Addiction To Travel
..and then there is a shark
that just gobbles up an old man
weird, then there is the whale that
is caught by the Japanese fishers
bloody shore, and then there is that
killing fields where skulls are like big white stones
horrible site, and then there is the temple
of Bacchus at Baalbek and then
the two stone dancers of Ankor Wat,
the moon set garden, Hongkong from
The Peak, and apples and Stilton and
pork-chops, and Manila Bay sunrise
travel makes us choose, from the eyes
to the tips of our toes, tongue and nose.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Pork Chops are Fun
chop chop chop the pork squeals over dinner
with it's fatty bits and tasty bites
it marinates on a stick over hot coal
who will taste it first who will finish the bowl
Wow Pork Chops with red wine
then dinner will be divine
chop chop chop the pork is done
with ginger, wine and lots of fun
it's time to have with a salty bun
chop chop chop see it go in the oven my friends
it's dinner time lets eat it all
then lets sit together and have a ball
chop chop chop the pork tastes good
with the meat so tender it bloody weel should
sometimes on the pan sometimes as a roast
call your freinds for dinner it's a dish one can boast
chop chop chop the pork is done
sprikle a little wine to make things bright
then the meat put it on light
watch it burn and tremble with delight
chop chop chop my pork chops are done
poem by Anuj Tikku
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The old man and his stone
an old man
seated alone
on his stone bench
invited me
almost invisible
gesticulating with his hand
sit down beside me
we did not say a word
together we just heard
nothing but our silence
he invited me
to take a look in his garden
he took me by my hand
guiding me
through the open gate
he gave me a grand tour
in his Japanese paradise
and wanted to know
if I would be able
to show him
that spot
he was searching for
all his life
so he could also see
all the larger stones
at once
I'll wait
and watch you
I stood
I sat down
I climbed a tree
while being up there
I could see
a smile on his face
expressing understanding grace
I walked around
accompanied
by the sound
of crackling shelves
I can count endlessly
maybe even further
In that serene garden
I could not find the spot
that place where I could see
all his stones
although I learned
during that search
there were fifteen different larger stones
that unknown space
where I see and count
the old man's 15th stone
there I was on my own
still searching
it was late
at last I returned
sat down beside the old man
on the other stone bench
he offered me his silence
and told me with his eyes
that a man or a woman
is wise
when admitting
accepting
a simple fact
you can see
you can count
all the stones
not at once
not on your own
©Ellie Daphne van Stralen 2012
poem by Ellie Daphne van Stralen
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The Indifference Of Nature
poverty and hate
live in the
little village where
old coconut trees
fence out the
deep blue
sea
this place is ravaged by
a tribal war
each kin killing another kin
without mercy
just last week
a father with his three sons
were beheaded
the wife ran away
mad
the house is empty
abandoned
a lonely man lives alone
in the nearby little hut
under the cover of a dark night
filled with stars
he plays his old guitar
strumming his sadness
telling the stars
about this wasteland
this horrible
place of killing fields
of vengeful men
against their
fellow men
this green place
could have been
a paradise in
peace
the stars glitter in
innocence
as the song floats in air
and just like the sands of this
bloody shore
seem to feel nothing
at all
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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What I Like In You
what i like in you
is that you know how to sing the notes
of a whisper
on the side of my pelvis up to the
tip of my tongue
to the tip of my hair and then back
to the tips of my toes
tipsy
i lie down and bare it all for your
lovely gaze
salivating love
tickling the tips of my soul
i give in
and so you win.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Air is a Root
The air is a root.
The stones are filled with tenderness. bravo.
bravo. the stones are filled with air.
the stones are watery branches.
on the stones replacing the mouth
grows the skeleton of a leaf. bravo.
A stone voice face to face and foot to foot
with a stone glance.
the stones are tormented like flesh
the stones are clouds for their second
nature dances to them on their third nose.
bravo. bravo.
when the stones scratch themselves, nails grow
on the roots. bravo. bravo.
the stones woke to eat the exact
hour
Sand-Between-The-Toes
I went down to the shouting sea,
Taking Christopher down with me,
For Nurse had given us sixpence each-
And down we went to the beach.
We had sand in the eyes and the ears and the nose,
And sand in the hair, and sand-between-the-toes.
Whenever a good nor'wester blows,
Christopher is certain of
Sand-between-the-toes.
