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On the hour of my death
The rice fields are empty
The grasses wilt in summer
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Grasses Wilt In Summer
On the hour of my death
The ricefields are empty
The grasses wilt in summer
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Summer Fields
February heat comes too early.
The fields turn brown
And men with bent backs
Harvest the premature
Golden grains
of rice
March should have come
But it didn't.
The grasses wilt, the dust roams around
The wheels of the hauling tractor
Sounds the start
Of another season
Covered eyes and noses
And the silence of the mouth.
It is time to keep memories.
It is this time of the year when sadness goes away.
Another one bites the dust
So to say.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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x15-I Saw My Death
-Jane Spencers-
My grave has kept away my secrets.
The leaves are greener, the grasses-taller.
I heard you talking to me
with your solemn tears...
you didn't have to say you're sorry
for taking away my cheers;
for taking away my lover...
for making it all over.
Coz it's not the reason why i died...
as this empty earth has always denied.
The petals had fallen, the waters had flowed...
leaves are greener, grasses standing on the ground.
I saw my death when I saw his face-
how it glowed when he looked at you deeply;
he looked at you the way he never did to me.
I saw my death when I saw his smile-
he smiled beyond his heart when
he smiled at you sweetly...
He smiled at you the way he never did to me.
I saw my death when he looked into my eyes,
and all i can see is my empty grave,
and all others are lies.
When he looked at me, but it's you he sees...
I never want to breath.
The day he said he loves you
was the day I saw my death.
poem by Jessel Jane Tevar
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Back To The Usual Walk In The Rice Fields
i am back to this place
and i am feeling strange
there are changes
and some i can tell have been missing
a few meters from where i stand
under this mahogany tree
where the wind is cold and fresh
flavored by the newly cut rice stalks
over this spread of golden fields
the well is still there
but the brown woman with earth skin is gone
an island of coconut trees
(and some mango trees
and banana shrubs)
has turned bald
and the grasses claim another territory to its grassland
the sparrows must have migrated to the nearby forest
the cable lines run an empty length of a sigh
from one pole to another
endlessly clinging is this anonymous electricity
the twenty or so white herons are here again
pecking on some little frogs in small ponds
i walk under the sun
revisiting reevaluating rekindling perhaps
the reasons why i must go on living
a life unlived for quite a time
why are the fields empty? why are the blackbirds circling the tree?
why do people pass by this path unable to know the significance
of this human journey?
the sun is up like an absurdity triumphant
a dog comes near me
it is waggling its tail and i am calling him another name.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Black Bird On The Cable Wire
there is this one
bird on the
cable
wire
connecting two distant
posts
behind is the sun rising like a cape of so much light
below are the green fields of rice
in rectangles
it is the first day of October
and not so cold yet
the path that i am taking stretches
kilometers
tall grasses in random lines are here
beside me.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Counting
fifteen heads of buffaloes
grazing on the rice fields
twenty in all are the mounds
of rice husks
this harvest season
ten heads of men bowing
down to earth
sixteen heads of women
singing a summer song
a moon still up the crown
of mahogany tree
this early morning
a lone bird flies away
from me.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Friendship....
over the rice fields
this hot summer
the constant company of the buffalo
and the white heron
still remain...
best friends forever.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Arrival Of The Sparrows
at first glance they look like stones raining
on the fields
my surprise is immense
i am stunned
when i get near
ah, these are the small brown sparrows
from faraway
landing on the
rice-fields of the fields of hay
the village sings again!
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Rat 6
do you remember
rice fields? try imagining
the green rice fields,
put some hills
more hills, and put a gap
between two hills,
and put the sun
shining brightly
and then put some black
buffaloes grazing at the
foot of the hills,
and then on the left side
try putting a nipa hut
a window and a little girl
looking out for sparrows
and on the right side
put the running river and
a jumping fish
do you still think that this
could be your home?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Back To An Old Place
it is summer
scorching summer
season creeping,
grasses are wilting
trees are shedding of
their last leaves,
what i see are bones
of trees,
skeletons of
branches,
the dry wind keeps
blowing the leaves
away,
what i have is this
bald surrounding
emptied of their
essence
beyond me are
brown mountains
vultures are
in the skies
eying for
death as prey
i sit upon a rock
the only rock
left here
i have no cover on
my head
i am half naked
i have no one to talk
to,
they have left this
arid place
a long time ago
i am back
i am telling the
sand soil,
i have something
to write and
tell the world
about it
it is summer
in this vast desert
a long time ago
this was ours
and the trees are green
grasses verdant
butterflies flutter
and innocently
land on our
hands.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Bunker Soldiers
Trained bodies in coordination
Is that a better way for bunker soldiers
But its a nicer way to spend a war
On lava beaches and sandy seaside
The rusting bodies are surplus now then
We never taught them how to fight like that
The objects exercise is so compulsive
Its not a better way but it still suits us
Id give up rice fields to fight like you
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Its not a better way
Though we are here to stay
Well that might seem ok
Waves of people
In strange directions
Its no use talking
Theres no decisions
They gave up houses to be refugees
The mud in ditches is over their knees
The sand bagged trenches are over our heads
This kind of warfares become hide and seek
Though khaki uniforms are universal
Your propaganda is losing appeal
Id give up rice fields to fight like you
Id give up rice fields to fight like you
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Its not a better way
Though we are here to stay
Well that might seem ok
song performed by by Omd
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Ch 02 The Morals Of Dervishes Story 25
One of the sheikhs of Syria, being asked on the true state of the Sufis, replied: "In former times they were a tribe in the world, apparently distressed, but in reality contented whereas today they are people outwardly satisfied but inwardly discontented."
