Mother and Marbles
Mum coming back from the market
Loading the little rickety trishaw
Well known in our little town
A shaky ride for fifty cents
My sweet childhood memories..
Lettuce, cabbage and straw
Bound paper-wrapped pork
Each bundle I helped
Carry to the kitchen table
The bond of mum and child
Sealed from mum's reward
Of an apple or a pear
From the market or a ten-cent
Coin for me to purchase
My next bundle of marbles
Which all still stand quietly
In a milo can in the storeroom
Each a different hue to
Colour the thoughts of
Those love-coated days
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Related quotes
Margerittea, He Butchered Her!
Widowed
A bundle of fire wood
At the market place, she sold
Her baby son, would be fed
Educated and sheltered.
Margerittea, now old,
Her baby son, grown, he had,
Her security, she had hoped
Lo! He, now man, a drunkard
Margerittea, still a bundle of firewood
She sold
This man! She fed
A night there was no food
The man, always a drunkard
Margerittea, he butchered
Margarittea, he cried
Searching for food
Margerittea, we wailed
A life without reward.
poem by Charles Jagongo Ogola
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Bundle of Joy
oh sweet precious one
you are my little bundle of joy
a miracle sent from above
for me to give my love
a little babe in my arms
when once you were in my womb
a tiny little babe
new to this world secure in my arms
i will never let you go
even when you grow up
for no matter how old you are
you will always be my little bundle of joy
i've always wanted this chance
to be your mommy
this chance to hold you close
and feel your heart beat
in time with mine
oh my sweet little babe
life will be so grand and neat
with you in this world with me
i will always love you
my little bundle of joy
poem by Grace Hays
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a poem for Rosie
the castle of paper
that we create from a
sheet of white
bond paper
stands on the brown
table
tall and proud so
they say
but we know Rosie
that this is just plain
creativity
could be a way of
expressing your
self's discontent of the
surroundings
the foul air
the heavy rain that
seems not to stop
the muddy path
to the market and the
church
betraying fate
and foolish friends
but you know Rosie
very well that nothing
lasts forever
the water paper
the paper castle
gathers dusts
and soon we are fed up
on this
i am going away and
you too
but we shall not
be together for i also
get fed up
on you as you shall soon
to me.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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storeroom's bag of marbles
how fast childhood years
have rolled by
haiku by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Little Women
little women of my childhood gravel lane,
fill out a part of my memory of
linked-wooden houses built on stilts.
their crowning glories still so vivid;
how they flipped like a pendulum from
shoulder to shoulder as they ran;
those different-styled hair
each carving a story and character in
my own little women world;
straight, graceful tresses,
shoulder-length lioness-styled crown,
and their varied-toned skins;
fair, dark, palsy so many different shades
in one family, it's a wonder how genes work.
all these differences held tight by a love
that flowed so abundantly from shy mom and salt fish market businessman dad.
how they had run helter skelter
from their games of rope jumping, hide and seek, hopscotch, ....
for home when they saw daddy
strolling home with his straw basket round his elbow, the dollars and cents of the day to get the family runnning.
his subtle gentle smile that hid a world of love for the frightful children in his presence.
the children who all earned
much favours from their
keen attitude towards studies
and those paper bags they
so skillfully folded and
gummed for daddy's merchandise
as well as for friends
to earn those extra cents
to get tickets for the
next famous epics from
hong kong, taiwan.
brother fell in love with one fair one
in his upper secondary study.
a puppy love that soon turned sour.
my childhood lane's
only broken heart story.
my childhood lane
how every inch is still
still filled with
experiences sweet, sour, bitter,
a part of my life
that runs like a cartoon movie.
those childhood characters
I wonder whether
they could spare some time
with me to to walk down
those cement blocks and
tarred road
that have overtaken
the scenes but not the soul.
i wonder could that be their best days too?
