The skill of using a mortar and pestle never leaves one.
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A pestle upon a peg, and a mortar upon a clothes line.
The wind that carried the mortar will not fail to carry the pestle.
At The Kitchen
she is preparing
breakfast
and i can hear the
pounding of the
pestle and the mortar
spices perhaps
black pepper
and some sliced layers
of onions
there is something that
i do not want to hear
the sound of
tears.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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To Have A Balance
to create
a balance
does not mean
equality,
it is more of
a hammer and
gavel
arrangement
roof to
floors
pestle to
mortar function
ah, like the most
common
scene that we always
have
from the beginning
to achieve this
balance
somehow
there must be a
heaven to
an earth
there is no such
thing as
a flat
river
otherwise
what can the
sea be?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Beat my heart like the gong
Beat my heart like the gong
At the feast of san vicente
Beat it softly with your
Pink palms and if it does not sound
Beat it with greater force
Like mortar and pestle
(No sound still)
Beat it again please patiently
And if it sounds
Let us go on a long journey
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Crushing Pestle
I take my habits outside
and crush them in the pestle
because they constrain my life
even as I yearn to move beyond them.
I set aflame all my cultural presuppositions
because they prevent me from seeing.
I take each and every thought which in the past
seemed evident
and like Einstein
ask why do I accept these ideas as true?
I am in pursuit of my own genius
and its antecedents.
But my pestle strategy
is seen by all as rebellious
and I am crushed low soon
by church and state.
But visions never die
and in the dead of night
they return
asking why
tossing and turning
in my mind.
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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Got To Work Too And Earn My Living
the hours passed
so swiftly
now it is 9: 04 on my watch
i have written
poems
candidly
direct from the mind
to this blank eyes
always staring at me
this dumb monitor
i like to write more
but what can i do?
got to work to and
earn my living
and got to hammer
some more
this mortar and pestle
of this justice
system that
does not really
work....
the Chief Justice
can kill me
but oh well,
this is nothing
but work
and work
and work
and work
nothing to do with justice
but work
nothing personal
(so it is but impersonal)
no eyes
just this blindness
hammer, hammer now
hammer out, hammer in
this gavel
this, oh, well, this bread
of life
this death for some
this escape for you
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Wrestle Them Out
this is the puzzle of the wrestle.
no, it is not the mortar and pestle.
not the usual metric matter, but something
beyond what your eyes can see,
a fusion and diffusion of arms and legs,
muscles and cartilages, you look for
the abdomen hidden by an abdomen,
there are no mouths, strictly no tongues,
but there are lots of fingers and toenails.
whose face is that? it is twisted.
Whose mouth is that? it is twitching.
whose faces faces whom? Butts
and bottoms. Could be robert's?
Could be ric's? Two bodies wrestling
fate. The stars bet their light. The moon
is awed. The night gets darker.
No one wants to go home. Everyone
is watching the wrestle. All flesh.
The pressure builds like a muscle.
My neck is bound by an elbow.
The elbow is bound by the thigh.
There is prison and bars and rings.
Knobs. Locks. No keys.
We struggle to be free.
We hold and then we loosen.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Baby Dumping In The World!
Mutated flowers and fruits dropp as snowflakes,
Born mutated human suffer and seek to be concerned,
The grain that implanted in the womb sucked,
The fetus formed out of wedlock washed out,
The passage to the glorious ovary camouflaged,
Gulping, injecting and inserting contraceptives,
Millions of enlightened human do it in disguise,
The human got in between the pestle and mortar,
Not knowing the convenience of development,
Carry the babies to full term and then kill them,
The babies are thrown into the dustbin alive and dead,
The babies are found in the houses of God,
While the ants and insects feast on their fresh cords,
Don't be a father to a baby that is aborted,
Don't be a daddy to a baby that is mutated,
Don't be a bapa to a baby that is dumped,
Don't father a baby to a woman who is not yours.
Don't be a mummy to a baby that is washed out,
Don't be a mother to a baby that is dumped and killed.
Don't sleep around to get the pool of sperms,
identify the sperm that impregnate with handheld kit,
push into the hell of fire to stand and suffer,
we, women, are left alone when we are in trouble.
poem by Veeraiyah Subbulakshmi
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It's All About Skill
Early bird catches the worm
He swoops down so very low
How he'll wait for his pray
Proudly he steals the show
It's All About Skill
Painted face girl waits on street
Waiting for another to arrive
Carefully she will approach
And get the money she thieves
It's All About Skill
Those magic words you use
And how it takes sudden effect
So easy you capture the heart
Then leave it only with regret
It's All About Skill
poem by Suelynn Walters
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The Colonial Wing
[ music: robert buck/lyric: natalie merchant ]
Here is the store house of her majesty
Well guarded by sentry
But looks are free
Call this the rayless and benighted age
Witches by tallow candles shifted
Shifted their shapes
Here is the pestle and mortar
That ground the poison seed
A lute, a suit for jousting
And the poems of a balladeer
When all the latin books were copied off
In golden script
Well hoarded away in
A monastery crypt
Superstition
Superstition beyond belief
Over mountain, over dune and over sea
Crude map and compass lead the caravan
And lead the fleet
Heres the loot and plunder
They bore home
Ivory tusk inlaid with precious stone
Raw silk and spices by the barrel load
A soft skin drum with mallets
Of human bone
A world wide rampage
Rampage of greed
So here the tour concludes
The colonial wing
The rooms of the most refined
Museum property
An early pair of spectacles
A claw footed divan
Ornate clocks with birds that strut
On the half hours and quarter hours
Hear them chime
song performed by by 10000 Maniacs
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I Stick To My Point Darling
i stick to my point my darling
love and lust go hand in hand together
one cannot exist without the other
one cannot just love and not lust
for love will always like to last with lust
for what is this deep silence without the
noise of fire
the tongues of the sun
the pelvis of the moon
the fingers of tickling tiny cinders of stars
to the heavens of course, we heave, we bend,
show me what is kept inside your skirt
show me those breasts that enclose the
true beatings of the heart
i will love you and i cannot help but lust with you.
