A Situation Like Here....
he enters a door
the frames are eaten by termites
he goes inside
where the chairs have only three feet
the sofa is like a stomach with intestines getting out
the roof leaks
there are stains of dried liquid on its corners
blood of a woman
the ceiling is like some rotten leaves
without stalkers
the floor is rough like a rocky shore
mud plated on some surfaces
he looks at the pile of papers
people are always quarreling
and there are endless litigations here
no one wants to shrink a little
and give way to something
perhaps bigger
the setting itself is unjust
the aircon is cracking like some hot oil
where water sprinkles itself unnecessarily
or inadvertently
i do not like to be here
but here i am
learning to live with injustice
dirt and rotten system
turning into humus
on the other hand, there must be a time for change
a fertile ground
after so much leaking and wetting and
rotting
worms eating themselves
bats evacuating
leaving feces on the floors
airy space, silent halls, and children giggling
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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They Cannot Harm Anymore
mother was writing her lesson plan
and i was watching her
beside a lamp, that was then when
there was no electricity yet available in the barrio
the sound of the cicadas were loud and the
lizards keep eating the moth on the ceiling
i touched a wall eaten with termites and asked mother
if termites could do us harm or the wood
finally giving in to the hollowness of their skin
all substances she said have their terminals
wood surrender to the greed of termites
and termites build their own empires under the earth
so she said do not complain if this house
that we live in soon fall to the ground and be nothing
but flanks of rotten memories
the law of nature is there
we are all temporary
nothing lasts forever
those that eat and those that are eaten
are but part of their
paths to destiny.
fate cannot harm, they serve the law
and everything has a purpose unique on its own.
i look upon my blank sheet of paper
and then i begin to write again.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Power
power has built itself
permanently on citadels
you, an ant, cannot take
the place of
their monuments,
look for wood, conspire
with the friendship of the
termites,
the timid worms,
live on dungs, and
begin the song of sorrow
time listens
the storm comes,
tsunamis multiply,
earthquakes, and
floods,
you, the ant, takes only a leaf
to survive,
a grain of rice
will be too much,
a dew for survival,
soon the citadels of power
crushes to the ground
including the king and queen
and their servants,
they all rot,
and you, the ant,
and termites long hiding
on rotten wood,
and worms surviving
on the humus of dung
shall build
for a beginning,
a hill, a path,
a throne of dung.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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My Silence Shall Be
i find this in the forest of trees
long trees, shady, such that what you can see
are only shadows of leaves
and what you hear is only the sound of the wind
choked between tight walls,
this is my silence,
moist, and soft, between a growth of wild
ferns
rotten leaves heaps and heaps of
rotten leaves
layer after layer of rotten leaves
thick and pushed still to the roots
smashed to the ground
some seeds from the oaks
or maybe from the flowers of the orchids
or some sweet fruits and red berries fall
in there
and they begin to grow
rich as humus is this soil down
the darkness of this forest,
this is my silence
deep inside me
moist, rotten, but soon
lots shall grow
seeds turning into sprouts
to trees again
perhaps taller than ever
some fruits so sweet and colored and shiny
some flowers scented and so lovely,
this my silence
shall be, i am keeping it for years
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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84
my silence shall be
i find this in the forest of trees
long trees, shady, such that what you can see
are only shadows of leaves
and what you hear is only the sound of the wind
choked between tight walls,
this is my silence,
moist, and soft, between a growth of wild
ferns
rotten leaves heaps and heaps of
rotten leaves
layer after layer of rotten leaves
thick and pushed still to the roots
smashed to the ground
some seeds from the oaks
or maybe from the flowers of the orchids
or some sweet fruits and red berries fall
in there
and they begin to grow
rich as humus is this soil down
the darkness of this forest,
this is my silence
deep inside me
moist, rotten, but soon
lots shall grow
seeds turning into sprouts
to trees again
perhaps taller than ever
some fruits so sweet and colored and shiny
some flowers scented and so lovely,
this my silence
shall be, i am keeping it for years
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Dead Leaves
dead leaves are scattered everywhere
under the trees
surrounding this old house where we live
unswept and piling up like some layers
of our memories
some rotten some cracking some turning to dust
the snakes learn to hide there
making their home
and some worms and some rats and some seeds
begin to sprout
when it begins to rain again
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A House Without Stairs
do not say
that without the stairs
the house is not a house anymore
without the ceiling
the more the house becomes to me
take the roof
if you want
or the beams
or even the floor and window frames
my house will still be a house
the sky its roof
the stretching grassy plain its floor
all the stars become
my magnificent ceiling
whatever is taken
we must imagine that all things are still there
lest we only have a house
that crashes on the floor
with all of us
dead
crushed to the death of
our imaginations
a door without an exit
because you have not seen hope coming
the lock and key
are all in the mind and heart
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Consumed (Stream III)
The consumer consumed
Like a snake eating its tail.
