A Companion On The Impossible...
on finished paths
i shy away, the stones there look the same
but no one is complaining
and all attempts to find new ones
seem to be nothing but a respect for
the trivial,
i am faced with forest trees
those that do not know how a man looks like
or how a woman tastes
all they know are the winds from the sea
and the clouds from across the islands of despair
i do not have a cutter on my hand
and i only have my fingers and tongue
i squat under the sun and begin my work
there is so much to cut and clean
been here for years and there is nothing much
that changed
the trees have grown so tall and cannot even see me
the grasses sheltered more snakes and have their party
i am alone with nothing but hope....
and then you come.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Whatever Happens, Move On, Pursue That End
when we begin we already know what distance is
we see it in the stars we hear it from the Siberian winds
we were telling the trees that our beginning was the smile of the snails
that the moss have always been faithful to the stones
at the middle we learned the games of the waves and the seagulls
there is always the happy chase between respect and dignity
like the moon how it sits on the black horizon how it lightens the silence
you want to know the intimacy of the wind and the cliff
how they have become almost the same in sonorous sounds
sometimes you sense the semblance of surrender
not wanting to go on and be the roots of the trees and the grass
i have touched the tips of your hair, though short, but that is enough
my wings have fully grown and the winds are waiting
i am destined for something else beyond the touch of your hands
i do not know how my story shall end, but the voices are assuring
whatever happens, tell me, for once, that you too shall find yourself
do not turn back, pursue the end without the trembling, the remorse of pain
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Showcase
socialite clouds rest on the top
of Malindang Mountain
the common trees look at them
with envy
the grasses chide that there is no point to this
the clouds are meant to pass
the trees are meant to be cut and burned
and the grasses win.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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After You Leave Us ....
you must begin to imagine
after you leave
and be gone for years
when you come back
i am still here
this is still the house
but there is no longer
any welcome sign
even like a rug
we are tombs
silent cities without trees
grassy paths
all stones ....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Song for a Child (2008)
Each little Child a queen or a king
learning to reach for the bright blue sky
In every child moment, you more become
the owner of dreams, the holder of light.
Each Grown-up extending a hand
for your innocent, searching fingers to find
responsible to you, to never let go
or let you be falling, abandoned behind.
We will respect you in all your discovering
the flowers and branches, trees that surround
the courage of all your unchained imagining
the swans and porcupines seen in the clouds.
We leave many words of shame, here behind us
for the gardens we give you, untended, despoiled
we owe you the foresight and skills you'll require
to clean up our mischief and start to restore.
And while throughout the centuries passing
the Child's delight was Our delight
we affirm here and now: you were born with the right
to all our protection, to dreaming and joy.
poem by Frank Bana
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When They Made Love Inside That Cramped Room...
when they made love
that evening
they heard the sounds of
the jungle: tiger mating
birds on love calls
under the trees
above some
elephants screaming
with joy
snakes hissing upon
each body
rubbing rubbers
inside their ears
sounds of new winds
fresh upon each leaf
on the forest trees.....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Clouds
Clouds, the clouds diffuse a sad and somewhat somber hue;
Rain, the rain descends aslant from angry ashen skies;
Winds, the winds bemoan their loss of reins and calm control;
Shades, the shades appear suffused, alone in lurid haze;
Trees, the trees enshroud the eyes of misty brooding woods;
Leaves, the leaves desert their branches, falling one by one;
Birds, the birds intone a tune, a mourning monody;
Grass, the grass surrenders blades, impaled in truant winds;
Fields, the fields imbibe and quaff to quench an arid thirst;
Stones, the stones repulse the pearls, exploding tears of gloom;
Streams, the streams meander, hushed, to distant vapid shores;
Clouds, the clouds diffuse a sad and somewhat somber hue
poem by Terry O'Leary
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A Political Theory
the way you manage things
pertains to an ordinary garden
weeding out the bad ones
cultivating the ideals
the snakes are caught and
cut to pieces
and the rats poisoned
and the trees pruned
the paths cleaned of rocks
and pebbles
you level mountains
desiring the plains
and the neighborhood claps
their hand and shall make
new monuments for you
there are words of praises
but not from me
for in my garden
the snakes thrive with the rats
the moss grows well with the stone
the grasses and the buffaloes
the rivers and the reeds
the fish and crocodiles
the bees and the flowers
the mountains stay as is
and the plains spread as they wish
i just let themselves be
and they are all very happy.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Two Faced Woman
Miles from home
So many things go round
So far - the fight in me so strong
Years of pain
Ive suffered all the same
Today - I know I will be near
You talk about romance
You blew your only chance
cause youre a two faced woman
But Im a three faced man
cause youre a two faced woman
I got a hangmans hand
Dirty tricks
I found out just in time
Enough - dont dare to cross the line
You - you fooled around
I found a way out
The tables turned - your bridges burned
You talk about romance
You blew your only chance
cause youre a two faced woman
But Im a three faced man
cause youre a two faced woman
I got a hangmans hand
cause youre a two faced woman
But Im a three faced man
cause youre a two faced woman
Youll live in nightmare land
Payback time - spin the dime
The balance overdue
Payback time - take a hike
You broke the golden rule
cause youre a two faced woman
But Im a three faced man
cause youre a two faced woman
I got a hangmans hand
cause youre a two faced woman
But Im a three faced man
cause youre a two faced woman
Youll live in nightmare land
song performed by by U. D. O.
