A Neighbor
you live in the clouds
below all these drifters
are the stones
flowers of the earth
children of the
chipped cliffs
we are the progeny
of the rocks
from our cracks
waters flow
thirsts are quenched
and strangers
spread the news about
us: from our hardness
and painless existence
comes out
the softness and kindness
of the waters
of this earth
you shift and gather
somewhere
soundlessly
looking down upon us
in the hardness of
our silenced
existence
you predict weathers
you tell us you own the rain
and the sun
we look forward
adapt to the changes
for one thing
we do not drift and gather
somewhere
still asking for the
correct directions
we are blind
and so we know what is within us
we have no other option
we are the stones
we ask no more
about those questions
neither do we keep those answers
we are here
we do not move
we do not blink
we welcome the moss
we are never tossed....
neighbor cloud
nebulous, oh how infamous
now, tumultuous
fatuous...
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A New Economic Theory
the sea has so much water
and so
has the rivers and ponds
and creeks too
you are the mighty sun
and you activate all your rays
like hands generating heat
from your self-energizing body
you take in
all their potable waters and keep
them in all your friendly clouds
and then by your power
as the all-kind all-giving sun
you order all the clouds to shower
to all the land the much needed rain
even the tiniest moss and algae
the underprivileged worms
the hibernating creatures
the dried seeds shall have the share
of all wondrous waters of the earth
this gather-all-and-trickle down
economic theory of mine
at the end
all shall have their share
all shall grow and bear fruit
throughout the years of their lives
where shall hunger be?
and wars and chaos?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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To Gather Moss And More Of Moss
to gather moss
be a stone
to gather more moss
be a very still stone
be a stone still till the end
of time
you stand still and think
you want to be the moss
rather than a stone
to be all moss
you must betray the stillness
of stone
you must even forget
the importance of
what a moss can be
then you think some more
to be completely this moss
you need to be friendly
to the water and to the river
then you decide to be the water
instead of the moss
to be more than the water
you wish instead to become the river
and so you flow and learn the rush
and become the running river
until what you want really
is just to flow
to rush and run and then
you become nothing
but the motion itself
until you are lost
and then
you become what you are now
lost but real
always flowing, rushing, running
where nobody owns you
not even the river
or the stones or the moss
you have become
this running, this flowing, this being
so real so free
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Impundulu
When in summer
stormy clouds gather
and chains of blue-white thunder
comes flaming down, sneaks nearer and neared
Impundulu is flying,
souring high into the air
with its blazing eyes looking everywhere
and something has disturbed its resting place,
in the giant tamboti tree
that roots in the cliffs,
into the very heart of the earth,
that branches into the clouds,
the place of the upper waters
and when the rain starts pouring
as if without end, the medicine man,
the witchdoctor, the Inyanga
puts secret herbs, magic spices
coming from the dark cliffs
in a cooking pot
that he applies to every doorpost
of the native village
believing that it has the ability
to keep the bird of thunder away
while it's exploding voice is drawing closer,
small bolts frizzles, fire erupts where it gazes
and the power of its claws and beak
shatters even the hardest rocks
and in the village huts the children
are scared to even breathe,
their mothers and fathers pray
to the Almighty God,
to Unkulunkulu, the Big-Big One
to keep the bird of thunder away.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Dedication: To M. C. M. C.
THE well-
They come to it and take
Their cupful or their palmful out of it.
The well-
Stones are around it, and an elder bush
Is there; a high rowan tree; and so
The well is marked.
Who knows
Whence come the waters? Through what passages
Beneath? From what high tors
Where forests are? Forests dripping rain!
Branches pouring to the ground; trunks, barks, roots,
Letting the streamlets down: through the dark earth
The water flows, and in that secret flood
That's called a spring, that finds this little hollow.
Who knows
Whence come the waters that fill cup and palm?
