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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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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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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Things Do Not Seem To Be Them After A Careful Seeing
a spoon
and a fork and they seem to appear
with food on a silver platter
when we talk we talk like poets now
after years
a spoon is no longer just a spoon
and neither is the fork
and neither is the food the food that we
eat on the table
and neither is the silver platter a mere
silver platter as it seems to be
for a spoon may be me and i may also be
a tongue and i could be a tongue to your
fork, a protrusion that stabs me like a knife
and the silver platter could be our mind
a garden where we put every seed
and the table and the cloth that covers it
with leaves and flowers
myabe our worlds, covered and uncovered
with some intricate designs
this could be our world now. a world of poems
where everything is a roll of sensitive skin
a mind so fertile with its array of metaphors
and similes and
exaggerations, and these make us so happy
we tiptoe, we choose the word, we equate
every object to a meaning, we dance to a lot
of its nuances, and then we touch and then
we are so silent. we choose not to hurt.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Simplicity
before a table
a cup of rice and
few pieces of fish
you put your knee
near your mouth
as you mold
sticky white rice
with your bare hands
you open your mouth
and swallow what
you have inorder
to live.
(shall i say
poverty?)
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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122
simplicity
before a table
a cup of rice and
few pieces of fish
you put your knee
near your mouth
as you mold
sticky white rice
with your bare hands
you open your mouth
and swallow what
you have in order
to live.
(shall i say
poverty?)
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Lunch Is Ready
you must have read before
that when a man is made to choose
between lunch
and poetry
he must choose lunch
it is 12: 20 noon
and if you wish
please finish this poem for me
make it say something
about hunger
the pinch in the stomach
the lack of guts
the impatience about life
for the meantime
i'll take what is offered on the table
i still have to chew
another idea that is fed in my mind
another poem
shaped like a fried chicken
scents of lumpia shanghai
images of white rice
exuding some fumes in
the light to the ceiling
clinking sounds of silver spoon and fork
and flowing clear drinking water
in the glass
in a whoosh
and the usual conversations
of sweet nothings
displayed on the table
like a soup
of bird's nest
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Breakfast
Look, the golden plate is ready set
On the round table for breakfast.
Glitters reflecting tinges of my blood
In tune with the table of mud
With the green medow streaking to fret.
Listen, worshiping Aurora at dawwn daily
Comes to me that golden plate by priority.
The green paddy rooted in deep water
Fans soothingly with its ricy flavour.
Feel, it makes golden plate more catchy.
I cook the rice to petalsoft
Adding ghee and jaggery enough to taste.
I resolve with my prayers in bundle
To offer the made rice i.e 'pongal'
To the above deity of splendid light.
On the muddy table, over the glisten
Placed a plantain leaf, served on
The pongal.I then whisper'my sun,
Enlightened by the plate of your glisten'!
poem by Indira Renganathan
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Amen, Amen...
for the few grains of rice that i have given you
and for the slice of fish,
God has given me more than what
i have parted,
God has given me a house, a rice granary,
a thousand loaves of bread,
an ocean of fish
plus a book of poems,
plus the nightingale songs
My heart sings praises for Him.
For every grain of rice that i have shared with a hungry neighbor,
God has replenished me with truckloads.
FOR THE FEW cents that i have given as fare for the old woman
who wishes to go home,
God has repaid me money in bundles.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Do Not Look For The Period It Is Not Found Here
she tells me again she agrees that everything here is
unintentional pure imaginings of the mind when the snow is so thick
and going outside is painful to the skin no matter how you rub your fingers
and hands against your tummy,
this happens usually in the morning, flickers at dawn, and does not subside
keeps on dictating, hushing, whispering words that the right brain fails to
understand, the left does, and takes note of every letter, like sketches of
a face that you have for once never seen anyway,
until the bacon gets crisp, and the white jasmine rice is ready
on the wooden table, one begins to share and ponder,
hot coffee, and loneliness
anxieties that do not know is already inside your room
last night
do not look for understanding
the purpose precisely is that this is a very confidential matter
ciphers of existence that only the self can tell
perhaps before the timely rowing to the path of God
do not look for the period it is not found here
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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The Problem
the problem with us is that when we open the computer and begin
to read poetry we cannot stop, we do not know when and where to stop
we get carried away like a paper boat on the river and we do not know
where we shall be taken
and not only that
in some mysterious ways we too assume the hands of the poet his mind
his emotions contaminating us
and we (oh let me just talk about myself)
and i begin to write myself some lines
honestly not knowing where these line come from
and like ants they invade me and begin to eat me like a chunk of chocolate
or a broken biscuit or a grain of rice that they all carry like a good catch
and then i pride myself with the belief that i must still be sweet
as chocolate, crisp and tasty like a biscuit, and white and unblemished
like a grain of rice
not because i am writing poems
but because the ants too, like the river have carried me away
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Inspired by Issa - Cycle of births
the cycle of births
from my hand, a pigeon pecks peas
grain by grain
inspired by
grains of rice
pecked by birds...