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Trees under the sun,
trees, hosting man and woman
Trees, our own clean lungs!
haiku by Elizabeth Padillo Olesen
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Chicago Sestina
I am surprised by the streets of Chicago
when the palm of winter grips them with snow
as if to forgive the city’s mistakes
and give it a canvas that’s new, white, and clean–
its fingers, the branches on all of the trees
kneading the air that blows in from the lake.
I’ve never lived next to the pulse of the lake
(until I set foot down the side of Chicago)
breathing in through the streets and out through the trees
welcoming the cool of the wet, numbing snow.
It lets my mind slip into thinking it’s clean
as if to personally forgive my mistakes.
“But what have you done to forgive your mistakes? ”
Did I ask this? Or is that the voice of the lake?
Some days, not even does it appear clean,
worn down from its tall standing neighbor, Chicago.
It scrapes at the sky, asking it for more snow
to stick to and freeze the trunks of the trees.
If I were a branch on one of these trees
incapable of making a single mistake,
I’d grab at the sky as it shook out the snow
and grow my roots thick till they tasted the lake.
But I wouldn’t bend to the force of Chicago
that’s constantly keeping me from being clean.
And what does it mean to try to be clean?
I don’t understand the stillness of the trees
when they’re being attacked by the size of Chicago
as if to glorify the city’s mistakes
that glisten like stars at night on the lake
before it all froze and was covered with snow.
Ah! To imagine how long there’s been snow.
How can something this old still feel so clean
and dance through the wind that swoops in from the lake?
Is it the kneading by the spiny branches on trees
trusting that there will be no more mistakes
that leaves these the only pure thing in Chicago?
Here comes the snow that seeks out the trees
Am I now clean? Where are my mistakes?
Chicago belongs where it lay with the lake.
poem by Brian Maloney
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The Deserted Fields
seldom do you find this place
tall grasses on the fields
white herons feeding
upon the green frogs gallivanting
on the muddy pools
bluer skies fresh air
trees nested by sparrows
trails of men
there are no houses here
flowers on the pavement bloom
nobody comes here anymore
most of them have left for good for the city
where work is available
where money can be harvested
like fruits from concrete trees
from cemented fields
under the flicker of neon lights
from unfriendly people
i am here, at home, with all my silence.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Forms Of Escape
you sailed away from the certainties
of your faith
you find the exit back door and leave no note
whatever
only doubts that they can feast upon
while you are away
on a destination that only your heart
so strange this time
knows
you land upon twin islands
twin hills with milk flowing from their tips
but only for six years
and then the trees grow into a forest and
you find yourself
lost again in the woods
the grass grow tall and you do not like it anymore
on another island you find fog and hazy horizons
and in all these you find
a world that is too interesting to leave
you stay here
now you like this darkness and coldness
your moon
your mistress
and in your sleep you talk about a certain madness
those who know you and if they know you much
if you only let them know and let them speak their minds
like the river and the sea
i guess, they will say the same thing that i will say
your life is wasted.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Poet And Woman
Woman, you are incomplete without poet,
Poet, you are also imperfect without woman.
The soil is incomple without the root of trees,
The sky is incomple without the clouds,
stars or the shining Moon,
The river is dead without the dancing of waves,
And, the poet's heart is a desert without a woman's love.