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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The Poetry Vendor
in the market you sell your
poetry, the ones that you wrote
for a span of
forty years, and it is not selling
no one buys
you advertise, you dance,
you sing to be noticed
this vendor in you
has become too degrading
i must have written the worst ones
those bleeding words
those crying letters
and without any intention of
infecting those who
are dancing on the streets
strolling on the parks
those kissing under the trees
i keep them all in a bundle
bound with a warning: not fit for
your reading.
they better be my own
secrets lest they all offend
this happier world
where you claim
you live in....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Sister
Sister's daughter, so fair and lovely,
Bubbling with a crown of jetblack graceful tresses,
A striking resemblance to sister's own childhood many years back
When she had cried waiting at the doorstep
Because of the late trishaw which meant
An uneasy morning kept outside the classroom.
Then our ego boosting competition, me at 10
and she 12 as we took terms to learn
To ride the bicycle trying to make that
Daring first round at the pedals that
Would determine the winning one. She won
Getting back the type of respect reserved
For an elder. Daughter and mother now
Walking like twins through market and
School winning much admiration from a
Brother who once took terms with her to buy
The morning breakfast for the family at the
Neighbourhood, a memory made more striking
By my occasional failure that led to
An upset sister doing my chore. Love, forever my sister.
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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My Collard Green Romance
At one time...
One would have to beg grocers
To get collard greens in their stores.
Now the major food chains,
Have them propped up like kings and queens...
Among the lettuce, cabbage and corn!
They have obtained such notoriety today,
You have to have patience when someone
Grabs the last bundle.
And that person would not have admitted,
A leaf of a collard green bush in their neighborhood!
I saw these times coming.
'Cleo' didn't have the market on this!
When I finally can find Collard Greens...
Stocked like precious gems near the avacados.
I go to the suburbs.
Pig feet, chitlins', hamhocks, snouts and hoofs,
Are there!
Like it's a Negro Christmas going on!
Or...
Someone's been passing around my grandma's recipes!
When I cook my Collard Greens...
I season the water with dashes of salt, pepper
And garlic powder.
I slice one vadalia onion and a small potato.
I add three teaspoons of apple cider vinegar,
One teaspoon of lemon juice.
Two tablespoons of Olive Oil...virgin!
Cover and bring this crap to a boil.
Fill kitchen sink for the Collard Green bath.
This is where the true romance begins!
With baking powder, salt and celery seasoning...
Gently lift your Collard Greens and place them,
Stalk first into the warm and inviting water!
Rub each leaf between your hands under the water.
And while you are there...
Alone with your Collard Greens,
Glad you did not have to go to battle to get them.
You rinse them and begin to slice their leaves,
Grabbing them into a bunch...
And placing those cut leaves in a bowl.
When this task is done,
Put those greens in a pot that, hopefully...
Smells like an exotic preparation for royalty!
Turn down that boiled heat...under the pot!
To medium cook...
And let them do so for about 45mins to an hour.
Never rush cooking Collard Greens.
Oh...
When I want my Collard Greens,
To taste better than any on the scene!
I use baby smoked turkey butts.
In the boiled prepped water,
With the other sizzling seasons!
Any turkey butt will do...
But those baby butted turkeys,
Make gobbling up Collard Greens so delicious.
Enjoy!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Listening to every Tom, Dick and Donkey
Come, we have a story, said the Old Man. Come, sit and I shall tell you all a little tale of a donkey, a boy and his father…and of strangers too…and many a busybody…
And the children sat round the campfire and the Old Man began his tale…
One day
(and this is many, many
uncountable days ago)
Father called Son
and he said:
‘Son
you are grown now
into a fine young lad
and you must learn
how to buy and sell
and make a profit
‘So, come let us go
you and I
to the market to see
what silver coins we can get
for this old donkey
in our shed’
2
And so Son and Dad
set out for the town market
across the sandy and rocky miles
and some way off
Dad grew tired and he said:
‘Ah, Son
this walk tires me and so
I shall ride the donkey
while you walk by the side;
so, come let us go
you and I
to the market to see
what silver coins we can get
for this old donkey
that I shall ride’
3
‘Ho, ho!
