My Old Hometown
Long before it became a city-like,
The chirps of the crickets at night,
And the crows of the roosters at dawn,
Sunrise, mid-sun, sunset,
Is how we told time
In this place now I call it
My old hometown
So before sunrise melts the morning mists,
‘Till it sets across the mountains,
We farmed as hard as we could,
But no matter how poor life is,
This place was my paradise.
Like the crowns of acacia and tamarind trees
And the arcs of bamboo poles
That looks like a tunnel to the south
Made this place enchanting to my memories,
Down by the valley onward to the northwest,
Along the cradle of its crystal lake,
With choir of birds and scents of ilang-ilang,
There! It remained the life of my childhood.
Banog Norte is a small barrio of Bani in the province of Pangasinan, Philippines. Now, I also call it ‘the corner-end part of the world’ simply because it lies onto the very western tip of Central Luzon.
Amid the rice field, where our small house made of cogon roof, bamboo walls, and bamboo floors, I was born [here] not knowing how mother looked like. Thereby, the chirps of the crickets at night were my lullabies.
During my childhood, there was nothing more I enjoyed than getting soaked in the carabaos’ puddle or ride on their back elsewhere. Swimming was beyond my playful interest; thus, the choir of birds, who sang to the river, and the scents of rice straws in me have all captured in my solitude.
poem by Efren Petalver Carranza
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Related quotes
Death of My Childhood Place
I miss the place so much
where I could climb trees
ate star apples and green mangoes
from fruit trees near our house
bath in the river
made a raft
out from banana or bamboo trunk
go boating with my brother
and enjoyed swimming in the river
Where we made a makeshift dam
got some catfish
or played with the tadpoles
and shooed away the frogs
and on rainy day
played with my childhood friend
creating pots and anything from the mud
forming clay vases and figurines
and enjoy the drizzles of the rain
But father sold the place
and we moved to an urban zone
where trees don’t bear fruits
and fruits are not on trees but in groceries.
and clays are beneath the cemented road
and during rainy days
people will not go out
and everyone seems so busy on
their business and their job
so in grief of my childhood place
and gone with it is my childhood stage
poem by Champs Ulysses Cabinatan
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Bamboo Bimbo
Well he caught his first whiff in the jungles
Ofnam
That slant-eyed catfish tasted better than mom
Now every single night she drops her big bomb
Cause hes a bamb00 bimbo
Those hook marks really show
Cause hes a bamboo bimb0
He went for it now everyone knows
Hes a bamboo bimb0
He caught his first glance in field and stream
That salt water taffy was a fishermans
Wet dream
Now every single night hes still gettin
That big ream
Cause hes a bamboo bimb0
He fell it and everyone knows
Hes a bamboo bimbo
Just a monkey with a ring in his nose
Hes a bambo0 bimbo
Cant say I never told ya so
Hes a bamboo bimb0
It go on and on and on
song performed by by Devo
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The City And The Town
this is what the city has to offer
neon lights, ambulance screams,
loud music, beer and ale,
a small room, a busy life,
a little sleep,
exquisite dinners,
late shows, gags, gigs.