The sea was galloping grey and white;
Christopher clutched his sixpence tight;
We clambered over the humping sand-
And Christopher held my hand.
We had sand in the eyes and the ears and the nose,
And sand in the hair, and sand-between-the-toes.
Whenever a good nor'wester blows,
Christopher is certain of
Sand-between-the-toes.
There was a roaring in the sky;
The sea-gulls cried as they blew by;
We tried to talk, but had to shout-
Nobody else was out.
When we got home, we had sand in the hair,
In the eyes and the ears and everywhere;
Whenever a good nor'wester blows,
Christopher is found with
Sand-between-the-toes.
poem by Alan Alexander Milne
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Opening A New Window
come to my room
let us open a new window
that opens to another window
look at my face
and hold the side of my body
i will caress your hair with my hands
hold your body softly as a wind holds a feather
my fingers shall travel from the tips of your hair
down to the last tips of the toes of your feet
let us be happy, let us try opening another window
let us see the other windows hidden from our eyes.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Memories of Eighty-Five
I. ‘A macramé plant hangs close to her bed
A macramé plant hangs close to her bed
on the eiderdown she lays stretched out,
at times as in deep thought or prayer
when the swimming pool draws you through the window
with dull blue water covering it,
inside lays burned brown a sun goddess
and her eyes swallow me alive
when she understands, knows me for whom I am,
loving me with passion from the start,
loving me through light and darkness.
II. The summer sun hangs white and hot over the sea
The summer sun hangs white and hot over the sea,
the sand is white and soft where the sea washes out
her smile and conversations carries me off
when I am caught in her beauty
and later the water is lovely cool
before a big wave knocks off her bikini top,
I have got to hurry to the beach
to get her a big towel,
later it’s a big joke for us both,
far too quickly summer sweeps past.
III. At sunrise we drive past Chapman’s peak
At sunrise we drive past Chapman’s peak,
along the sea on a twisting road
and she’s very much in love with me,
far away a ship is only a small dot
and her smile and her face sparkles
when we stop to look at nature,
with her light blue blouse clinging tight fitting on to her
and I kiss her above the emerald sea,
holding her for moments tightly against me,
and she enchants my heart, are doing things to me.
IV. At Hout Bay we sail out of the harbour
At Hout Bay we sail out of the harbour
and the wind is blowing her auburn hair around,
the sea lays stretched out from the boat,
on rocks an otter snorts like a dog,
others swarm wild around him,
when the boat rocks to and fro we get nauseas,
wish for the trip to be over,
see a big shark circling,
are happy when we are sailing away,
with the small boat dropping us at the shore.
V. In Kirstenbosh we were really lost
In Kirstenbosh we were really lost,
still I wonder about her gleaming lips,
her green-brown eyes descending into my heart,
feelings creeping deeper into me,
that is still living as a spectre,
as if forever she is part of me,
I am not really able to free me from her,
she still calls me unexpectedly,
I do not want it to end
and forever I am yearning for her.
poem by Gert Strydom
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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
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Sunrise
Sunrise
And the new days breakin through
The morning
Of another day without you
And as the hours roll by
No-ones there to see me cry
Except the sunrise
The sunrise and you
Tired eyes drift across the shore
Looking for love and nothing more
But as the sea rolls by
No-ones there to see me cry
Excep the sunrise
The sunrise and you
Sunrise
Bless my eyes
Catch my soul
Make me whole again
Sunrise, new day
Hear my song
Im tired of fightin
And foolin around
But from now on
Till who knows when
My sword will be my pen
And Ill love you, love you
For all of my time
song performed by by Uriah Heep
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Accepting Evolution
there is this feeling that you are slimy
and prickly and
floating on the water like a whale
and you hide back to the depths
making signals if there are still other whales
out there
and yes, i could have been once a whale
or was i a shark.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Pobble Who Has No Toes
The Pobble who has no toes
Had once as many as we;
When they said "Some day you may lose them all;"
He replied "Fish, fiddle-de-dee!"
And his Aunt Jobiska made him drink
Lavender water tinged with pink,
For she said "The World in general knows
There's nothing so good for a Pobble's toes!"
The Pobble who has no toes
Swam across the Bristol Channel;
But before he set out he wrapped his nose
In a piece of scarlet flannel.
For his Aunt Jobiska said "No harm
Can come to his toes if his nose is warm;
And it's perfectly known that a Pobble's toes
Are safe, -- provided he minds his nose!"
