3: 51 A.m.
the cocks in the neighborhood
inside their fences are crowing
others answer the call as though
telling we are already awake and
ready for the day's fights,
one cock however remains rested
between his two ash-colored hens.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Related quotes
Sketches Of Life
early morning
it will be the same sound
of cocks
crowing,
harbingers of
a new day
up on the tree
their only guide whether to
take the jump
to the ground is the
sun,
she is safe in sleep
as i take the usual journey
again
with all the cocks
crowing
the trees have black leaves
roads and fences are bold strokes
of the Chinese brush
from a painter in Vietnam
i remember
his feet are cut
one wonders if we can be whole
again
when the fragile glasses of our arms
are all broken
early mornings when
the hens are silent
when the ref murmur
a nameless song
when i sound like an empty
gong
love emaciated
like a malnourished
African child
one exhibits the boredom
of his words like
one malling without anything
in mind to buy
nothing specific except
the will to kill time
that does not serve
any use
at the pasta room
where the tea people are not around
on one table the two lesbians are drinking beer
while the two queers on the
other table near the rest room
are exchanging some pleasantries
of notes
they are not singing
but giggling
a man that they call as dark and handsome
passes by
it is strange because he is not wearing anything
his face is covered with black cloth
as though he is bound
for the gallows
there is yet no food on my table
the waitress is busy biting her nails
the mother beside a kid is slapping herself
it is strange here and i put some money on the table
and leave
i need some air to breathe
this world is suffocating.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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untitled ONE
early morning
it will be the same sound
of cocks
crowing,
harbingers of
a new day
up on the tree
their only guide whether to
take the jump
to the ground is the
sun,
she is safe in sleep
as i take the usual journey
again
with all the cocks
crowing
the trees have black leaves
roads and fences are bold strokes
of the Chinese brush
from a painter in Vietnam
i remember
his feet are cut
one wonders if we can be whole
again
when the fragile glasses of our arms
are all broken
early mornings when
the hens are silent
when the ref murmur
a nameless song
when i sound like an empty
gong
love emaciated
like a malnourished
African child
one exhibits the boredom
of his words like
one malling without anything
in mind to buy
nothing specific except
the will to kill time
that does not serve
any use
at the pasta room
where the tea people are not around
on one table the two lesbians are drinking beer
while the two queers on the
other table near the rest room
are exchanging some pleasantries
of notes
they are not singing
but giggling
a man that they call as dark and handsome
passes by
it is strange because he is not wearing anything
his face is covered with black cloth
as though he is bound
for the gallows
there is yet no food on my table
the waitress is busy biting her nails
the mother beside a kid is slapping herself
it is strange here and i put some money on the table
and leave
i need some air to breathe
this world is suffocating.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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2: 53 A.m.
loudest is the sound of the
cock crowing
though far from this house
of hay
it cannot hear us somehow
on another cock crowing
on your hands
of cotton
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Watching The Chickens
the strong cock
struts its way
towards a
group of hens
and as there
are too many
of them
hens, the cock
in confidence
does what is
of most service
to its master
he fucked them
all
for the eggs.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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5: 16
the Catholic's church bells
toll and the cocks are crowing
the hens come down from their nests
the songs of birds start
to chatter
i am not through with these yet
these lines
these musings
the morning is calling
that i must get out from these convolutions
undecided
i stay put
sit on a chair
and for a moment
close my eyes
and then i rise
and prepare my shoes
and cap
and coat
and then i say
yes!
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Cocky Morning
don't be
malicious
the cocks
are sounding
off their
horns
to greet
the hens out there
good morning
and of course
the hens
crackle and giggle
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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When Dawn Comes to the City
The tired cars go grumbling by,
The moaning, groaning cars,
And the old milk carts go rumbling by
Under the same dull stars.
Out of the tenements, cold as stone,
Dark figures start for work;
I watch them sadly shuffle on,
'Tis dawn, dawn in New York.