The worm in the bud,
The rotten apple,
Rotten to the core,
No core.
A corpse eaten inside out.
Outside the circle,
Circling in for the kill,
Killing time
Time to kill.
We slowly die
Outside in,
In need,
We are addicted.
Waiting for our next fix,
Try to fix it
Mr Fix It.
We're in a fix.
With fixed gaze
We watch the ads.
The ads add,
Add to our wants.
Feed our addictions
With sugar and technology.
A hunger we cannot satisfy
Dissatisfied we die inside.
We are subsumed,
The consumer consumed.
P H Brookes Copyright 2012
poem by Paul Brookes
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As You Humiliate Yourself
you volunteer to shrink a little bit
like a rotten pumpkin to
let her know that you also know how to die
and find a way to reach her
in her own death.
you let go all that is fluid something that is liquid
you make these
turn to gas so you also have a way of telling her
that you also know how to disappear
she may close her eyes in anger because of you
she may like to abuse you and not talk to you as you gaze to find out
the reason why the stars are not out tonight
why there is not a single shining moon
you are so patient waiting like a fisherman with his bait
to catch a fish tonight
out there in the deep sea in desolation
you give her time to change and to understand your longing
for stars
your thirst for the light of the moon
it will be painful, you have humiliated yourself in all these
shrinking of your arms and hands
you become like a tiny dot in humility to the line of
bold letters and exclamation marks
you give up, you get out of the bed and stopped staring at the ceiling
you open the door of this cold room and you close it again
to leave her
still closing her eyes keeping her tears from falling.
it is over you say. it is over. it is too late. another door has been locked
and this time you do not wish anyone in.
a wise man sometimes likes to use
a period.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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London Interior
Autumn is in the air,
The children are playing everywhere.
One dare not open this old door too wide;
It is so dark inside.
The hall smells of dust;
A narrow squirt of sunlight enters high,
Cold, yellow.
The floor creaks, and I hear a sigh,
Rise in the gloom and die.
Through the hall, far away,
I just can see
The dingy garden with its wall and tree.
A yellow cat is sitting on the wall
Blinking toward the leaves that fall.
And now I hear a woman call
Some child from play.
Then all is still. Time must go
Ticking slow, glooming slow.
The evening will turn grey.
It is sad in London after two.
All, all the afternoon
What can old men, old women do?
It is sad in London when the gloom
Thickens, like wool,
In the corners of the room;
The sky is shot with steel,
Shot with blue.
The bells ring the slow time;
The chairs creak, the hours climb;
The sunlight lays a streak upon the floor.
poem by Harold Monro
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A Happy Ending
i cannot always be a new
broom that must sweep well
your old floors
please take note of this
i cannot always be your new
broom that must sweep well
your garbage floors
please take note of this
time will make me an old broom
and you my dirty and old floor
overladen with scratch papers and
pens with dried inks and litters
and crumpled newspapers and torn
fashion pages scattered on your rough
floors,
time makes me a old, dirty broom
and now, ruined and stained, we shall
stay together, we now belong to each
other
please take note of this happy ending.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I Know You're Hurt
i know you are there in your usual
electronic silence, facing the monitor of your laptop.
the kind of person who keeps all the hurts inside her heart
you bleed and you simply let the blood flow from your hands to the floor,
and the blood flows like water spilled from your
drinking glass.
the beauty of your pain
shows through those beautiful flowers
sprouting on the floors
all the vines of green and blue tendrils
spreading on the window sill, the ceiling, the roof.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Widowed Justice...
i,
demand justice
says the widow to the people
who mourn for her
the flowers wilted and
the niche is buried deep
down six feet
under, like a movie of sorts,
the people left her, alone,
headless, veils black and
hairs spangled, like worms
like she is the rotten body
now bare bones
inside her room, sleepless
till dawn
there is no justice, time
is narrow like a door that admits
no one, like a window closed
against any air of
possibilities
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Woman
If I'd be so inclined to climb up beside you.
Would you tell me that the time just isn't right?
And if I ever find the key you hide so well
Will you tell me that I can spend the night?
Leaving your smell on my coat.
Leaving your taste on my shoulder.
I still fail to understand,
What it is about this woman.
If I could bottle up the chills you give me.
I would keep them in a jar next to my bed.
And if I should ever draw a picture of a woman,
It is you that would come flowing from my pen.
Leaving your clothes on the floor.
Making me walk out the door
And I still fail to understand
What it is about this woman.
Hopelessly melting as I stand next to the sun.
As she burns me, I am screaming out for more.