my futon
-Issa,1814
http: //cat.xula.edu/issa/
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Rice
On table plateful cooked rice,
Still the steam emits.
On chair I did cling,
Waited my wife curry to bring.
Beyond the plate, I behold
The farm wet with solicitude
Where the peasants
Sow the seeds.
Hot rice brings to the mind,
The paddy plants pined,
And the debt cankered peasants,
Whose sweats the balm to welted awns.
Held the rusty scythes,
And bent like the scythes,
The darkened women sang throat opened,
And the folk song my core vibrated.
Cooked rice still steamy,
And white purely,
As the mind of farmer,
The climate and price fall boiled ever.
Born to toil in the soil,
Farmers return to the soil,
To feed the worms,
Hanging on a rope hopeless.
When my dear curry brought,
I painfully thought:
No life without rice,
And without the peasant no rice.
poem by Fabiyas M V
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Breakfast Is Ready (2)
breakfast is ready
we sit on our designated seats
we pray
we put our hands on the table
we take the spoon and fork
and knife
slice the cheese, break the bread
sip the coffee, chew,
no spitting, swallow
no choking
in here there is an implied admission
of hunger, thirst, and
emptiness.
we say the words thanks after,
amen to the next thirst and hunger.
conversations there are cliches.
but i admit, i dont give a damn now, nothing really matters.
i always say a little prayer for you.
Before i leave.I do not have to tell you.
honest.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Grain Of Sand
I feel like Im walking on a mine
Im gonna leave it all behind
I feel like Im gaining my soul
While Im losing my mind
And I feel like I understand
And I feel like a grain of sand
Im gonna walk through that door
Im gonna see what its there for
cause all I ever want is your skin or your soul baby
But you couldnt give me either one of those
And I feel like I understand
And I feel like a grain of sand
And I feel like a grain of sand
You use to hold me like a flower
We used to talk for seven hours
I see the bigger picture now
And I feel like I understand
And I feel like a grain of sand
And I feel like a grain of sand
song performed by by Vonda Shepard
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Wise Giver....
this is your rice cake
i am handing this to you
this is all yours
on these conditions:
you will not eat it
you have to guard it against
the flies and ants
take care of it
do not eat it for i do not allow it
it gets consumed and
then be gone
and that is bad for you
& me
at night
guard it still from mosquitoes
for they bring diseases
see to it that you heat it
in the oven
lest it gets moldy and
become spoiled
against the light
by that oil lamp
the rice cake casts a shadow
on the table
that is what you can eat
that alone
now partake
of my kindness
satisfy your hunger
on that shadow
slice it with a knife
and on small chunks
feed your mouth
nourish your body
till that rice cake is gone.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Only The Bowl!
i am only the bowl!
i am not the rice.
i am not the fire.
i am not the rain,
nor the sun that gave.
i am not the fertile earth.
i am not the human hands
that gathered, that prepared...
i am not even the hand that offers.
i am not the table, not the chair,
i am not the spoon.
when day is done,
and my place is known...
i am only the bowl!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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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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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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You Found My Way
you cook so well
and i am so
anticipating about
the new menu
on the white
porcelain plate
beside the
silver spoon
and fork
and the corrugated
knife fit for
the medium rare
steak
more rice please
more lemonades
and lots of
lettuce for the
salad
a ripe mango
and alligator
pear
on a platter
lady, you found your
way into
my belly.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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