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A Breakfast That We Cannot Eat Together

this is the breakfast that we cannot eat together a fish fried in an oil
with so much heat, like ' who cares? ' a rice not well cooked which says ' it is the maid again! ' a coffee which has gone cold which says ' you come late again! ' a egg which is not sunny side up a ham that does not roll a dirty table with an unwashed table cloth which says 'change it yourself! '

how can i eat all these?

i am late for the office and i have to go.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Little Sunshine

a grain of rice
on a table cloth
beside
a cup of hot
coffee

imperceptible
but when a connection is found
soon
the spoon and fork
shall understand

some pieces
no matter what
do not fit
on a reasonable landscape

what is the grain of rice
doing on a breakfast table?

your mind is furious
i think it is cool

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Making Our Own Space

this morning i wake up late
i see misplaced things
lots of it, like dirty clothes
on the floor
unwashed dishes on the sink
blankets unfolded
pillow cases removed from
their pillows
unzipped pants
missing underwear
tumbled glass
spilled milk on the table
dogs waiting to be bathed and feed

i stand up to get my empty plate
take three spoonfuls of steam rice
and two pieces of fish
a cup of coffee and i go out of the house
sit on a bench under a tree
sunshine above me and air breezing on my chest
i eat alone
and something's good is growing inside me
i love it this way
my own space of peace
amidst disorder
my capacity to choose
what i do
despite the negligence of
others around me

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Lousy Day

got a neck collar
afraid of the water
the soap snugs
the shampoo seals
like a mouth not
wanting a word

there is no comb
for the hair
strangled last night
by hefty hands

half naked one
faces the monitor
without blinking

the toothbrush is dry
the toothpaste is bitter

coffee is cold
and the rice smells
the bacon is not crisp
the table is dirty

three flies make a feast
of the sunny side up egg

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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At 7: 59 In The Morning

my coffee has gone cold
the grease on the fish has frozen again
the jasmine rice has lost its scent and gluten
and the lettuce gave away its crispiness

all because i am writing poems again
forgetting time forgetting the table
where breakfast has been served

losing and forgetting and finding myself
to the bosom of God

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Caring Less For The Loquacious

seated, formal, behaved,
and stopping to read the
morning paper,
the tv is on for the
usual morning news,
the cup of coffee is on
the breakfast table,
the usual rice and sunny
side up fried egg
and dried fish to
with your wish for
the wholesome thing,
salt and sugar and
something sour
like a piece of
lemon to accentuate
your need for a variety,

in front is a woman with
curly hair, big earrings like
a mystic,
she speaks in crystal ball
reminding you
of your inevitable
pain in the future,
you are her slave and
you listen,
though you are not
interested,
(shit, shit, you have these
words hammering in
your mind)
finally, you take a glimpse
of her mouth,
they look like scissors,
her nose looks like
a wrench,
she looks older
than you think,
cranky like an old
rice mill,
you like to get rid
of her,
you know this woman,
her name,
and her being a
part of you
even for life,

you create a certain distance
like Mars and Pluto,
farther away, you settle on
the orbit of earth,
this marble planet, known
for its coolness
and tolerance for
evil.

you're not quitting,
you love that dragon inside
your hot, creamy coffee,
and then you smile, and tell yourself,
after she had spoken
her piece,

it is a beautiful day
it is a real beautiful life out there.

you step inside your car, drive for work,
and let life manage your life somehow.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Reincarnate....

she says she had been here
once
she remembers the exact
details
he was frying an egg
sunny side up as she wants it
to be
she sits on one of those rattan
chairs beside a
mahogany table

he is about to put a cup of coffee
brewing on her table
and that is it...

there was a big bang...flashes of light... then
darkness... reality sucks...

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Daily Poems

these may just be words
letters that one need not read carefully
as they are not instructions
or manuals for daily living
not something edible to eat
not a ball to play with on late afternoons
when you have nothing to do
not a bar of beauty soap for your face
not a lotion for your skin
not a piece of cake or a fried potato
for your breakfast table
neither is it a cup of hot coffee
they are not necessities of life
yet somehow
the daily poems of our lives
make us live
a day more,
an hour more of promise
a moment of more tolerance
another year of patience with ourselves

a night of nice sleep
under the stars.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Too Late

See the stop-light turn-in red,
Dont you listen to what its said.
All the things you try to hide,
They keep you runnin hard inside.
Oh, you got to leave this town before its...
Too late, too late, too late, too late, too late,
Too late to make the change.
Oo, yes, my friend, youre fadin fast, if you stay here you wont last.
Before your time has run astray, youve got to try to get away.
Oh, you got to leave this place before its...
Too late, too late, too late, too late, too late,
Too late to make the change.
Too late, too late to make the change
Too late to make the change
Yes, its time to make the change, yes, its time to rearrange,
So, my friend, I join the fight for the things you know are right.
Oh, you got to leave this town before its...
Too late, too late, too late, too late, too late,
Too late to make the change.
Too late, too late to make the change
Too late, too late, to make the change
Too late to make the change
Too late, before its too late.