But I would be on the island of the sea,
In the heart of the island of the sea,
Where the cocks are crowing, crowing, crowing,
And the hens are cackling in the rose-apple tree,
Where the old draft-horse is neighing, neighing, neighing,
Out on the brown dew-silvered lawn,
And the tethered cow is lowing, lowing, lowing,
And dear old Ned is braying, braying, braying,
And the shaggy Nannie goat is calling, calling, calling
From her little trampled corner of the long wide lea
That stretches to the waters of the hill-stream falling
Sheer upon the flat rocks joyously!
There, oh, there! on the island of the sea,
There would I be at dawn.
The tired cars go grumbling by,
The crazy, lazy cars,
And the same milk carts go rumbling by
Under the dying stars.
A lonely newsboy hurries by,
Humming a recent ditty;
Red streaks strike through the gray of the sky,
The dawn comes to the city.
But I would be on the island of the sea,
In the heart of the island of the sea,
Where the cocks are crowing, crowing, crowing,
And the hens are cackling in the rose-apple tree,
Where the old draft-horse is neighing, neighing, neighing
Out on the brown dew-silvered lawn,
And the tethered cow is lowing, lowing, lowing,
And dear old Ned is braying, braying, braying,
And the shaggy Nannie goat is calling, calling, calling,
From her little trampled corner of the long wide lea
That stretches to the waters of the hill-stream falling
Sheer upon the flat rocks joyously!
There, oh, there! on the island of the sea,
There I would be at dawn.
poem by Claude McKay
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Infatuation
There is infatuation in cat's mew
It is there in 'cock crowing its own dung hill'
It could be in the whole assembly of people
There There is infatuation in cat's mew
It is there in 'cock crowing its own dung hill'
It could be in the whole assembly of people
There is no place in fact for it to remain stand and still
The commotion of events and the burst of imagination
Did not confine itself into 'archer' of its fashion
If we take its linchpin from the womb of mother
You will not find its glory a bit farther
Its there from nascent of progenitors and race thereafter
Bowing in liturgy and forming into art and passion
That's what we call homo-sapien's passion
Which can go 'acclivity' into newness of fashion
poem by Hafiz Qasim
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The Hunter's Mind
Awake, awake!
Awake to the morning bowl from last night's food;
Like the fling of a stone that puts the stars into flight.
What has the hunter in the hand?
Awake to the games of the Sultans,
Where the morning glory do call for the hunter;
Awake, awake!
Awake to the facts of life;
Cos', the hunter's gun is ready for action.
Oh no! ! The hunter's eye has caught the Sultans turret,
Like the noose of light to awake nature's call;
Who can satisfy the Sultans?
Like a little pool, so is the hunter's mind;
The hunter's gun is ready for action.
The only man who makes no mistake is,
The man who never does anything;
Awake, awake!
The Sultans turret is in trouble;
Like the noose of light to awake nature's call.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Familiarity brings liking
A cock loved with his commune hens.
Into yard, he started loving other hens.
Into jungle, other fowls too are appealing.
Once used to, you love any breed of woman.
30.05.2001, Berh
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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A Nickname....
on early dawn
while you are writing those letters
(still on the grip of tradition
emails are impersonal and lack
the sentimentality of distance
and the grace of the
strokes and
tendrils)
you hear those chirping birds
cocks crowing
sounds of the streets being swept
and occasional hushes of the wind
from the sea
your letters sound as though
they are anticipating the birth of the world
on the seventh day
when the Lord said he finally rested
at the end you say what they always write
Sincerely yours,
your nickname.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Farmer's Song
One, two and three
Its dawn, and cows are mooing,
cocks are crowing,
a dog is barking,
a new day, welcoming.
Four, five and six
The sun is up, plants are healthy
On goes the counting, hens eggs they lay
Manure is turned for decay,
Cows fed with hay.