but i have enough of all these,
i went to the little town
and have this wooden house,
beside a river, there are flowers
blooming and vegetable gardens,
and tranquil horizons,
a beautiful sunset
a brighter sunrise,
crustal clear rivers,
home fishing, and mountain treks,
and fresh smell of green grass,
and cool shades of trees,
mountain shadows,
full moons and singing birds
love calls, and fresh fruits
direct from the trees,
wild chickens, and
horses to ride and carabaos
to pasture, goats to feed
and turkey chases,
a very peaceful sleep at night
under the moon
lamp-lit room and some cicadas
in concert with the frogs
and crickets and worms
and then the rain
starts to fall
you hear the sweet hum
of the nearby river
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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An Arrangement
.. and so we went to her place
in a house where her only furniture
is a bamboo bed
she holds my face
she kneels down
she kisses my hand
as though she is my slave
... and so something which should not have happened happened
there's that tinge of guilt
i wanted her to say she loves me
but she didn't
she made me happy all the way
all way through that lonely night
on that bamboo bed
that following morning
when she was still fast asleep
i kissed her hair
put something beside her
that she loves most
it will make her survive perhaps for a month
even without love
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Home
no matter what there is
always a place called home
at least you finally decide
to call it that way,
you have been away from
this home
for many years
those were the years of the
struggle of
what you are and what they think you are
which is the place
and this is not where
you want to die
you want to live somewhere else
though you do not really know
where
but it has always been a dream
of somewhere
a house by the river
a place where hills grown into
mountains
your hair turns white
and ankles ache and names become
haze and places become
smoky
you stop, right here, you declare
this is home
this moment when you do not
give yourself the right to choose anymore
it is here
right here
you place yourself like a backpack
and mark a spot with
your bamboo cane
and then
you claim the right to be here
your home
yourself.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Home (revised)
no matter what there is
always a place called home
at least you finally decide
to call it that way,
you have been away from
this home
for many years
those were the years of the
struggle of
what you are and what they think you are
which is the place
and this is not where
you want to die
you want to live somewhere else
though you do not really know
where
but it has always been a dream
of somewhere
a house by the river
a place where hills grow into
mountains
your hair turns white
and ankles ache and names become
hazy and places become
smoky
you stop, right here, you declare
this is home
this moment when you do not
give yourself the right to choose anymore
it is here
right here
you place yourself like a backpack
and mark a spot with
your bamboo cane
and then
you claim the right to be here
your home
yourself.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Eating Bamboo Shoots
My new province is a land of bamboo-groves:
Their shoots in spring fill the valleys and hills.
The mountain woodman cuts an armful of them
And brings them down to sell at the early market.
Things are cheap in proportion as they are common;
For two farthings, I buy a whole bundle.
I put the shoots in a great earthen pot
And heat them up along with boiling rice.
The purple nodules broken – like an old brocade;
The white skin opened – like new pearls.
Now every day I eat them recklessly;
For a long time I have not touched meat.
All the time I was living at Lo-yang
They could not give me enough to suit my taste,
Now I can have as many shoots as I please;
For each breath of the south-wind makes a new bamboo
In the Speed of Time
Again the sun painted the sky blue, orange, gray;
Then through the castles of clouds a full moon shines,
With every earth’s breath let the wind chimes play,
While the birds dwell in their leafy shrines,
Below the horizon in the heat of this long thirsty summer,
Golden-green hays crept to the dawn of autumn,
While the big appetite of gnawing mammals kept waiting,
The chill of winter came in the very speed of time.
As each sunrise unveils the snow-covered mountains,
Patches of snow pursed in to icy-pocket of the river,
While the scents of wild flowers perfume the atmosphere,
The choir of birds now welcome the birth of spring.
poem by Efren Petalver Carranza
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The Days of Autumn
Looking out through my windowpane,
I mastered the beauty of the earth:
A sun setting across the mountain,
A crescent moon above the horizon;
Green grasses, the trees, the flowers,
Born on the first day of spring,
Left the earth's man-made heaven,
After the act of summer wind;
Dwelling in their old-leafy homes,
The birds halted of their last song,
By the last stroke of my paintbrush,
The dawn of autumn crept on at last.
Reality changed my heart at sunrise,
When a chick lost its first home,
Eyeing for a new place called paradise,
It left the leafless tree on its own.
As it flew and wandered to the south,
The days of autumn went by so fast,
Then the northwest wind begins to chill,
Holiday song's now playing on the air.