song performed by by Journey
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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If You Don't Like Rock & Roll

You'd never know there was some music playin'
Until you talked your way inside the door
And then a sound like rollin' thunder
Begins to push you right thru the floor
And there's a great white sign
With big black letters
That just about explains it all
If you don't like rock 'n' roll
Well, if you don't like rock 'n' roll
If you don't like rock 'n' roll
Then it's too late now
Well it's too late now
Hey hey
Of course there was the usual lady
And she was dressed the way the stories tell
So bein' cool i made a move to grab her
But you could see she read story well
And then she whipped out a card
With big black letters
That just about explained it all
Well if you don't like rock 'n' roll
If you don't like rock 'n' roll
Well if you don't like rock 'n' roll
Then you're too late now
Then you're too late now
Well, if you don't like rock 'n' roll
Well, if you don't like rock 'n' roll, yeah
If you don't like rock 'n' roll
Well it's too late now
Well you're too late now
If you don't like rock 'n' roll
If you don't like my rock 'n' roll
Then you're too late now
Then you're too late now
Then you're too late, too late now

song performed by by Rainbow
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Responsibility From The Words Of Grandpa

we all eat together
partake the white rice and the
fried fish
and home made coffee
every breakfast
as he tells stories
about his exploits during
World War II
and then when everyone is
finished listening to
every word
from his mouth placed
on his square jaws
he makes the last remark
that the last one to leave
shall wash all
the plates

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Ode To A Strict Lifestyle Of The Past

'twas the cruel time
with grandpa when dropping a grain
of rice on the table cloth is such a big crime
when you like to eat but you cannot swallow
the food
when you like to drink but the water tasted
as bitter as bile
when the conversations on the dining table
are shallow as affection is strange
as nothing becomes more important
than a future
not be be bound in the house anymore
when papa did not do anything
when mama simply sobbed
and stayed silence
and surrendered everything to God

all we waited is the blackness of the night
black because death is indifferent
because time is not a rescuer
of those who sank into
the bottom
of despair

i recall all these cruel times now
upon a grain of white rice
upon a coffee deprived of milk and sugar
upon a bread without the butter
upon a naked table
scratched with a knife
stained with tears

i look over the window
and stare at the black butterfly merely passing by

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Its Too Late To Change The Time

[intro]
Too late
Too late
Too late
[verse 1]
In this automatic age
We shop through the yellow page
Gone is the corner store
There is a supermarket there for you
People give way to change
But feelings remain the same
[chorus]
And its too late, too late to change the time
Well its too late, too late to change the time
And its too late, too late to change the time
But its not too late (too late) to change your mind
[verse 2]
Its a new day, a new age
A photograph just taken, is ready one minute later
Cars are bigger and better
But the manufacturers sastified never
In a world full of crime
I cant let you think thats right
[chorus]
And its too late, too late to change the time
And its too late, too late to change the time
And its too late, too late to change the time
But its not too late (too late) to change your mind
No, no
[bridge 1]
So you wanna be a star (so you wanna be a star)
You are who you think you are (ah think you are)
You dont have to go further
Than my loving arms
[chorus half]
And its too late, too late to change the time
But its not too late (too late) to change your mind
[bridge 2]
Are you sure you wanna go to new york city (new york city)
Where girls make it big if theyre pretty (if they pretty)
Let say you get that penthouse view
But whos gonna love you the way I do (just the way I do)
[chorus]
Its too late, too late to change the time
And its too late, too late to change the time, no
Too late, too late to change the time
But its not too late (too late) to change your mind
Yeah, yeah, yeah
[chorus]
Its too late, too late to change the time
Its too late, too late to change the time
Ooh, too late, too late to change the time
But its not too late (too late) to change your mind
Yeah, yeah, yeah

song performed by by Michael Jackson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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What Do I Really Need?

upon a dining table
i too, ask myself,

what do i really need?

one fried dried fish
a cup of steamed brown rice
a pinch of salt
five drops of coconut vinegar

a glass of water

and then the much needed
rest for the night

& with you
my bare hands

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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In The Pursuit Of Art Every Morning...