What do we have here? ’
came a voice
as the Dad sat riding the donkey
while the Son walked by the side
‘A cruel father you are, ’
said the Family Standards Officer
‘Get down, you grown man
and let the child ride! ’
And the Father was ashamed
and so he let the Son ride the donkey
and he walked beside
And the Family Standards Officer
was extremely pleased
and he filled up his forms
and he bade the Father and Son safe journey:
‘Ah, this is another
success story
of the Family Welfare Dept
where conscience has won the day
and the Son rides the donkey
and the Father walks beside’
4
A nd the Father and Son are gone but a mile, a mile - when another interruption came their way, heading straight their way….
‘What do we have here? ’
came a scream
and the Mandarin of the
State Morals Education
stopped the trio
and the Mandarin glared disapprovingly
at the boy riding the donkey and he said:
‘Where is your filial piety?
Know you not the son must do his duty
by the father?
Get off the donkey -
you young donkey!
and allow your father to ride
while you walk with reverence
and duty beside! ’
And so now we have the
Father on the donkey
and the Son walking beside
all three slowly on and on
Father and son
to the market to see
what silver coins
they might get
for this old donkey
that they have taken turns to ride
5
Then comes an old woman
and she mutters to herself as she passes by:
‘Ah, what’s come of life
that a father should ride and
allow the young to walk.’
And so the Father bids his Son
be a pillion rider with him on the donkey
and so they ride
merrily, merrily
on to the market
to see
what silver coins they can get
for this old donkey
that they both ride
5
But no sooner have they covered
but a mile, just a mile
with the respectable Father
and the filial Son
(both on the hapless donkey)
when a voice thunders out from the bush
and the Animal Rights Activist stands out
and he screams:
‘Oh, you cruel people
that you should ride a helpless donkey!
Shame on you!
Much better that you both
carried the creature! ’
And of course
the Son and Father
so reasonable and
always with an open mind
they jump off the donkey
and they carry
the donkey all the way
all the way
just four more miles
just four more miles
and they soon come into the market
carrying the donkey
and shouting:
‘Donkey for sale!
Donkey for sale! ’
6
And the buyers
at the markets
they see
this Father and Son
carrying the donkey
and screaming:
‘Donkey f or sale!
Donkey for sale! ’
And the buyers they say:
‘But it appears, Sirs,
there are
three donkeys for sale
three donkeys for sale!
In declaring
“Donkey for Sale! ”
when there are clearly three
are you offering three
for the price of one? ’
poem by Raj Arumugam
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Women’s luxury
Women are sounder than lass in appeal.
A middle aged woman is no longer
Kitchen bound and children bound.
She stays put not when the marriage works not.
Lithe, toned, technologically savvy,
An Indian woman is much intriguing.
Be she married, divorced, a single parent
Or an active mother, it makes no difference.
She knows the cosmetic market
And set right lines around her eyes.
She knows financial market
With the grace of gray around her temples.
Past conventions and traditions,
She has grown up rising herself.
She has raised the bar for men too,
Who are kept at bay gazing.
14.11.2008
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Frozen Winter Themes
Our frozen landscape capturing
A world all fresh and cold
As we bundle up so warmly
Winter stories will be told
The crunch of snow beneath our feet
Our footsteps leaving prints
Mittened hands rolling tight
Snowballs to be sent
Oh look, the picnic table
We use throughout the summer
Munching nummy sandwiches
When days are so much warmer
Memories of summertime
Have turned to winter joy
Sparkling childhood fantasies
For every girl and boy
But oh, how exciting winter is
We must enjoy it every day
‘Cause spring is ‘round the corner
Frozen themes won’t stay that way!
poem by Marilyn Lott
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Oh Mr. Bernanke!
Oh Mr. Bernanke
Are we going to have that Rate-cut today?
Aha, you are the candy-man
Could wave your wand
Make the dying Market stand.
Ah, but it ain’t working anymore
The Market is a falling man
Oh Mr. Bernanke
You wave your wand
But it’s fallen over the stands!
Oh Mr. Bernanke
Swayed the Market just your own way!
But banks aren’t making money
The cuts to them are one too many
Candy-man, the Market won’t stand!