Drink every drop of liquid heat that I have become,
Pop me open, spill me out onto the floor.
Leaving your smell on my coat.
Leaving your taste on my shoulder.
I still fail to understand,
What it is about this woman.
Leaving your smell on my coat.
Leaving your taste on my shoulder.
I still fail to understand,
What it is about this woman.
song performed by by Maroon 5
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Poem
When the days go by, I see birds fly
In the trees where apples go so fast and fall down to the ground
Where worms crawl and ants mound
Into the dirt and dragons fly into the sky
With fire breath and wings made of ice like a phoenix made of fire with a strong desire
To burn down the trees and chew gum to make bubbles to catch ladybugs that fall free,
Away from the clouds and stars in the daylight turning to night
Now with the dogs and cats quarreling with squirrels while baseball bats
Are throwing golf balls at cars going by on the dirt road in Kansas, Georgia, and Nebraska are three states with the letter A in them where elephants roam with the deer and horses galloping in the air waiting for someone to come home.
poem by Rebecca Ryan
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We Make The Weather
Heaven is a somewhere locked inside and I must find the key
Wish Id never locked the door
Ordinary things in life are where this heaven likes to be
Hold the sky, feet on the floor
Hold the sky, feet on the floor
We make our sun to shine
We make our space and time
We make the weather
We make it change
Hell is not somewhere but a state of mind I choose to be
When my faith in life has gone
Cruelty rebounds to hurt itself puts shackles on the free
Vicious circle carries on
Hold the sky, feet on the floor
We make our sun to shine
We make our space and time
We make the weather
We make it change
We make the weather
We make it change
Time to judge the act dont judge the actor of the circumstance
Time to free compassions world
Life is not the end were passing through like bubbles on the sea
Time to learn and time to mend
Hold the sky, feet on the floor
We make our sun to shine
We make our space and time
We make the weather
We made a change
We make the weather
We make a change
song performed by by Howard Jones
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Flames of Injustice
Above tyrannical skies.
Visions forsaken men can see.
Vehemently staring up high.
At divinity setting him free.
No perseverence in turmoil.
He has seen no light in his wake.
Grasping at the burning soil.
Fearing eternity's plague.
Angels do mock him above.
Oh, the same mocked him as a child.
Writhing with those that he loved.
Oh, the flames of injustice, so vile!
His tormenters now frolic in Heaven.
While himself and his brethren face Hell.
As the halls of oppression stand rotten.
Injustice tolls it's putrid bell.
poem by Aaron Lynn
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The rotten fruits
Such a tempting fruit as she is,
With such an adamancy as hers,
She makes my lust of her fall sick
And leaves me, who move to rotten fruits.
Ho! By such acts that she conducts,
What happiness would she derive?
By such denials does she get
Her corporal urges met with?
The rotten fruits overwhelm the eaten ones.
27.02.2009
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Making The Choices...
from my rotting belly
words like words are coming out
no one likes them
worms are beguiling
i am misled myself
because from my rotten belly
the worms without my minding
have become
tiny butterflies
then they fly towards my hair
which have become some kind of little flowers
and i can smell the sweet scents of chili
i have forgotten my body
i have become a forest with all these safari stuff
and orchids and wild birds
to my big surprise of course
because i am never asleep i am awake
oh, this workings of the mind
from a rotten body, this junk of our history
shall rise
the wonders of our future, a forest, birds, safari, rivers,
clouds, skies,
everything, everything, you simply have to make the choices...
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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in their own eyes (for Tikoy)
on that precise moment
you open your heart, your stomach
your head,
and then you spread everything
before them
on the breakfast table
the usual broken heart
with perforations
the rotten intestines
the rusty thoughts
some cuts on your hands
wounds of the spirit
and then you challenged
each one' 'Now, judge me! '
and they all left
slowly one by one
toward the door
all of them
i know
has remembered
the old story
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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For You Just to Come Back Home
A dripping from a wall seems so like sweat.
So like the tears the occupants had wept.
The roof leaks to expose the sky.
And if eyes were dry...
They weren't for long.
Not if they were seeking answers to prayers.
To come to the door.
Or stand on dirt floors...
With the one thing wanted more!
And a pot that steams from the stove,
Smells of chicken...
Feathered and in rice.
As a limousine slows outside to come to a stop.
Stains from the floor are mopped.
Eyes pop.
Jaws drop!
'Mama, I've come home.
Look what I've brought for you.
Look at what I've got! '
~I've prayed for this day.
I've prayed for this day.
I've prayed for you just to come back home!
With 'you' not things make us feel less alone~.
A dripping from a wall seems so like sweat.
So like the tears the occupants had wept.
And so much unlike their lives lived now!
Nor in their minds revisited.
Happy together.
That's all they ever wished.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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