on aching eyes
and osteopathic backbone
one must keep the
art of
writing, because that is what is art all about,
talking about
self-denial, the mastery of the
perfect art of
restraints, how to place your hands on
your chest and feel
the rhythms of that
isolated and well protected
flesh and bone
covered
heart, everything is there anyway
like bread and butter and
rice and fish
on that white painted breakfast
table, with the matching hot cup of
coffee and
table napkin, sky blue, and
silver wares, like the river passing
through an arc bridge
in that Chinese painting hanging on
your gray wall,
well,
your hands are somewhat
Olympic runners
taking pride that the fingers within
their hold
can write well even
though blinded by too much light
drivers without headlights
reckless and
wild and free like lovers always
having inklings to
change partners
till the next sperm
whale that comes
diving flatly on the Indian ocean
breaking glaciers
melting ice
flooding the world of
concupiscence

somewhere beyond the
grasp of my fingernails
much different than last nights
grips on that
smooth back of the geisha
is the thick and black
skin
of elephantine shame
but,
who cares? you don't.
and i too,
don't.

this, i must make clear,
but i know,
all these seeds fall on
rocks of salt, where not a
messy moss ever think
to stick.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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438

To Choose Between A
Hot Breakfast Ready On The Table
And Finishing Another Poem
I Choose The Breakfast
Together With My Wife

This Poem Can Be Suspended
In Time
And Become Another Unfinished
Act Of Creation
By A Man Wanting To Fill This
World With Poems

After A While
When I Have My Fill And When
I Make Some Nice Conversations With My Wife
And My Dog Beside The Table
Looking At Me
For A Piece Of Fried Pork
When The Sipping Of Coffee Is Over
When I Finally Wipe My
Chin With The Sky Blue Napkin
When I Consider
Eating As Finally Over

As Promised
I Will Come Back Again
And Finish This Poem

And There Is Something
Nice In This
Act Of Creation
You Feel It

It Is Warm Like The Hand Of
A Beautiful Woman
It Is As Hot As Ever
Like This Wanton Desire

Lovely,
As Lovely As You Love Each Letter
Of The Word
Of Your Poetry

I Am Feeling It In The Bone
Of My Soul

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Breakfast Is Ready

(7: 45 in the morning)

to choose between a
hot breakfast ready on the table
and finishing another poem

i choose the breakfast
together with my wife

this poem can be suspended
in time
and become another unfinished
act of creation
by a man wanting to fill this
world with poems

after a while
when i have my fill and when
i make some nice conversations with my wife
and my dog beside the table
looking at me
for a piece of fried pork
when the sipping of coffee is over
when i finally wipe my
chin with the sky blue napkin
when i consider
eating as finally over

as promised
i will come back again
and finish this poem

and there is something
nice in this
act of creation
you feel it

it is warm like the hand of
a beautiful woman
it is as hot as ever
like this wanton desire

lovely,
as lovely as you love each letter
of the word
of your poetry

i am feeling it in the bone
of my soul

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Poet As Mere Spectator

and so there was this child
left by the mother who was washing
her body in another
room

the child crawls and walks its
way finally
to the dining table
and pulls the table cloth
where a cup of hot coffee
is put

hot coffee is poured on its face
and the baby screams
and screams and screams
at the top of his voice

i hear it but what can i do
i am the poet
and you give me this job of
a mere spectator

next time, tell me, i am more than that
i can be superman
to that child
only if you ask.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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If You Dont Like Rock Roll

Youd never know there was some music playin
Until you talked your way inside the door
And then a sound like rollin thunder
Begins to push you right thru the floor
And theres a great white sign
With big black letters
That just about explains it all
If you dont like rock n roll
Well, if you dont like rock n roll
If you dont like rock n roll
Then its too late now
Well its too late now
Hey hey
Of course there was the usual lady
And she was dressed the way the stories tell
So bein cool I made a move to grab her
But you could see she read story well
And then she whipped out a card
With big black letters
That just about explained it all
Well if you dont like rock n roll
If you dont like rock n roll
Well if you dont like rock n roll
Then youre too late now
Then youre too late now
Well, if you dont like rock n roll
Well, if you dont like rock n roll, yeah
If you dont like rock n roll
Well its too late now
Well youre too late now
If you dont like rock n roll
If you dont like my rock n roll
Then youre too late now
Then youre too late now
Then youre too late, too late now

song performed by by Rainbow
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sunrise's Entrance

sunrise is such a lady
with a fashion sense

clad in rays of light
slim between the
shadows of the trees
jeweled with diamond
warm like a lover's hand

sunrise dramatically
arrives full of hope for
another brand new day

there is a fruit tray by the
window
five shiny red apples
there is a base of white
magnolias inside a
golden vase by
the window

there is breakfast on the
table: smiling fried egg
tasty hot dogs, pearl white
rice, brewed coffee and
a slice of ripe yellow mango.

poetry in bliss
music from the breeze

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Late Cat

Late to train
Late to bus
Late to class
And late to party;
She is everywhere a late cat!

Late to eat
Late to sleep
Late to fate
And late to luck;
She is for everything a late cat!

Late to clock
Late to block
Late to dash
Against the truck
And, lo! Even late to death;
She is always a late cat!

poem by Sasikala Kamandula
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