Sweetheart and comrade, I give you
The waters' marches and the forest's bound,
The valley-filling cloud, the trees that set
The rains beneath their roots, out of this well.
poem by Padraic Colum
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The Secret Pond
you know the way to the secret pond of my heart
meet me there
and stay there for a while
do you not notice the wild grass growing there?
think of me as the unintended
think of me as the wanton beauty of the grass
that plans nothing to spread anywhere
think of me as a free vine
bringing soon a flower to you lips
do you notice the grey stones blunt and the pebbles black?
think of me as a certain hardness uncracked by the pain
of infidelities, think of me as pebbles that you through
after some sweet confidences after some utility
think of me as a stone that may kill a mocking bird
do you notice the stagnant waters there?
still, and quiet, and not flowing
it is what my love is all about, no noise, no words, no transfering
from one brook to another
do you notice my absence? be patient, wait for a while.
soon i may come but like a cloud above that secret pond
i may just be a drifter, a passer by, a vagabond, a wisp of air, a hush
a ghost, a phantom, an image, a shadow, a mirage.
yes, it will still be sad and lonely.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Natasha in the Snow
For Natasha Richardson 2009
Beneath the snow
lie rocks and stones
that have no surprises
but hardness.
Beneath the skull
lie blood and bone
that hide possibilities
in softness.
Two surfaces collide
in chance and time
spaces are filled
with the heaviness
and swell of blood
pressure pushing tight
Cranium restrictive
enclosed and held
brain coning
no oxygen drive
to breath
no ventricle beat
to pulse
Pupils fixed and dilated
no more response
no more subtle irony
nothing more
no-one.
poem by M.L. Emmett
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Circle
A rain hawk circles in the dawn.
The dawn uncovers the trees;
the trees lead to a forest.
The forest sinks into the damp earth;
the damp earth waters the stones.
Stones are under a rain hawk -
a rain hawk circles in the dawn
a rain hawk circles in the dawn.
poem by Leslie Philibert
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Roses and Bravery
Roses are them who flourish like seeds of the wind,
The winds are forcing their lairs into the grass of happiness.
Free him, the brave one, who is the holiest prize of the world’s bliss,
Find him, in the meek world where he is a merely finest human character.
Is holiness a form of desirability? Is it spherical or saintly?
The world of the ground is not the sea. It is the earth and stones.
Hear him, who understood nothing to God, as a good man might,
As mightiness has understood calamity and bravery of another comrade.
Is the circle of light a perfect stone which carries no concrete nature
Other than its hardness and softness at times. Roses are them who flourish.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Denial Too Is An Art
denial too is an art
and with the complications of time
sophistication also comes
glittering and
throwing some questions
sometimes without
answers
that is the challenge
silence sits aside outmoded
the new models of denial and
refusal dressed in the latest creations
of fashion and color and texture
come parading
like scanty clad ladies with mouths
pouting for options
there is this man walking in reverse
and you will have a hard time to guess
what is he apt to?
and there is this woman that keeps on
going like a white swan floating on the river
what is her point?
the pond with pink lilies is too placid
and the philosopher sits beside a big gray stone
thinking
the koi comes up with some news
about the decaying moss and the foul water
spotted beauty
the clouds are heavy in the skies
and rain shall soon pour like wisdom
the earth asks you: who are you?
you shrug you shoulders and then gently you must go
to where? and when? you tell the earth you do not really know.
i like your art. The art of not knowing. It is where the flowers grow.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Those Classical Ones
these are the bitter pills
of our sad existence
what sadness plus bitterness
what existence is this
but these classical ones the moment
they are played
at those times through the radio sets
of our neighbors
as though the world stops revolving
and flowers from the skies
all petals fall
our bodies buried beneath them
not dead but
resurrected
our hands reach the stars
and we become so alive
like new sprouted beans
offered by all the cracks of
the dying earth
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Line-Storm Song
The line-storm clouds fly tattered and swift,
The road is forlorn all day,
Where a myriad snowy quartz stones lift,
And the hoof-prints vanish away.
The roadside flowers, too wet for the bee,
Expend their bloom in vain.
Come over the hills and far with me,
And be my love in the rain.
The birds have less to say for themselves
In the wood-world’s torn despair
Than now these numberless years the elves,
Although they are no less there:
All song of the woods is crushed like some
Wild, easily shattered rose.