The Pobble swam fast and well,
And when boats or ships came near him,
He tinkledy-blinkledy-winkled a bell,
So that all the world could hear him.
And all the Sailors and Admirals cried,
When they saw him nearing the further side -
"He has gone to fish for his Aunt Jobiska's
Runcible Cat with crimson whiskers!"
But before he touched the shore,
The shore of the Bristol Channel,
A sea-green porpoise carried away
His wrapper of scarlet flannel.
And when he came to observe his feet,
Formerly garnished with toes so neat,
His face at once became forlorn,
On perceiving that all his toes were gone!
And nobody ever knew,
From that dark day to the present,
Whoso had taken the Pobble's toes,
In a manner so far from pleasant.
Whether the shrimps, or crawfish grey,
Or crafty Mermaids stole them away -
Nobody knew: and nobody knows
How the Pobble was robbed of his twice five toes!
The Pobble who has no toes
Was placed in a friendly Bark,
And they rowed him back, and carried him up
To his Aunt Jobiska's Park.
And she made him a feast at his earnest wish
Of eggs and buttercups fried with fish, -
And she said "It's a fact the whole world knows,
That Pobbles are happier without their toes!"
poem by Edward Lear
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Whalesong
As wondrous as the stars at night,
That shine so bright and strong,
The precious joy that brings delight
Is that the whale has song.
The siren of the sapphire seas,
With tunes so lyrical...
To me, these are the things that please,
With each a miracle...
Perhaps it tames the savage beast,
As one of God's celebs
That glides below from west to east
Mid music of the depths...
Perhaps not with another whale,
But there and all alone,
With love his only Holy Grail...
Or Philosopher's Stone...
Like happy humans humming tunes,
Like hummingbirds and such,
The lonesome whale's seen many moons
And dreams of love so much...
When whalesong's played, we listen close,
To each new siren call...
There's only one thing each whale knows,
In life, true love is all...
Denis Martindale, copyright, October 2011.
Web site: wwf-dot-org-dot-uk/Adopt_A_Whale
poem by Denis Martindale
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Adopt A Whale
As wondrous as the stars at night,
That shine so bright and strong,
The precious joy that brings delight
Is that the whale has song.
The siren of the sapphire seas,
With tunes so lyrical...
To me, these are the things that please,
With each a miracle...
Perhaps it tames the savage beast,
As one of God's celebs
That glides below from west to east
Mid music of the depths...
Perhaps not with another whale,
But there and all alone,
With love his only Holy Grail...
Or Philosopher's Stone...
Like happy humans humming tunes,
Like hummingbirds and such,
The lonesome whale's seen many moons
And dreams of love so much...
When whalesong's played, we listen close,
To each new siren call...
There's only one thing each whale knows,
In life, true love is all...
Denis Martindale, copyright, October 2011.
Web site: wwf-dot-org-dot-uk/Adopt_A_Whale
poem by Denis Martindale
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Uwaoma
My love-jaundiced eyes
Are intent on the moon
Because I see no celestial curio
Only her wild serene face
Face that rouses my hunger
Desperate and unquenchable
Because she is no real meal
Only an abominable bowl of pork
Pork which Eleazar
Does not even simulate
Because I sense no satisfaction
Only a bait to fire my hunger
Hunger being Alexandrian
Wields a weapon futile
Because I crave no Maria
Only her absorbent tranquility
Tranquility like Stephen's
When wrathful stones soothe me
Because I feel no pain
Only an orgasmic jaundice
Jaundice in my eyes
That squint so into the moon
Because I see no celestial curio
Only her wild serene face.
poem by Oluchukwu Ifechukwu
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No... I Can Not Believe It
You've got my nose opened wide.
Wider than the sea,
And...
I can not believe I let you do this to me.
You've got my nose opened wide.
So wide people see.
And...
I can not believe I let you do this to me.
Wherever I go...
I know that this shows.
And...
I can not believe I let you do this to me.
I know it is exposed,
That you opened my nose!
And...
I can not believe I let you do this to me.
I walk on tip-toes,
With my eyes half closed.
And...
I can not believe I let you do this to me.
No...
I can not believe I let you do this to me.
I walk on tip-toes,
With an opened nose.
And...
I can not believe I let you do this to me.
And with my eyes closed too?
No...
I can not believe I let you do this to me.
No...