Looming through the mountains,
A dirt road snaked on to the valley,
Down the hills and in to the beach,
Where it meets the sunrise ashore;
Bare-toes as teeth to chicharrons,
Crackling bask of fallen leaves,
Kicking sands' less-perfect cones,
Now, all cleansed by winter waves.
poem by Efren Petalver Carranza
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Mamma's Baked Chicken And Rice
YOU DON'T KNOW HOW SPECIAL AND NICE
I FELT ABOUT MAMMA'S CHICKEN AND RICE
BUT FOR ME AT THE TIME IT WAS BEYOND PRICE
EVERY DAY MAMMA'S CHICKEN AND RICE
WHEN I WAS SICK AND NEEDED YOUR CARE
WITHOUT GATTING A LASH CHICKEN AND RICE WAS THERE
THE DOCTORS TOLD YOU BLAND, AND THAT WAS FINE BY ME
CHICKEN AND RICE MADE BLAND SPECIAL FOR ALL TO SEE
AT FIRST AFTER DAY'S OF HAVING THIS SERVED TO ME
I WAS PISSED AS HELL TILL I HAD A TALK WITH MY BUDDY
EVERY DAY HE'D COME OVER TO GET ME TO PLAY
AND HE'D SEE ME FINISHING MY CHICKEN AND RICE EVERY DAY
HE SAID THAT YOUR MOMMA MUST REALLY LOVE YOU
SHE MAKES THAT EVERY DAY, AND ON THE WEEK ENDS TO
SHE GOES IT SO QUICKLY AND IT SMELLS SO GOOD
YOUR MOMMA MUST REALLY LOVE, I WISH MY MOMMY WOULD
I LOOKED AT MY BUDDY AND SAW IN HIS FACE
THE TRUTH AND THE HONESTY ALL PLAIN IN PLACE
AND FROM THAT DAY FORWARD I SMILED WHUEN I HEARD
MY MOM CALL MY NAME TO COME EAT THOSE THREE WORDS
CHICKEN AND RICE, CHICKEN AND RICE I SAY
MY MOM MADE THE BEST, IN HER OWN SPECIAL WAY
WHEN EVER I AM FEELING WSPECIALLY NICE
I WOULD ALWAYS FIND AN EXCUSE TO HAVE CHICKEN AND RICE
SO MOMMA, YOU NEEDED TO JUST HERE ME SAY
I APPRECIATE THE LOVE THAT YOU GIVE ME EVERY DAY
AND THOUGH IT MAY SEEM LIKE I AM BEING UNKIND
IF SO, I'M JUST BEING FOOLISH AND MANIPULATIVE THAT TIME
YOU ALWAYS COULD BRING OUT THE BABY IN ME
AND FOR THAT AND THE CARING THIS POEM YOU DID SEED
THANK YOU MOM, DEAR LADY FOR ALL OF THE ABOVE
AND THE CHICKEN AND RICE AND THESE MEMORIES OF LOVE
poem by Talile Ali
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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MAMMA'S BAKED CHICKEN AND RICE...by Talile Ali
YOU DON'T KNOW HOW SPECIAL AND NICE
I FELT ABOUT MAMMA'S CHICKEN AND RICE
BUT FOR ME AT THE TIME IT WAS BEYOND PRICE
EVERY DAY MAMMA'S CHICKEN AND RICE
WHEN I WAS SICK AND NEEDED YOUR CARE
WITHOUT GATTING A LASH CHICKEN AND RICE WAS THERE
THE DOCTORS TOLD YOU BLAND, AND THAT WAS FINE BY ME
CHICKEN AND RICE MADE BLAND SPECIAL FOR ALL TO SEE
AT FIRST AFTER DAY'S OF HAVING THIS SERVED TO ME
I WAS PISSED AS HELL TILL I HAD A TALK WITH MY BUDDY
EVERY DAY HE'D COME OVER TO GET ME TO PLAY
AND HE'D SEE ME FINISHING MY CHICKEN AND RICE EVERY DAY
HE SAID THAT YOUR MOMMA MUST REALLY LOVE YOU
SHE MAKES THAT EVERY DAY, AND ON THE WEEK ENDS TO
SHE GOES IT SO QUICKLY AND IT SMELLS SO GOOD
YOUR MOMMA MUST REALLY LOVE, I WISH MY MOMMY WOULD
I LOOKED AT MY BUDDY AND SAW IN HIS FACE
THE TRUTH AND THE HONESTY ALL PLAIN IN PLACE
AND FROM THAT DAY FORWARD I SMILED WHUEN I HEARD
MY MOM CALL MY NAME TO COME EAT THOSE THREE WORDS
CHICKEN AND RICE, CHICKEN AND RICE I SAY
MY MOM MADE THE BEST, IN HER OWN SPECIAL WAY
WHEN EVER I AM FEELING WSPECIALLY NICE
I WOULD ALWAYS FIND AN EXCUSE TO HAVE CHICKEN AND RICE
