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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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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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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Green Onion Shampoo
The baby-sitter's nuts! Please listen Mom, it's true!
Last night she washed my hair with Green Onion Shampoo!
Green Onion Shampoo! Green Onion Shampoo!
It smells worse than bad, and when you get through,
Your poor scalp will burn, your eyes will burn too!
Who ever heard of Green Onion Shampoo?
Why did she do that? She has a loose screw!
It's made in Cleveland! This stuff is brand new!
I don't understand! God, what did I do?
To ever deserve Green Onion Shampoo?
Promise to fire her! And trust when I say...
If you rehire her... I must run away!
poem by ToddMichael St. Pierre
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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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Noon Break Eroticism
the night shift must have been so
damning
the dying screams, the latest victims
of the night wanting emergency attention
the doctors are at home sleeping
and some nurses are sleeping
on their desks
and there
marvin wakes up from his deep slumber
washes his face
combs his hair
and does his routinary toilet
gets this tissue
and wipes his
skin under
reflected by this dirty-white
bowl
he stands up, pulls his brief
and pants and zips
and then he washes his hands
with soap and water
goes out of the toilet
faces the coming nurses
and takes his
late breakfast
the morning is so boring
and it is noonday
back again
to this eroticism
the shemales with
some blowjobs
the virgins with fears
and his groans
that no one hears
in the government hospital
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Douse
Turn the dial, hear it click,
then the water will start to drip,
slowly the water will begin to flow,
filling your body with a warm glow.
Looking towards the ceiling,
you’re struck by a wondrous feeling,
of water rolling down your face,
of water that’s warm to taste.
Then you’ll reach for the shampoo,
that special lotion cleaning you,
then finish off with shower gel,
or soap shaped like a seashell.
Finished, low and behold,
open the door, you’ve gone all cold,
just think you’ve got up early,
just to see your hair go all curly!
poem by Dale Mullock
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Otherwise Bare!
a bicycle with a flat tire,
propped against a brick wall.
the old hose with a hole,
thrown to the side.
the old man in front of the tv,
from morning to night.
a dog collar by the ashtray,
a coffee pot grown cold.
a flashlight that doesnt work,
a pair of shoes that never fit.
books packed in a box,
at a three dollar yard sale.
the suit bought at goodwill,
waiting on the funeral.
the last pack of cigarettes,
an empty pack of matches.
love sleeping on couches,
a screwdriver with a broken bit.
a heart that smells of mothballs...
a block of cheese and a knife on a plate,
on a table otherwise bare!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Perfect Coffee
she dance in front of me, in early morning suite,
before the Rooster crock in early shout of morning,
brows and feel then the coffee lies in the table with
a happy roost
comfort the night with that dancing lady, where
every inch of her hair, languish her leg just off the
bed to play, come admirable ecstasy wake me up,
full and squeeze the earth, grip my trembling heart
as you quizzed my neck into the earth seeking night
with nothing but gone of myself
I almost drawn, of the mixed emotion of sugar drops
in the coffee, wanted a perfect blends of boil water as
it fades away, oh! yes thanks to the table that hold
every cup, the party has to go like a merry go around
the table of free
now the sweet aroma of coffee brings a good
morning mist, with sugar dare coffee taste as old, the
same thirst the tongue requests; drink the leverage of
mate that holds, for each breath of lips that savour
the spell, lives the saving faith
a hot coffee for free, take it out or dine with thee ….
poem by Antonio Liao
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Without You
My Pillow gazes upon me at night
Empty as a gravestone;
I never thought it would be so bitter
To be alone,
Not to lie down asleep in your hair.
I lie alone in a silent house,
The hanging lamp darkened,
And gently stretch out my hands
To gather in yours,
And softly press my warm mouth
Toward you, and kiss myself, exhausted and weak-
Then suddenly I'm awake
And all around me the cold night grows still.
The star in the window shines clearly-
Where is your blond hair,
Where your sweet mouth?
Now I drink pain in every delight
And poison in every wine;
I never knew it would be so bitter
To be alone,
Alone, without you.
