En.Citatepedia^®.ro

A New Beginning

the rain falls heavily
on the brown fields
the cracks of drought
heal and soften for
a new beginning

the farmer arrives
bringing his plow
the white herons
hover

the frogs croak
the fish are awake after
a long hibernation

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Farmer And The Stray Dog

the farmer arrives
bringing with him his
viand and rice
places it in the corner
of his hut,

the stray dog
gets in through its
sense of smell
and finds its catch
the farmer's
viand and rice

the catch is taken
far away

the farmer
is not angry for soon

a woman with a long
black hair arrives
bringing him
his broiled fish
and newly cooked rice

the woman is not
his wife
and there they are
under the shade of
the mango tree

the stray dog watches
as this story unfolds
to the final chapter
inside the hut
on such a very dark night

the dog is clever
and it knows the ending
the farmer is not angry
for dogs. mind you,
never tell.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Rain (Ya-du)

Every where croak
came the frogs out
earth soaked water
saw in morning
first rain was heavily raining.

Filled ponds and tanks
river banks lost
fields sank in water
excess of rain
flooded whole terrain.

Glided farmers
saw better rain
there hoped for good
vegetation
they can grow in the season.

poem by S.D. Tiwari
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Farmer's Daughter

I do come from miles away,
Ain't got no place to stay.
Glad to help you plow your fields,
Farmer's daughter.
Might be just a couple of days,
Clean up, rest, and be on my way.
Thank you, madam, much obliged,
Farmer's daughter.
So long, got to leave your land.
Many thanks, it was might grand.
I do hope to see you again,
Farmer's Daughter.
Farmer's Daughter.

song performed by by Fleetwood Mac
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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the farmer and the white herons of Katipunan

the heavy rain
is the signal of the new planting season
and this early morning
the farmer begins
the task of plowing
his plot

nearby the herons
are feeding on some frogs
those who made
their most beautiful croaks
this morning

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Frog Pool

Week after week it shrank and shrank
as the fierce drought fiend drank and drank,
till on the bone-dry bed revealed
the mud peeled;
but now tonight is steamy-warm,
heavy with hint of thunderstorm.

And hark! hark! hoarse and harsh
the throaty croak of the frogs in the marsh:
"Wake! wake! awake! awake!
The drought break!"
but no, that chorus seems to me
more a primeval harmony.

The thunder booms, the floods flow
blended with deeper din below,
and every time the skies crash
the swamps flash!
and the whole place will be tonight
a pandemonium of delight.

poem by James Martin Devaney
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The Men Are Killing The Life Of The Air....

this early morning
i take my walk
on the path leading to the
rice-fields

the men are killing the worms
with Japanese pesticides
the white herons feed on
poison

what else could that be?

the national geographic makes
the news
that eggs of herons easily cracks
and fledgling do not survive

agricultural teachers die
of colon cancer
and the causes remain
undisclosed
there is no cure

for men killing air
for companies making poisons
the herons still fly and catch and
eat the double dead worms

the air is foul and
turn back from the walk
i cannot carry my heart
it is heavier than
steel.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Its Croaking Shows Its Presence! !

The croaking echoes through the neighborhood,
the blasting croaking echoes as braying,
sometimes as barking, another time as whistling,
the sounds of croaking may crack our heads,
in the tropical region where it rains,
every other day and musical begins,
with the mono syllabic cricket,
house lizards join them occasionally,
The frogs repeats one day and one night,
as the Native American folklore says,
brother sun agreed and the bear hibernated,
the frogs repeat one day and one night,
it may not be alive the next day,
unnecessary croaking,
is being heard by something,
that slithers and hungry,
its croaking showed its presence,
right to the mouth of that reptile.
In the middle of the meetings,
some of us croak to show our presence,
Croak the wrong information,
out of our peanut brains,
sometimes we croak in the viva verse,
mostly something the invigilators unaware,
fail us then and there,
keeping quiet, sometimes good,
people assume that we know many things,
Politicians croak,
clergies croak,
our teachers croak,
our parents croak,
our children croak,
you and I croak,
our nature make us to croak,
most of the times we get caught,
because we croak a lot.