I can not believe it that you did this to me.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Hunger Moon
Under a full hunger moon
her children in a ring
she stands at the hub
a basket of stones at the right
a February-cold jug of water
fresh from the stream
on the other.
Each one came barefoot
touching the earth
bare arms reaching up
to an unrelenting sky.
'Choose a stone' she said
'Place it under your left foot.
Stone does not yield. There will
be times when you must be
like stone.'
And over the reaching arms
walking within her family circle
she gently rained water down.
'Water does not resist. There
will be times when you must be
like water. Close your eyes
feel like stone like water.'
poem by Beryl Baigent
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The Stone and I
By the edge of the mini-pond
where I sit when the weather’s fit for it,
there’s this stone.
I’d like to call it a rock
because that sounds more dignified
and metaphorical and carries
more tradition, but
it’s a stone
and on it grows a lichen;
not the vivid, flat, yellow and vermilion and red and black
lichen that grows on stone walls
by the seaside; this one
has those colours at its edge
but has a furry crop of tiny green fronds
cropping from its mossy green
which are quite vigorous in their tiny way.
I liked it so much that I tried
to get the other stones around the pond
to match, by douching them alternately
with urine and yoghourt in the approved manner
after dark for obvious reasons
but they didn't respond;
I guess stonecrop beautiful word
knows its own field so to speak
and won't be rushed, at least
it makes me treasure this one more
If I had the money which I haven’t
and the patience which I don’t
I’d have a perfect, model
Zen garden complete with sand
which I’d rake with a wooden rake
every morning into swirly lines
with graceful sweeping Tai Chi movements
until I got bored
but I just have this stone
with faintly Japanese pretensions
mine not its
however I’d like to think a Zen master
would quite approve of my modest intention
and say, less is more, more or less…
and now I think of it, the stone
has its own Zen garden; though whether
you could call this an eco-system,
whether the stone and the lichen
have a relationship, is open
to question, as is
whether the stone so agreeably placed
by the pool well OK pond
has a relationship with the pond
anyway, on a sunny day
the stone and I sit there together
if together is quite the right word
I feel we’re together whatever it feels
if it feels at all that is
and I guess it's even possible
in an evolutionary view of things,
lichen on stone, first life on earth
and all that, that the lichen
and I are really related, with
a common ancestor
which would account for a lot
and we sit there quietly in quite
a Japanese sort of Zen-ness
of being one with nature
and I become don’t laugh more stony
and still; as for the stone
I really can’t say but
It feels good
and in this state of relaxed contemplation
which I guess is the point of those
Japanese gardens
it occurs to me that the stone
and perhaps the water too
have qualities that I lack –
they know just how to be,
to be still, to be themselves
so there may be a point to what
we sometimes call with the trace
of a sneer,
communing with nature
since as Saint Augustine said
the whole cosmos is our
holy book; so why not
open it
*
[with a namaste to Augustine and Eckhart Tolle]
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Dont Bust My Chops
Im sick and tired of you calling me names Im sick and tired of your childish games
Im sick and tired of your bullshit brats cocaine stupor and anxiety attacks
Picked up the magazine, I see your face youre nothin boy, a goddamn waste
With the lamest fashions on your back youre never happy, a hypochondriac
Dont bust my chops, baby, dont bust my chops
Dont bust my chops, baby, dont bust my chops yeah
Youre a styling queen and an alley cat too many chocolates keep a fat man fat
Youre a pain in the ass, and your on the loose all I get from you is your bad attitude
Dirty mouth, its all I can bear get outta here bitch, cause youre nowhere
Always wearin that cheap perfume can always tell when youre in the room
Dont bust my chops, baby, dont bust my chops
Dont bust my chops, baby, dont bust my chops ah
Dont bust my chops, baby, dont bust my chops
Dont bust my chops, baby, dont bust my chops
Dont bust my chops, baby, dont bust my chops
Dont bust my chops, baby, dont bust my chops alright
song performed by by Ramones
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Killing Fields
Oh the lives that come and go
as the years go by
are taken by the sons of others
on the fields where they die.
Brother against brother
killing one another,
don't we wonder why?
Generation after generation
never seem to learn
that the killing fields are red with blood
as the wheels of life just turn.
The fields of the lands are meant for life
filled with so much joy.
Instead, those fields have fallen quiet
with each and every boy
that became intent on the quest for death
on the killing fields.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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