Six, seven and eight
Milkman returns pails for day
Cake done, ghee and butter,
Egg trays for this, has made a day
Fruits flourish for better
Nine ends with ten
To, West the Sun retires
Clutter clang, tools return to stores
Dogs released from kennels
Radio some news it blares,
A way the cold is driven with fires.
poem by Charles Jagongo Ogola
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Hen laid eggs
Hen laid an eggs, between legs two,
No small, no big but not in zoo,
Ran after those who made slight dig,
Dog, cat and crow planned very big,
Hen laid eggs……
Hen becomes heroin when find egg,
With big noise run after with one leg,
Even scare pig and allow near no body,
How to protect eggs that is only worry?
Hen laid eggs……
Make no fun when she may have kitten,
Beautiful scene seen when run in garden,
Children love to see and catch with fun,
Prefer little kitten and make gentle run,
Hen laid eggs……
Small kids ask, what will be her task?
How to protect them, by putting a mask?
Often they look at them and draw on page,
night take them all to stay in simple cage,
hen laid eggs……
Papa and mummy, where from kittens came?
Who laid an eggs and how she played game?
Simply they observe and ask funny questions
Why kitten become cock and not small hen?
Hen laid eggs....
What a lovely fun? I couldn’t answer one?
It was more confusing than work undone?
Answered few more questions but not in full,
Avoided by telling you may get it from school
Hen laid eggs.....
How to answer questions? When faced many?
Simple they may look but nature seems funny,
better not answer question any more,
It may not be ending but more and feel bore,
Hen laid eggs......
It is not the hen but cock steals show,
People get irritation when shouts crow,
Kittens and children happy and steadily grow,
Cock serve as alarm when mighty voice blow
Hen laid eggs......
Cocks find preference and first depart,
When runs after hen even looks smart,
Hen not resist when cock’s teasing start,
But end days near when both ways part,
Hen laid eggs......
Story may be funny and more amusing,
Cock and hen story more interest arousing,
Their fight may be limited only for refusing,
Alas! We could learn more and stop abusing,
Hen laid eggs......
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Dawn Time
it is still dark
and what you hear are only footsteps
there are no shadows yet
only speculations
there is something good
at this hour
you ponder on what is
why and
when
then the cock of the neighborhood crows
there is light now
and you are ready to go
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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PUZZLED for Leslie Alexis
The peacock parades exquisitely.
Displays the glory of his tail,
the hens ignore him easily.
This bold display was bound to fail
The peacock has misjudged his time.
The hens aren’t ready to be wooed.
Although he thinks he is sublime
it’s not the time for hens to brood.
He’s young and inexperienced.
As yet he does not understand,
his tiny brain still hasn’t sensed.
The hens not he are in command.
The females don’t appreciate
his urgency he’ll have to wait.
20-Jan-09
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Inside Out
Inside out, ooh you got me inside out
Oh inside out, oh inside out
Now everybody keeps on telling me how to be
And everybody tells me do what they say
Oh Ill help myself its up to me and no-one else
But till Im ready just keep out of my way
Inside out, ooh you got me inside out
Oh inside out, oh inside out
Now everybodys got me running round, up and down
And here I am going out of my mind
But I wont lose sight of all the, the things Im looking for
Theyre coming to me and Im taking whats mine
Inside out, ooh you got me inside out
Oh inside out, oh inside out
Ill play the game
Well make the same mistakes
Its all the same
If we can give and take
Hold on, hold on, ooh
Hold on, hold on, ooh
Inside out, ooh you got me inside out
Oh inside out, oh inside out
All of my life Ive been searching and hanging on
Turning a corner, never know what Id find
But now Im back again like I never went away
Ooh let me in Im through with wasting my time
Inside out, ooh you got me inside out
Oh inside out, oh inside out
Oh inside out, ooh you got me inside out
Oh inside out, oh inside out
song performed by by Phil Collins
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Higher Pantheism in a Nutshell
One, who is not, we see; but one, whom we see not, is;
Surely this is not that; but that is assuredly this.
What, and wherefore, and whence? for under is over and under;
If thunder could be without lightning, lightning could be without thunder.
Doubt is faith in the main; but faith, on the whole, is doubt;
We cannot believe by proof; but could we believe without?