poem by Veeraiyah Subbulakshmi
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The White Herons And The Black Buffaloes

the harvest season is over
the women had gone to their homes
with their men and children
around the table of wood
dinner of fish and rice
the family eats as one

how close can a family be
in love and friendship

last night the rain poured heavily again
flooding the rice fields
this early morning before the sun rises
the black buffaloes graze and
then wade in the muddy waters
above their heads the white herons are flying low
gracefully hovering and landing
at their backs
some stand beside their thick skins
pecking for lice

how close can these creatures be
on friendship consistently
symbiotically designed
by nature's hands

sometimes i wish
we can be like all these
on a friendship without vested interest
on love platonic
in sickness and in health
......

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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This Evening The Farmer Is happy

The corellas on the tall gums are calling as darkness is cloaking the sky
The evening is calm though 'tis raining and we need rain the ground is so dry
This evening the farmer is happy his water tanks filling in the rain
Nice to hear the spluttering of rain water down the guttering to the storm water drain
Yes the farmer with the rain is happy with the warmer days of Summer ahead
The long spells of droughts and of bushfires of such things he does live in dread
In these times of climate change and global warming we do get some weather extremes
For our polluting of our natural environment our price to pay it will be huge it seems
With farm dams and smaller waterways drying out less water birds for to be seen
The countryside dry and brown looking as brown as it ever has been
The rain has never been more welcome the happy farmer has cause to smile
In the Winter and Spring little rainfall we have not seen heavy rain for some-while
The sound of the rain on the galvanize roofs is a pleasant sound for to hear
And the farmer he is looking happier at the end for him of a hard year.

poem by Francis Duggan
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Rain On A Scarecrow

Scarecrow on a wooden cross Blackbird in the barn
Four hundred empty acres that used to be my farm
I grew up like my daddy did My grandpa cleared this land
When I was five I walked the fence while grandpa held my hand
Rain on the scarecrow Blood on the plow
This land fed a nation This land made me proud
And Son I'm just sorry there's no legacy for you now
Rain on the scarecrow Blood on the plow
Rain on the scarecrow Blood on the plow
The crops we grew last summer weren't enough to pay the loans
Couldn't buy the seed to plant this spring and the Farmers Bank foreclosed
Called my old friend Schepman up to auction off the land
He said John it's just my job and I hope you understand
Hey calling it your job ol' hoss sure don't make it right
But if you want me to I'll say a prayer for your soul tonight
And grandma's on the front porch swing with a Bible in her hand
Sometimes I hear her singing "Take me to the Promised Land"
When you take away a man's dignity he can't work his fields and cows
There'll be blood on the scarecrow Blood on the plow
Blood on the scarecrow Blood on the plow
Well there's ninety-seven crosses planted in the courthouse yard
Ninety-seven families who lost ninety-seven farms
I think about my grandpa and my neighbors and my name
And some nights I feel like dyin' Like that scarecrow in the rain
Rain on the scarecrow Blood on the plow
This land fed a nation This land made me proud
And Son I'm just sorry they're just memories for you now
Rain on the scarecrow Blood on the plow
Rain on the scarecrow Blood on the plow
Rain on the scarecrow Blood on the plow
This land fed a nation This land made me proud
And Son I'm just sorry they're just memories for you now
Rain on the scarecrow Blood on the plow
Rain on the scarecrow Blood on the plow

song performed by by John Mellencamp
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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An Early Morning Walk

i had a walk this morning
and i saw twilight

fog hovering still on the feet of the mountains
there is beauty in haze
in the opaqueness of smog

i inhale cold air inside my lungs
and walk faster

there is dew on the grass
as fingers of light comes out from the hazy fog

herons arrive and land on the green fields
catching the frogs

the brown cow is munching grass inside its mouth
still lying comfortably on the ground

the macopa tree shed its leaves
in favor of new shiny ones

the trail is clear
no one has arrived here yet

it is about to rain with all the gray clouds lumping in the sky
ah, i am not running for shelter.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Frogs in chorus

The chorus frogs in the big lagoon
Would sing their songs to the silvery moon.
Tenor singers were out of place,
For every frog was a double bass.
But never a human chorus yet
Could beat the accurate time they set.
The solo singer began the joke;
He sang, "As long as I live I'll croak,
Croak, I'll croak,"
And the chorus followed him: "Croak, croak, croak!"