Come, be my love in the wet woods; come,
Where the boughs rain when it blows.
There is the gale to urge behind
And bruit our singing down,
And the shallow waters aflutter with wind
From which to gather your gown.
What matter if we go clear to the west,
And come not through dry-shod?
For wilding brooch shall wet your breast
The rain-fresh goldenrod.
Oh, never this whelming east wind swells
But it seems like the sea’s return
To the ancient lands where it left the shells
Before the age of the fern;
And it seems like the time when after doubt
Our love came back amain.
Oh, come forth into the storm and rout
And be my love in the rain.
poem by Robert Frost
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Claire...by Talile Ali
in on a wind
tossed from the clouds
always correct
never allowed
to be heard by everyone she loved on earth
roots so deep
beyond the clay
praying for light
bleeding for pay
from labor without recognition and ashamed
will there ever be a view
from her blistered, shattered room
of a life free of strife and decay
is it always meant to be
devoid of life and charity
leaching an existence on it's way
poem by Talile Ali
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Painless
i met you in the kitchen
you said you needed to talk to me
you said you felt like those dirty dishes
it was about time you came clean
the first few words jsut seemed to roll on past
then it felt like you handed me a me a fist full of broken glass
and said "take that"
painless like rain rolling off your shoulder
you made it look so painless
didnt blink in eye when you ran me over
and maybe you were waiting to cry
cause baby when you said goodbye
you made it look so painless
stood out in the drive way
headlights fading down the street
like you just left ur cigarettes
you werent really leaving me
the cold wind hit me in the chest
the tornados gone and there aint nothing left
but this heart will miss
painless like rain rolling off your shoulder
you made it look so painless
didnt blink an eye when you ran me over
and maybe you were waiting to cry
cause baby when you said goodbye
you made it look so painless
painless
didnt blink an eye when you ran me over
and amybe you were waiting to cry
cause baby when you said goodbye
you made it look so painless
song performed by by Lee Ann Womack
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Like A Cloud
like a cloud
i change shapes
cumulus, nimbus,
feathers and cottons
i mirror myself on a pond
and begin to like myself
the reeds look at me
with disdain
and the rocks there
speak ill of me
no matter how beautiful
i am
be it the shape of David
or of Narcissus
always everything i am
what i have
they claim them to be owned by the wind
they say the wind makes me
the wind unmakes me and i am left
with nothing
but just the illusion of a cloud
doubt, i now have them and i am lost
in an island without a name
like a cloud i wander
higher than the cliffs and friend of the sun
the wind claims me and still i am nothing
there is no use for all these
i have loved the wind and learned to live with its daft
i love the wind and its song
its distance and its intimacies with my hues
but with the wind i am nothing i have none
all of them disbelieved my right to be myself
i am wandering and wishing upon the stones
i fall
i am rain i am the water in the gutter
i flow
searching for the place where i can be myself
distinct like a mole on a cheek
there is no wind to claim my shape and color
sad, i am still nothing, as empty as a hand opening
pleading for space and air, i am still nothing.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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When Your Hand Of Friendship Is Brushed Aside
say thank you
try extending your hand to another hand
to the other thousand hands in this world who need other hands
those with love in their hearts those with minds still believing in friendship
tell yourself she does not deserve your offer
assure yourself she is another ghost
another virtuality
another waste
a junk
without a name without a soul without a face
extend your hand to another hand with real fingers on them
and try seeing yourself in the mirror
you still have that reflection and that ghost does not have any
be glad
you are real and she isn't
does she think that you have pain and that you need her friendship badly
such that you want to bow before her like she is the goddess of beauty
and wisdom and truth?
let her be. She is not a part of you.
why bother?