Translated by James Wright
poem by Hermann Hesse
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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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Literary Tongue
at first i like the hands
those huge hands to cover the whole of my cold body
and then i begin to like the fingers
those that crawl and make my body warm
those that fill the orifice of my emptiness
those that caress my hair
and travel from my nose to my mouth
to my neck to the last tip of my toes
and then i like the mouth too
with its tongue that speak about gentleness
and make me a little bit heated
and brave
and then i am finally stuck with the tongue
the surrogate part of of them all
it speaks
it licks
it travels from the tip of my hair to the tip of my toe
and then it stops
hides inside the walls of my teeth and gums
and stay in the house of my mouth
it also knows
when to stop and just be alone and silent
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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The Parting Hour
Not yet, dear love, not yet: the sun is high;
You said last night, 'At sunset I will go.'
Come to the garden, where when blossoms die
No word is spoken; it is better so:
Ah! bitter word 'Farewell.'
Hark! how the birds sing sunny songs of spring!
Soon they will build, and work will silence them;
So we grow less light-hearted as years bring
Life's grave responsibilities - and then
The bitter word 'Farewell.'
The violets fret to fragrance 'neath your feet,
Heaven's gold sunlight dreams aslant your hair:
No flower for me! your mouth is far more sweet.
O, let my lips forget, while lingering there,
Love's bitter word 'Farewell.'
Sunset already! have we sat so long?
The parting hour, and so much left unsaid!
The garden has grown silent - void of song,
Our sorrow shakes us with a sudden dread!
Ah! bitter word 'Farewell.'
poem by Olive Custance
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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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Naked Before My Eyes
feeling empty
i sense you
i get near you
feeling your hand
and you look at me
knowing something
that fills you too
i like you to be
my empty cup
to my hot water
i can be more
than hot water
i can be a spoon
stirring you and
you can be coffee too
and cream and
sugar and mint
i can be the mouth
that opens to drink
you as coffee and
surely we shall have
a good time together
tonight i like you
to be more than coffee
and cream and sugar
just be yourself naked
before my emptiness
and i can also be more
than a mouth to you
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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An Afternoon Poem
it is all coffee without cream
no sugar, you say please, no sugar no cream
it is all about cold bread
nothing electrifying
unlike the softness of the arms of the beloved
it is about the coldness of bread
and the hotness of coffee
less the cream and the sugar
nothing sweet really
you guess it: there is something bitter
not from the water (for why should water be bitter?)
not from the cup (is there such a cup which has a bitter taste?)
guess further: you are wrong.
it is bitter, it is really bitter.
it comes from the heart. Not from the saucer
or the spoon.
it is the heart that is bitter. do not attempt
tasting it.
it can be toxic because it is mine.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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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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Christmas Zen #1
small children with dirty faces
playing on a cold floor;
rags stuffed in cracks,
'round the windowsills
roaches run up the walls,
Christmas music on the radio
cut off notice on the table;
young woman stares, half dreaming,
of stockings with nuts and oranges
(& the remembered scent of hot chocolate!)
crack pipe falls to the floor
as snow begins to fall
small children with dirty faces
playing on a cold floor
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Some Questions For You This Morning
do you smile?
or have you forgotten how to smile to people
do you know that they too
are lonely and scared?
do you know what a hug means?
do you hug
the homeless ones?
you use things
no argument about that
you use people?
that can be a good question for you today
do you love yourself?
yes yourself too?
not just them in co-dependency
wash your face
with the gentleness of water in your hands
dove soap it
wipe your face and look at yourself in the mirror
comb your hair
spray perfume in your hair
the smell of lemon grass
you don't like it?
pick your choice
you have choices
you make decisions
please yourself
be free
and come to me
thus says the Lord your friend for a lifetime
beside you
as always
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Evadne
I first tasted under Apollo's lips,
love and love sweetness,
I, Evadne;
my hair is made of crisp violets
or hyacinth which the wind combs back
across some rock shelf;
I, Evadne,
was made of the god of light.
His hair was crisp to my mouth,
as the flower of the crocus,
across my cheek,
cool as the silver-cress
on Erotos bank;
between my chin and throat,
his mouth slipped over and over.
Still between my arm and shoulder,
I feel the brush of his hair,
and my hands keep the gold they took,
as they wandered over and over,
that great arm-full of yellow flowers.
poem by Hilda Doolittle
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