The forest is incomplete without the wild animals,
The sun is lost in darkness without its light,
The trees are but a row of emptiness-
without the chirping of the birds,
And, a woman is but half without a poet's imagination.
poem by Nazmul Haque
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A Hope In Being Lost
i love being
lost
it is another
adventure
of my lifetime
to be lost
is a plan
it is a kind of
desire
like summer
it is a place
where you have
never been
you plunge
upon a darkness
upon a depth
into something
narrow
and uncertain
it is not a
kind of road that
is clean
and smooth and
unending
and free from
the mess of the
forest
and its trees
tall grasses
compete there
snake pits
are abounding
venomous bites
are impending
possibilities
moss and lichens
crowd upon a tree
trunk
lizards and
wild butterflies
and frogs
are cautious
upon each others'
preying
the seconds
are some kind of
twist and turns
of their lifetimes
deadly bees and
exciting canopies
create the
combination of
fright and frills
and instant
kills
being lost is
an excitement
i feel this
despite the
tension
you do not know
where to find
yourself
there is no map
yet
created in this
personal
situation
you cannot name
a place
you cannot simply
write an address
or email a
pic to someone
else
on the net
you become a new
man yourself
renewed to all these
anxieties
you may be killed
in the process
and that will be
so unfortunate
for one who has only
one life to live
it will take time
to adjust
sleeping under
the moon
the trees at
night
and listening to
all these
sounds of horror
and animal calls of
survival
you hope
and this is the
real cue
to find someone
new
like you
someone who can
give you
another exciting
beginning....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Dead Trees
the trees in the forest that you cut
come back
for revenge
the tragedy is that
those that died in that flood with all the dead trees
are the
most innocent
you escape this time
but the trees soon will find you
soon, soon,
i pray.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Let's Flood
Planned things not always happen, but happen things you had no plans for. And yet many things that lie ahead of you, you dont know. Our life is like that of a river; joins another river on its way to the ocean; ocean of death, eternity.
It trickles down and down and goes on. Now it's like two... stronger, steadier, and needless to say non-splittable... needless, because; have you ever seen a river divide in parts? They are one now... that is one.
Being one they maybe enjoyed more.... each had their choice of routes to venture... dependability was nil, indulgence could be high and sacrifices meant none....
But that's better this way. They, no, no they, it, it can be more aggressive now. It can tell the world how it wants it, not the world deciding it. It doesn't have to snake down, but will push over and will wash away the stubborn stones on its way to the ocean. Stones will be gentler to it now, will respect it. Bushes will respect it. Scrubs will respect it. Trees will respect. Rocks will respect it. They will respect it.
The ocean is clean
The ocean is pure
The ocean is immortality
The world will respect us
poem by Ali Kazemi
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The Wild Swans At Coole
The trees are in their autumn beauty,
The woodland paths are dry,
Under the October twilight the water
Mirrors a still sky;
Upon the brimming water among the stones
Are nine-and-fifty Swans.
The nineteenth autumn has come upon me
Since I first made my count;
I saw, before I had well finished,
All suddenly mount
And scatter wheeling in great broken rings
Upon their clamorous wings.
I have looked upon those brilliant creatures,
And now my heart is sore.
All's changed since I, hearing at twilight,
The first time on this shore,
The bell-beat of their wings above my head,
Trod with a lighter tread.
Unwearied still, lover by lover,
They paddle in the cold
Companionable streams or climb the air;
Their hearts have not grown old;
Passion or conquest, wander where they will,
Attend upon them still.
But now they drift on the still water,
Mysterious, beautiful;
Among what rushes will they build,
By what lake's edge or pool
Delight men's eyes when I awake some day
To find they have flown away?
poem by William Butler Yeats
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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Sequoia Trees
Trees so long that it makes a city look small.
Yet they make the Empire state building look tall.
People can climb this massive trees in the winter or the fall.
I saw pictures of people climbing one Sequoia like a mountain.
One of these days I want to climb a Sequoia tree.
I think these trees will last until the end of time.
No one should ever cut them down in their prime.
The Sequoias bark is so thick that it protects itself against fire.
They can last long winters in the Sierra.
Thick bark serves both causes which makes it unwilling to expire.
The fact that they are continually growing is very profound.
Theses trees are so tall and round.
Most people cant see the sky from the ground.
None should chop it down because it will fall
to pieces on the forest floor.
Try to make wood from those trees and you will be poor.
These famous trees are disease resistant.
One Sequoia is called the President.
On earth this is the second greatest tree giant.
The Sequoias are Americas living monument.
I find the Sequoias so hard to describe,
because they are so magnificent.
Thanks God for creating trees that cause so much excitement.
After Being Guided
Being unable to see the forest for the trees,
After being guided to where that forest begins...
There is so much more than trees,
Out of one's perspective...
That an assistance with a helping to connect,
Painted colored dots to make clear those 'differences'...
Would be too late and a waste of time,
To clean one's attic of debris.
It's 'never' too late?
Well...
Unfortunately,
For a lot of folks...
This will not be a matter for them to confront to consider.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Promise Me My Love
promise me my love
that you will no longer mind
our little differences
that from now on
you must begin to see
the forest
(the whole of me)
rather than the trees
(those trivial things
that you bloat
that make me float
and take me away
from you)
promise me
that for better or for worse
you will love me
till the next life.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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