Why, and whither, and how? for barley and rye are not clover;
Neither are straight lines curves; yet over is under and over.
Two and two may be four; but four and four are not eight;
Fate and God may be twain; but God is the same as fate.
Ask a man what he thinks, and get from a man what he feels;
God, once caught in the fact, shows you a fair pair of heels.
Body and spirit are twins; God only knows which is which;
The soul squats down in the flesh, like a tinker drunk in a ditch.
More is the whole than a part; but half is more than the whole;
Clearly, the soul is the body; but is not the body the soul?
One and two are not one; but one and nothing is two;
Truth can hardly be false, if falsehood cannot be true.
Once the mastodon was; pterodactyls were common as cocks;
Then the mammoth was God; now is He a prize ox.
Parallels all things are; yet many of these are askew;
You are certainly I; but certainly I am not you.
Springs the rock from the plain, shoots the stream from the rock;
Cocks exist for the hen; but hens exist for the cock.
God, whom we see not, is; and God, who is not, we see;
Fiddle, we know, is diddle, and diddle, we take it, is dee.
poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
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Too Early
it is too early
i guess the nights are longer now
it is 4: 56 a.m. it is cold
the air is cold
and the windows are still closed
the rooster at the yard
keeps on crowing
while other roosters of the neighborhood
(i live in a rural town
with dusty roads still at the other
nearby kiosk)
keep on crowing too for an answer,
how i wish to make you
a lovely,
happy,
gentle,
peaceful poem
no one screaming on the road
not a motorcab screeching
neither a bus overspeeding
and spreading dust
how i wish to write you a poem
about love
or about that only peaceful star
hanging on the
early morning sky
just a wish
but really
there isn't any
it cannot be
what with a heart that is grieving
a soul that is lost
a body that trembles
a mind with thoughts live leaves
heap upon heap
without a match
to burn them all
this hot days of summer.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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An Early Morning Wish
it is too early
i guess the nights are longer now
it is 4: 56 a.m. it is cold
the air is cold
and the windows are still closed
the rooster at the yard
keeps on crowing
while other roosters of the neighborhood
(i live in a rural town
with dusty roads still at the other
nearby kiosk)
keep on crowing too for an answer,
how i wish to make you
a lovely,
happy,
gentle,
peaceful poem
no one screaming on the road
not a motorcab screeching
neither a bus overspeeding
and spreading dust
how i wish to write you a poem
about love
or about that only peaceful star
hanging on the
early morning sky
just a wish
but really
there isn't any
it cannot be
what with a heart that is grieving
a soul that is lost
a body that trembles
a mind with thoughts live leaves
heap upon heap
without a match
to burn them all
this hot days of summer.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Inside Information
One man to the left
One man to the right
One man in the middle
One man dressed in white
One man in the east
One man from the west
One man in the middle
One man under house arrest
(step back)
Get hooked on the power
Gotta stay in the game
Be the man of the hour
Gotta make a name for yourself
And the lady waits, so patiently
She waits for the call
She knows just what you need
You need inside, information
Information at a very high price
She gives you inside, information
That can change your whole life overnight,
In a minute
One man to the left
One man to the right
One man in the middle
Caught in the broad daylight
Just a man on the street
Another face in the crowd
One man on the beat
Wants everything that hes not allowed
And the lady waits, so patiently
She waits for the call
She knows just what you need
You need inside, information
She can get it at a very high price
A little, inside, information
It can change your whole life overnight
With a little inside, information
You get money, you get power, you get it all
Yeah but that inside, information
Can leave you waiting for that hammer to fall
(let it fall)
She gets that inside, information
Information at a very high price
With that inside, information
Its danger with each roll of the dice
You want that inside, information
Take the money, take the power, take it all
Take that inside, information
But get ready cause the hammer will fall
Its gonna fall
Inside, information
Inside, information
Is she telling you straight
Is she telling you straight
Is she telling you straight
song performed by by Foreigner
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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