If my heart roams away from thee every hour,
Thou wilt find no tranquillity in solitude
But if thou possessest property, dignity, fields and wares,
If thy heart be with God, thou wilt be a recluse.
Autumn
HE autumn comes, a maiden fair
In slenderness and grace,
With nodding rice-stems in her hair
And lilies in her face.
In flowers of grasses she is clad;
And as she moves along,
Birds greet her with their cooing glad
Like bracelets' tinkling song.
A diadem adorns the night
Of multitudinous stars;
Her silken robe is white moonlight,
Set free from cloudy bars;
And on her face (the radiant moon)
Bewitching smiles are shown:
She seems a slender maid, who soon
Will be a woman grown.
Over the rice-fields, laden plants
Are shivering to the breeze;
While in his brisk caresses dance
The blossomed-burdened trees;
He ruffles every lily-pond
Where blossoms kiss and part,
And stirs with lover's fancies fond
The young man's eager heart.
What Makes The Summer?
It is not the lark's clear tone
Cleaving the morning air with a soaring cry,
Nor the nightingale's dulcet melody all the balmy night--
Not these alone
Make the sweet sounds of summer;
But the drone of beetle and bee, the murmurous hum of the fly
And the chirp of the cricket hidden out of sight--
These help to make the summer.
Not roses redly blown,
Nor golden lilies, lighting the dusky meads,
Nor proud imperial pansies, nor queen-cups quaint and rare--
Not these alone
Make the sweet sights of summer
But the countless forest leaves, the myriad wayside weeds
And slender grasses, springing up everywhere--
These help to make the summer.
One heaven bends above;
The lowliest head ofttimes has sweetest rest;
O'er song-bird in the pine, and bee in the ivy low,
Is the same love, it is all God's summer;
Well pleased is He if we patiently do our best,
So hum little bee, and low green grasses grow,
You help to make the summer.
poem by Marietta Holley
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Leaves Of Rice
leaves of rice
with feet
like soldiers
aligned
and stiff
and disciplined
learning
to live
on poisoned
atmospheres
to give
you better grains
a whiter rice
glutenous
on your
empty plate
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Guilt Will Wilt The Sweetest Flower
[Song Lyric]
Guilt will wilt the sweetest flower,
Cause the very sun to glower,
Though the skies their tears may shower.
Guilt will wilt the sweetest flower.
Shame will tame the lion's power,
Make the boldest warrior cower,
Turn the taste of triumph sour.
Guilt will wilt the sweetest flower.
For each mister, miss, or madam,
Son or lover— this is so.
In the Bible Eve and Adam
Did discover long ago...
That guilt will wilt the sweetest flower,
Steal the pleasure from the hour,
Even in the greenest bower—
Guilt will wilt the sweetest flower.
poem by Harley White
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An Invite, to Eternity
Wilt thou go with me, sweet maid,
Say, maiden, wilt thou go with me
Through the valley-depths of shade,
Of night and dark obscurity;
Where the path has lost its way,
Where the sun forgets the day,
Where there's nor life nor light to see,
Sweet maiden, wilt thou go with me!
Where stones will turn to flooding streams,
Where plains will rise like ocean waves,
Where life will fade like visioned dreams
And mountains darken into caves,
Say, maiden, wilt thou go with me
Through this sad non-identity,
Where parents live and are forgot,
And sisters live and know us not!
Say, maiden; wilt thou go with me
In this strange death of life to be,
To live in death and be the same,
Without this life or home or name,
At once to be and not to be -
That was and is not -yet to see
Things pass like shadows, and the sky
Above, below, around us lie?
poem by John Clare
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Walking With The Lover...
walking with the Lover...
i see empty fields plowed,
come alive with crops abundant.
empty factory buildings filled
with the ghosts of hard working lives.
empty houses lit up,
and the sounds of families.
empty hands given cups and bowls,
empty hearts held close!
empty words given meaning,
empty promises fulfilled.
walking with the Lover...
touching the plenty of empty!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Yani
it is summer
do not just stay there
what will you do when
the beach is blue
when the winds
are cool?
what will you do with
so much heat?
when the flowers wilt?
when the fields
are turning brown?
lady, do not just stay there
go, go,
wear a piece
fall in love
and if you must
grab, and if you will
be the crab!
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Day I Hate Rice
The day I hate rice
Is several rare day in a year
When I don't eat rice
I don't want to eat rice
I don't want to see it
Because I hate its taste
And I hate to think about it
If I have the day I hate rice
Then you'll know that I don't feel well
I'm bored of this procession
I want to run from this life
Because I begin to hate myself
...just a little while
And everything will be back to normal again
That's the meaning of
The day I hate rice
poem by Maria Sudibyo
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