SO MOMMA, YOU NEEDED TO JUST HERE ME SAY
I APPRECIATE THE LOVE THAT YOU GIVE ME EVERY DAY
AND THOUGH IT MAY SEEM LIKE I AM BEING UNKIND
IF SO, I'M JUST BEING FOOLISH AND MANIPULATIVE THAT TIME
YOU ALWAYS COULD BRING OUT THE BABY IN ME
AND FOR THAT AND THE CARING THIS POEM YOU DID SEED
THANK YOU MOM, DEAR LADY FOR ALL OF THE ABOVE
AND THE CHICKEN AND RICE AND THESE MEMORIES OF LOVE
poem by Talile Ali
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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When We Lived In Lang Lang 'For Ed
I often think about my childhood day
Long before they built the South Gippsland highway
On gum tree by our house old magpie sang
As shades of night went creeping o'er Lang Lang.
When I was seven years or thereabout
Before mum and dad brought me with them to Richmond south
To Richmond south one hundred kilometres away
From Lang Lang of my early childhhood day.
My father yielded to the City's call
He sold our farmlet little cot and all
A decision he never did regret
Though childhood memories linger with me yet.
A dairy farmer bought our piece of land
And walls of old cottage are all that stand
And age has claimed old gum where magpie sang
In our backyard when we lived in Lang Lang.
poem by Francis Duggan
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In One Of Our Travels
in one of our travels
we stopped on our weary feet
in a town where the birds
are not singing. The landlord
offered a day of revelry.
Some tables and chairs were
transferred in the open garden
of chinese roses. And some
corks were let open. Some chickens'
necks were cut and blood
flowed on the sink. That noon
we heard the crickets.
The bamboo leaves swayed
in one direction.
From a distance we saw
how the carabaos were butchered
but we cannot hear the sounds
of their dying.
And then the host raised
his glass and said
' Buenas, buen salud! '
We as usual say what we are
wont to say, 'Gracias, gracias! '
deep in my heart when we left
the place, i said, ' There is no meaning
in the lives of men anymore'.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Mountain View
after the night of love
i sit on the bamboo stair
facing the wide expanse of
mountains before me
beyond the horizon of fog
and smoke from the tiny
houses five hills away
and down the plains the
winding river taking the
usual routes of least resistance
i have seen wild carabaos grazing
white horses running with the
winds and the black birds
flying high seeking their prey
of chicks unprotected by hens.
i am amazed by this macrocosm.
How can some be so greedy amidst
these bounty? Can his hands hold
all the mountains? Can his mouth
drink all the rivers? Can he catch
all the black birds and put them
inside his cage? I know he can't but
i know he will. And that is the reason
why we are here hiding in the bellies
of these big mountains, siding with the
shades of the trees, taking inspiration
from all the stars, the moon and the
boundless sea.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Not Here
Pensiveness touches me,
When the last ray of the
Sun, flutters its wings,
to fly away from this,
Woeful day...........