be yourself and keep that hands of friendship warm
for another one who needs it too
let the gods reign in the heavens. They live in their clouds
stay on earth and be the river for the fishes to swim
for the strangers to drink with the cup of their hands for them to quench
their thirsts
let your hands of friendshipsbe the seeds of springs
the flowers of summers
that bloom forever
let your scent spread for those who still need them
and let these gods remain as gods
because they shall always be worshipped as loveless strangers of this earth
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Double Edged Pleasures
naked children
bathing under the rain
girls stamping their
feet on the water
scattered pleasures
in the rising waters of the river
the boys are at it again
cliff jumping
there are no stones
the rain keeps on pouring
the bamboo raft floats
seeking a strap for home
naked boys and girls
they bathe in the river
long ago there was no malice at all
pure pleasure of angels
the rain keeps pouring
the waters still rising
there is a flood of happiness
at what price tonight?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Reflection 0.2
when you arrive here
there is no stone not a single stone
there is no moss not a single hair of a green moss
then there was the pain of waiting
time is always delaying its coming
trains stopped and cars are having flat tires
but you are faithful you keep on waiting you entertain promises
like dear memories or dreams or wishes that come true somehow
and you waited for so long
now this place is filled with stones and moss grow in each body of the stone
the waters spread their territories and land is emaciated
and the house is covered with water and the roof is gone
and there is nobody here anymore and it is only i who remember you and
i tell them about you and they do not believe me
and i feel like i am a ship that just sunk.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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More Questions Than Answers
There are wars around us daily and the world sleeps,
But read your Bible always to know the facts about all these prophesies!
For there are more questions than answers on this earth,
And like a red mark on the foreheads of mankind.
Of hope in life,
Of power in the name of war,
Of love to the people we care for,
Of faith on the journey on this earth,
And of a sound mind in the land of roses;
But there are more questions than answers on this earth.
Beside the service of two,
Elias came as a surprise to us! !
And like the prophecy that is known to you;
But there are more questions than answers on this earth.
Captured by various lusts,
But we brought nothing to the world and we will take away nothing out of it!
And like our tears after the bombs,
But there are more questions on this earth than answers.
Bombs everywhere! !
And like the corpses after the wars;
But in youthful lusts with green-uniforms like the flesh and blood as seen in Ivory Coast and in Libya!
And the world sleeps because of its many problems.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Mountain Moss
IT LIES amongst the sleeping stones,
Far down the hidden mountain glade;
And past its brink the torrent moans
For ever in a dreamy shade.
A little patch of dark-green moss,
Whose softness grew of quiet ways
(With all its deep, delicious floss)
In slumb’rous suns of summer days.
You know the place? With pleasant tints
The broken sunset lights the bowers;
And then the woods are full with hints
Of distant, dear, voluptuous flowers!
’Tis often now the pilgrim turns
A faded face towards that seat,
And cools his brow amongst the ferns;
The runnel dabbling at his feet.
There fierce December seldom goes,
With scorching step and dust and drouth;
But, soft and low, October blows
Sweet odours from her dewy mouth.
And Autumn, like a gipsy bold,
Doth gather near it grapes and grain,
Ere Winter comes, the woodman old,
To lop the leaves in wind and rain.
O, greenest moss of mountain glen,
The face of Rose is known to thee;
But we shall never share with men
A knowledge dear to love and me!
For are they not between us saved,
The words my darling used to say,
What time the western waters laved
The forehead of the fainting day?
Cool comfort had we on your breast
While yet the fervid noon burned mute
O’er barley field and barren crest,
And leagues of gardens flushed with fruit.
Oh, sweet and low, we whispered so,
And sucked the pulp of plum and peach;
But it was many years ago,
When each, you know, was loved of each.
poem by Henry Kendall
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On This Disintegrating Earth
On this disintegrating earth we try to reach answers,
while industry continuously contaminates every thing,
we try to see where everything fits
while no water washes away the dirt,
we half-blinded do not see the real causes.
On this disintegrating earth we try to reach answers
while we live in the pollution of smoke and gas,
as if we already have all the questions
we try to see where everything fits,
and the man in the street is taxed,
is hindered to the excess use of water and electricity.
On this disintegrating earth we try to reach answers
but do not see the skeletons in the cupboard,
not even the rich and famous that are resisting,
we try to see where everything fits
while with time our lives turn into ash,
nothing more can free us from this decay,
on this disintegrating earth we try to reach answers
we try to see where everything fits.
poem by Gert Strydom
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