a problem
you like a closed door, and you hate it
when it opens,
you love it when it is closed forever,
the room is nice
there is a certain loveliness
in there,
it has shiny floors,
it has a bright ceiling,
the lights are lovely,
like stars
in an open dark sky
the air is fresh,
the walls are comfortable
who wants to take an exit?
no one.not you.
when the door knows this, it will open
forever,
it decides to open for you
and it will tell you to go out and be
an outsider again and
be gone
for good,
you insist that you own this room now,
that a closed door is not a serious matter
and there is no way that you have to
go out
or be ousted,
the door has a stair with strong hands
and it will drag you out
it will pull your hair and drag your body
like hell
the door has learned its lesson
when the room is not a prison to someone else
there is no use keeping him there forever
for in truth the reason of the door's
existence
is to make you feel the prison and to suffer
and you know your lesson too well
there is no prison to a mind that is an open window
there is no suffering
to a lover of suffering
you see, it takes a little reverse psychology
for closed doors to open
for men to know that suffering is not suffering
at all
when one loves is tripping
when one thinks
otherwise
when one loves whatever happens
when one accepts
the one that is there and not look for something
that is always missing
why go for the unreachable?
why suffer for long?
life is life, and death is death
you are here, grab this here.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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My Heart
as my heart is not made of wood
please do not hammer it with your nails
not of iron
please do not test it with the hottest fire
not of sand
please do not take it carelessly with your open fingers
not of paper
please do not cut it with your scissors or crumple it with your hands
because my heart like yours
is made of flesh and blood
handle it with care, do not stab it because it will bleed,
caress it with your hands and place it near your heart
it becomes a bird and it will beat and fly and sing
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Rain (That Never Comes)
revolution,
sexual desire,
holy anger,
the sparrow carved
from a dead tree.
tongue burnt,
the fist and the open hand...
touching the sky
with fingers in the dirt.
kissing, brown leaves,
smoke, an open window.
death, and hunger,
the glass broken,
trembling hands....
raw need, lips bleeding,
hearts wrapped in wheels.
thunder, the taste of lightning,
and rain that never comes!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Love's Triumph In Isolation
joy faces me
two hands hold my
hand calloused
by sorrow
the past fades
your fingers
entwine with
my fingers
as we walk
to a distance
no word comes
to say to sing
there are trees
and palms and roses
there is a bright day
ahead of us
such a beautiful world
we affirm
love can triumph
in isolation
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I Can Be My Own Galaxy
closed door.
everything not close,
open fingers.
closer hues,
like purple to red and violet,
they are closely entwined, but not
closed,
they may be close enough
to resemble the kind of warmth
and ambiance found within
the nearness of their hues,
but they know, on closer
scrutiny, their differences,
distinct as sand to sun,
separable as clouds
to rain,
and you to me,
i am warm as red,
you are pink as desire,
we blend, i am fire and
you are this cinder.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Sick bed
The flue eats
my head and throat and body
and still you come and lie
close against me
and let your fingers
branch right through mine.
My throat burns
and I am scared
that you will also
get something
of this awful thing,
but without a worry
you kiss me
and I can feel life
pulsing on your soft hot lips.
Your fingers tickle the hairs
on my lip and chin
and there are teasing devils
dancing in your eyes,
while your fingers
creep to places
under my arms.
Like a child
I am given medicine
while I am already
much better,
in my soul and spirit
since you are with me.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Sick bed[2}
The flue eats
my head and throat and body
and still you come and lie
close against me
and let your fingers
branch right through mine.
My throat burns
and I am scared
that you will also
get something
of this awful thing,
but without a worry
you kiss me
and I can feel life
pulsing on your soft hot lips.
Your fingers tickle the hairs
on my lip and chin
and there are teasing devils
dancing in your eyes,
while your fingers
creep to places
under my arms.
Like a child
I am given medicine
while I am already
much better,
in my soul and spirit
since you are with me.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Busy...
you body clock
does not tell time,
busy body, slimy fingers,
trembling hands,
wrecking nerves
fast tracking heart,
exploding ideas
killing boredom
it's been this way
since
nothing is written
the spirit is away
the body is left here
comatose
dreams like butterflies
hovering on some red flowers
heartless sounds of
discontent
fingers dissociated from hands
the eyes are closing
like closed computers
at 8 o'clock in the morning
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Frenzied Fingers Run Amuck
When I get you into my arms
I can't control the things that I do.
Fingers grab the hair on your head.
Fingers caress the small of your back.
Fingers travel down your spine
and back up again.
Fingers reach to all corners of your being,
quietly unnoticed at first,
but more frenzied with passing time.
Wild fingers travel your soul
with frenzied action that is hard to stop.
Uncontrollable fingers run wild
until you beg them to stop.
But even then, there's no counting on it.
These fingers like to run wild.
Whenever I place my fingers on you,
frenzied fingers run amuck.
We Bleed For Love
We bleed
As we close our eyes
This is our life
We live to die
We bleed
Sugar coated lullabies
Swim in sin
Drown in lies
We bleed
Kiss the sky
And gut America
Watch it bleed
We bleed
The musty smell of corporate
America the cancer causing
Air freshener companies
We bleed
Oil for blood
Blood for oil
9 11 all over again
We bleed
We cry
We live
We die
poem by Alisha Gonzales
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