for i am both air and leaf, river and rock,
for i am both bird and sky, i am both mortar and pestle,
i am both sun and moon
pond and pebble
snake and grass
let me hold you then with the gentleness of my soft hands
let my tongue lick every corner of your skin
let me love you and eat you and swallow you
for by then, you become truly a part of me
immersed, flowing, running all over my mouth and veins.
my throat, my lips, to my finger tips.
let me love you and let me have you. let no part be absent.
let the meeting and tasting be so sweet and enduring.
i love you, and it is not enough.
there is more to the bursting
of a star. it is endless, it is kind and brutal.
like this big bang of creation.
the pain of darkness
and the gentleness
of light.
silence cannot lose itself within the calmness of the waters.
deep inside, we partake, the lust of our beings.
we drink this cup, we die and live.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Hail All Masters Of Small Spinning Ball
In England people believe; a football player
can earn 100 000 pound a week;
apparently that is okay he is; obviously worth
100 000 pound such skill such skill;
obviously this is what such ball; skill is worth?
But a nurse serving the sick
the ill the dying is not worth
more than 30 000 pound a year
more than 30 000 pound a year
angel nurse cannot be worth?
National scandal oh dear King Lear
a banker cannot be worth
that massive massive bonus
not while nation suffers recession fear?
What skill control of financial markets
employment opportunities health care
education but but only a mere banker
what is a banker compared to a football player?
Hail Hail all masters of a small spinning ball
worth a 100 000 pound a week such skill such skill.
poem by Terence George Craddock
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The Hand Wielding the Pen and Gun
I write poems by this hand
which helped my mother
to crush the grains in a stone mortar
by raising and hitting down with the pestle
before the grinding mills came to a nearby town.
I write poems by this hand
which got wounds swinging the hammer
to hit hard on rods to make holes into the rock
in our deep well, and filled them, with explosives
to blow off and find the burst of water.
I write poems by this hand
which drove the bulls cracking the whip
while ploughing and moving the cart
and drawing water from the well in leather sacks,
before the electrons flew through the wires to my village.
I write poems by this hand
which uprooted for wages the groundnut plants
beside the ghats from morn till dark on school holidays,
when the lack of rains shrivelled
our crops at our village.
I write poems by this hand
which made the eyes of professors wet
by scribbling short stories in my classical tongue.
I write poems by this hand
which quenched my thirst and of the kin
fetching waters from the falls in the hills
where herbs with healing powers grow.
I write poems by this hand
which feels restless to wield the gun
on seeing the coffins of our soldiers
taken to the graveyard in silence `
overwhelming with rage and fire.
---------
poem by Rajendran Muthiah
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Sawn in Half
Her languid, prime speech drawls
‘tells it like it is’ tongue
skims stones, creates ripples
ushers vowels
past her white overbite_
I catch every exhaled pebble
from her gravelly voice
stoned on cigarettes and cider.
Her bricks and mortar vernacular
graduate to polysyllabic
mortar board remarks.
I am magically sawn_
in half by the me
drawn to her accomplished artistry,
the poet to the page,
and my jaw agape
at her sandy hair framing cheeky smirk
finding gems in conversational trivia
stoking the embers, stirring the pot
with ‘school of hard knocks’ confidence.
Victorz - champions have it deep inside of them - a dream, a desire, a vision. They have the last minute stamina. They have to be a little faster. They have to have the will and the skill. But the will must be greater than the skill.
quote by Muhammad Ali
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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World Leader Pretend
I sit at my table and wage war on myself
It seems like its all...its all for nothing
I know the barricades, and
I know the mortar in the wall breaks
I recognize the weapons, I used them well
This is my mistake. let me make it good
I raised the wall, and I will be the one to knock it down
Ive a rich understanding of my finest defenses
I proclaim that claims are left unstated,
I demand a rematch
I decree a stalemate
I divine my deeper motives
I recognize the weapons
Ive practiced them well. I fitted them myself
Its amazing what devices you can sympathize...empathize
This is my mistake. let me make it good
I raised the walls, and I will be the one to knock it down
Reach out for me and hold me tight. hold that memory
Let my machine talk to me. let my machine talk to me
This is my world
And I am the world leader pretend
This is my life
And this is my time
I have been given the freedom
To do as I see fit
Its high time Ive razed the walls
That Ive constructed
Its amazing what devices you can sympathize...emapathize
This is my mistake. let me make it good
I raised the walls, and I will be the one to knock it down
You fill in the mortar. you fill in the harmony
You fill in the mortar. I raised the walls
And Im the only one
I will be the one to knock it down
song performed by by REM
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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George Edmunds' Song
Autumn leaves, autumn leaves, lie strewn around he here;
Autumn leaves, autumn leaves, how sad, how cold, how drear!
How like the hopes of childhood's day,
Thick clust'ring on the bough!
How like those hopes in their decay-
How faded are they now!
Autumn leaves, autumn leaves, lie strewn around me here;
Autumn leaves, autumn leaves, how sad, how cold, how drear!
Wither'd leaves, wither'd leaves, that fly before the gale:
Withered leaves, withered leaves, ye tell a mournful tale,
Of love once true, and friends once kind,
And happy moments fled:
Dispersed by every breath of wind,
Forgotten, changed, or dead!
Autumn leaves, autumn leaves, lie strewn around me here!
Autumn leaves, autumn leaves, how sad, how cold, how drear!
poem by Charles Dickens
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