The poet frog, in his plaintive tone,
Sang of a sorrow was all his own;
"How shall I win to my heart's desire?
How shall I feel my spirit's fire?"
And the solo frog in his deepest croak,
"To fire your spirit," he sang, "eat coke,
Coke, eat coke,"
And the chorus followed him: "Coke, coke, coke!"

The green frog sat in a swampy spot
And he sang the song of he knew not what.
"The world is rotten, oh cursed plight,
That I am the frog that must set it right.
How shall I scatter the shades that lurk?"
And the old man bullfrog sang, "Get work,
Work, get work,"
And the chorus followed him: "Work, work, work!"

The soaring spirits that fain would fly
On wings of hope to the starry sky
Must face the snarls of the jealous dogs,
For the world is ruled by its chorus frogs.

poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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Rain On The Scarecrow

Scarecrow on a wooden cross blackbird in the barn
Four hundred empty acres that used to be my farm
I grew up like my daddy did my grandpa cleared this land
When I was five I walked the fence while grandpa held my hand
Chorus:
Rain on the scarecrow blood on the plow
This land fed a nation this land made me proud
And son Im just sorry theres no legacy for you now
Rain on the scarecrow blood on the plow
Rain on the scarecrow blood on the plow
The crops we grew last summer werent enough to pay the loans
Couldnt buy the seed to plant this spring and the farmers bank foreclosed
Called my old friend schepman up to auction off the land
He said john its just my job and I hope you understand
Hey calling it your job ol hoss sure dont make it right
But if you want me to Ill say a prayer for your soul tonight
And grandmas on the front porch swing with a Bible in her hand
Sometimes I hear her singing take me to the promised land
When you take away a mans dignity he cant work his fields and cows
Therell be blood on the scarecrow blood on the plow
Blood on the scarecrow blood on the plow
Well theres ninety-seven crosses planted in the courthouse yard
Ninety-seven families who lost ninety-seven farms
I think about my grandpa and my neighbors and my name
And some nights I feel like dyin like that scarecrow in the rain
Chorus:
Rain on the scarecrow blood on the plow
This land fed a nation this land made me proud
And son Im just sorry theyre just memories for you now
Rain on the scarecrow blood on the plow
Rain on the scarecrow blood on the plow
Rain on the scarecrow blood on the plow
This land fed a nation this land made me so proud
And son Im just sorry theyre just memories for you now
Rain on the scarecrow blood on the plow
Rain on the scarecrow blood on the plow

song performed by by John Mellencamp
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Song Of The Croaker

An old frog lived in a dismal swamp,
In a dismal kind of way;
And all that he did, whatever befell,
Was to croak the livelong day.
Croak, croak, croak,
When darkness filled the air,
And croak, croak, croak,
When the skies were bright and fair.

'Good Master Frog, a battle is fought,
And the foeman's power is broke.'
But he only turned a greener hue,
And answered with a croak.
Croak, croak, croak,
When the clouds are dark and dun,
And croak, croak, croak,
In the blaze of the noontide sun.

'Good Master Frog, the forces of right
Are driving the hosts of wrong.'
But he gave his head an ominous shake,
And croaked out, 'Nous verrons!'
Croak, croak, croak,
Till the heart is full of gloom,
And croak, croak, croak,
Till the world seems but a tomb.

To poison the cup of life,
By always dreading the worst.
Is to make of the earth a dungeon damp,
And the happiest life accursed.
Croak, croak, croak,
When the noontide sun rides high,
And croak, croak, croak,
Lest the night come by and by.