Got my only heifer and sacrificed
At the altar of Dow and Nasdaq, paid a high price
The Dow, oh it fell through the Year’s low
Now here I come, Candy-man
Look through your store
We need something more!
poem by Dennisa Davidson
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Pukllay Festival Release Social Tensions
I sing song of life is theme harmony
inspired Andean festival of Pukllay
held in high Andes in month February
over a period of harmonious eight days
eight days singing and dancing
eight days to inspire social harmony
women dance dance with bundles
of maize grain fruit in your shawls
young mothers young mothers bundle
bundle in your infants bundle in life
dance with life your wide-eyed infants
infants learning who bounce wide-eyed
above maternal twirling and stamping
let women sing let men together sing sing
sing in two choirs sing sing back and forth
sing in festival time of whipping dances
sing in teasing sing hearts in love making
sing in time of release release release from
traditional restraints feel do express what
cannot be done expressed at all other times
poem by Terence George Craddock
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The Haggis
A haggis found itself in a butcher’s window
and had a feeling that it shouldn’t be there.
He had visions of being on a Scottish hillside
amongst the heather and free without a care.
He didn’t feel right being next to a chicken,
pork sausages, and various other things.
He realised that his beautiful tail had gone,
as well as his legs, head, and wings.
The butcher then wrapped him up in paper
and gave him to Mrs Macnee
who took him home for dinner
for her husband and family of three.
She unwrapped him and left him on the table
while she went to answer the door.
The Haggis was feeling nervous and unsteady,
and rolled from the table to the floor.
It gathered pace and rolled out of the kitchen,
past Mrs Macnee, and out of the door.
He’s never be seen since and for all we know
he’s back in the heather once more.
poem by Orlando Belo
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19
when i get to be an old man
i shall not speak of any regret
about the past that i buried
in the silent city of my ancestors
i carry with me a poem in my heart
as i look forward to the coming of the black horse
that will carry me to the shore
and i shall wait for the boatman
to carry me to another island
my heart is expectant like a child
waiting for mother from the market
like a man in love waiting for his woman
under the trees beside a silvery river
under the moon kissing and knowing
beforehand destined eternity.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Sweet Child O Mine
Hes got a smile that it seems to me
Reminds me of childhood memories
Where everything
Was as fresh as the bright blue sky
Now and then when I see his face
He takes me away to that special place
And if I stared too long
Id probably break down and cry
Sweet child o mine
Sweet love of mine
Hes got eyes of the bluest skies
As if they thought of rain
I hate to look into those eyes
And see an ounce of pain
His hair reminds me
Of a warm safe place
Where as a child Id hide
And pray for the thunder
And the rain
To quietly pass me by
Sweet child o mine
Sweet love of mine
Where do we go
Where do we go now
Where do we go
Sweet child o mine
song performed by by Sheryl Crow
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Trim
Album: A Hundred Days Off (2002)
He-he-heat in your skin
pull up a chair and unwind
dog we don't share
the taxi left us behind
silhouette of a psychic reader in the market
and the straw wrapped around a bottle to take home
barbeque chicken oil in a drum, double strong wrong
here comes the horn you call for
woman in a box with her head in her box
speaks french when spoken like a tourist french
hey classic coca-cola in a can when you wanna cool down
heat, she move up the street in waves
sugar, sugar, clear your mind leave it all behind
get in the boat and float
join in on a high spot and ride, ride
put on some smile
stay for a while
[x2]
song performed by by Underworld
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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God will provide, but a good bundle of straw will not be amiss.
Sweet Memories Of My Childhood Days
Sweet memories of my past
Like sweet gentle breeze upon the mast
Sweet ceaseless flow of the running stream
Sweet castles in my boyhood dream
Sweet tales of ages and places
Sweet memories of names and faces
Sweet whispering voices before dawn
Sweet ecstacies that linger on
Sweet glory of hard time overcome
Sweet hopeful days to come
Sweet cherished secret untold
Sweet tasted love of old
Sweet me, in most sweetest ways
Sweet undying memories of my childhood days! !
poem by Okonkwo Osamedua. Allen
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It is better to make money in the straw market than to lose it in the money market.