The green darkness,
Sits beside me to knock,
Me with the words-- not
Here, not here is your,
Root in the melancholic
Present, the shady yard,
The monotonous crickets,
The homeward birds declare--
This evening has approached,
As a must, inevitably as
Destiny drowns a good
Swimmer! I can't move,
From the far-stretched,
Growing night...........
My childhood days creep back,
To me-the coconut, the mango,
Jack fruit, guava, tamarind trees,
Crowd in single frame!
Mother lights the evening lamp,
Blows conch, father calls me,
I hear...The evening, my childhood,
And I thus become eternal,
On the canvas of a,
Standstill evening!
poem by Nilakshi Das
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Night Hills
Rain gone. Hills are void.
Night air. Autumn now.
Bright moon in the pines.
Clear stream on the stones.
A bamboo noise – who heads home?
The lotus stirs – who sets out?
Spring scents always go.
But you – you must always stay.
poem by Wang Wei
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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Sunrise & Sunset
When the sun rises, we call it sunrise
when the sun sets, we call it sunset
Our sunrise can be someone else's sunset
someone else's sunrise can be our sunset
It is relative but one thing is certain
when you really live
a sunrise is a thought
a sunset is a memory
It is not relative
it holds every day, forever and always
poem by Sana Eddami
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Sky's Bird
Do you still remember the color of the night,
How endless it seemed to go out to,
So stunning, yet frightnening its beauty was
Like a sky calling the birds, you can't resist its cry.
Another morning rises up,
As another dream falls down,
And even though I know its going to disappear,
I don't want to let go.
It's like the sun and moon,
Always going around and around,
Never meeting up with one another.
The shadow of reality,
Cast this illusion onto my life,
So I don't what's real and what isn't,
Holding on tight, I never plan to let go of my beliefs!
I believe in a night that draws you in,
No matter how hard you fight back,
Even though it may grow tiring,
You'll always run back like the birds do to the sky.
Escaping its grasp is inevitable,
If you resist too much, you might lose yourself,
But even though it was once your home,
You'll always have a place to fly back to like the birds to the sky,
Like the birds, like the birds, do to the sky,
Like the birds like the birds, do to the sky.
poem by Alex McCullough
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Wind In The Wire
I've been riding fence all day,
Way up on the summer range.
Found a place to make my bed
As the evening shadows spread
Beyond the campfire light,
In the stillness of night,
Came the call of a coyote choir,
And the song
Of the wind in the wire.
As it strummed the rusted strings,
It sang of long-forgotten things.
Many moons and many suns
Of the real Americans.
When the arrow and the bow
Stalked the range
Of the buffalo,
And the call of the coyote choir
Knew no song
Of the wind in the wire.
As the ghostly balladeer
Hypnotized me, I could hear
Bugle calls, and battle cries.
Broken promises and lies.
The spirits of the plain
Still sing their sad refrain
In the call of the coyote choir
And the song
Of the wind in the wire.
song performed by by Randy Travis
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Rainy Day
Sullen clouds are gathering fast over the black fringe of the
forest.
O child, do not go out!
The palm trees in a row by the lake are smiting their heads
against the dismal sky; the crows with their dragged wings are
silent on the tamarind branches, and the eastern bank of the river
is haunted by a deepening gloom.
Our cow is lowing loud, ties at the fence.
O child, wait here till I bring her into the stall.
Men have crowded into the flooded field to catch the fishes
as they escape from the overflowing ponds; the rain-water is
running in rills through the narrow lanes like a laughing boy who
has run away from his mother to tease her.
Listen, someone is shouting for the boatman at the ford.
O child, the daylight is dim, and the crossing at the ferry
is closed.
The sky seems to ride fast upon the madly rushing rain; the
water in the river is loud and impatient; women have hastened home
early from the Ganges with their filled pitchers.
The evening lamps must be made ready.
O child, do not go out!
The road to the market is desolate, the lane to the river is
slippery. The wind is roaring and struggling among the bamboo
branches like a wild beast tangled in a net.
poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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