Farewell to the dismal frog;
Let him croak as loud as he may,
He cannot blot the sun from heaven,
Nor hinder the march of day,
Though he croak, croak, croak,
Till the heart is full of gloom,
And croak, croak, croak,
Till the world seems but a tomb.

poem by Horatio Alger Jr
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Frogs in Love

The bogs are damp with almost too much rain -
By night, the frogs have returned once again,
For November; it is the time they mate,
But why O why our backyard populate?

Perhaps they feel it's romantic: the smoke,
The chill, the wet; relentlessly they croak!
Dear God! Why let the bogs with tall grass grow?
Or teach a colony of frogs to Love?

poem by Dinesh Sairam
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Rainmaker

When I was wandering in the desert
And was searching for the truth
I heard a choir of angels calling out my name
I had the feeling that my life would never be the same again
I turned my face towards the barren sun
And I know of the pain that you feel the same as me
And I dream of the rain as it falls upon the leaves
And the cracks in our lives like the cracks upon the ground
They are sealed and are now washed away
You tell me we can start the rain
You tell me that we all can change
You tell me we can find something to wash the tears away
You tell me we can start the rain
You tell me that we all can change
You tell me we can find something to wash the tears.....
And I know of the pain that you feel the same as me
And I dream of the rain as it falls upon the leaves
And the cracks in the ground like the cracks are in our lives
They are sealed and now far away
You tell me we can start the rain
You tell me that we all can change
You tell me we can find something to wash the tears away
You tell me we can start the rain
You tell me that we all can change
You tell me we can find something to wash the tears.....
And I know of the pain that you feel the same as me
And I dream of the rain as it falls upon the leaves
And the cracks in the ground like the cracks are in our lives
They are sealed and now far away

song performed by by Iron Maiden
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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To Write Truthfully About The Rain

i must be here when the rain falls
heavily and when the waters rise
above canals and manholes
where what i see is water everywhere
when the rain does not stop
i must cross this street to another
street taking the middle of this flooded ways
without an umbrella
without my clothes on

the rain falls in all freedom
to the pores of my body
penetrating the thickness of my hair
my mouth drinks its drops
my ears take some more

i may be blinded and even be deaf
let the rain fall freely & heavily on my body

only then can i truthfully write about this rain
this walk this wetness this freedom this oneness
on the world that cries on these drops these tears

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Wet August Day In Millstreet

From Claramore the rill in flood flow brown
Through Claraghatlea a mile from Millstreet Town
And dark to gray rain clouds across the sky
Tell that more heavy showers of rain are nigh.

You know that bird to whom the voice belong
When you hear the dipper sing his scratchy song
He pipe his loudest when the flood is high
And the wet conditions he seem to enjoy.

The last thing that the farmer needs is rain
A hungry Winter for his stock again
In August only four or five days dry
And half of his hay crop rotted in July.

And yet in all of his years he has not seen
His fields in August quite so lush and green
And he can only hope for a good Fall
And that September will be drier after all.

O'er rushy fields by where the rivers meet
Perhaps a mile from the Town of Millstreet
The little lark of Humankind quite shy
Above the rain clouds carolling as he fly.

The Winter months the Duhallow farmer fear
The very wet Summer has cost him dear
And from Claramore the rill in flood flow brown
Through Claraghatlea a mile from Millstreet Town.

poem by Francis Duggan
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The Plow Of My Papa

today is the last day to sell the plow of my papa
it is a necessary part of his lifetime
in fact
his lifetime is the plow itself that made the lines
of his own poetry in the fields
of rice and corn
today another man shall have it
at the price we all wanted
we have sold all that he had
the land, the house, the trees he planted
when he was still alive
when he was still strong and cruel and so imposing

this is his only plow
and we have dedided to dispose it finally
to any man

we are now at the stage of reconstructing our lives
and the plow of papa must go

we shall have our own fields now of rice and corn
on a white canvass we draw

the new sun, its color shall be warm, something new really
to the feel of our skins

the darker ones shall be replaced by the flowing color
of the clouds like feathers of birds always ready to fly away

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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