Back To Basics
the shadows of trees
against the gray skies
there is no one here
except the white storks
and some sparrows
taking their wings
i wait for the right timing
when the sun rises
some leaves are falling
so gently on the cover of grass
a caterpillar takes its bites
on the leaf
a frog jumps on the pond
some tadpoles follow
the clouds drift away
a new day is just born
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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what the white owl does besides flapping its wings
The white owl flaps its wings
Deep in the night
Hovers on the trees
I think the leaves
I hear the sparrows chirping
In the morning
Some dead feathers are falling
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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When The Leaves Come Falling Down
I saw you standing with the wind and the rain in your face
And you were thinking bout the wisdom of the leaves and their grace
When the leaves come falling down
In september when the leaves, come falling down
And at night the moon is shining on a clear, cloudless sky
And when the evening shadows fall Ill be there by your side
When the leaves come falling down
In september when the leaves, come falling down
Follow me down, follow me down, follow me down
To the place beside the garden and the wall
Follow me down, follow me down
To the space before the twilight and the dawn
Oh, the last time I saw paris in the streets, in the rain
And as I walk along the boulevards with you, once again
And the leaves come falling down
In september, when the leaves come falling down
Follow me down, follow me down, follow me down
To the place between the garden and the wall
Follow me down, follow me down
To the space between the twilight and the dawn
And as Im looking at the colour of the leaves, in your hand
As were listening to chet baker on the beach, in the sand
When the leaves come falling down,
Woe in september, when the leaves come falling down
Oh when the leaves come falling down
Yeah in september when the leaves come falling down
When the leaves come falling down
In september, when the leaves come falling down
When the leaves come falling down in september, in the rain
When the leaves come falling down
When the leaves come falting down in september, in the rain
When the leaves come falling down
song performed by by Van Morrison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Upon The Silence Of The Pond
there is no futility
in the silence reigning upon
the pond
for the lilies too know
how to please
those silenced and
those who choose to be
silent
in here the tiny tadpoles
dance with their
cute tails
beneath the spreading
leaves
on beautiful choreography
of instinct
the clouds reflect
their changing faces
the lotus blooms
a dragonfly hovers upon
a blade of grass
and rests
its weary transparent
wings
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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What The White Owl Does Besides Flapping Its Wings
The white owl flaps its wings
Deep in the night
Hovers on the trees
I think the leaves
I hear the sparrows chirping
In the morning
Some dead feathers are falling
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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This day will be another exciting day
I see how the sun rises today
A faint glow crawling slowly
On the gray clouds of dawn
Making a hole on the blackness
Of disappearing night skies
Some white birds still sleep
High above the treetops
They wake up and fly away
On this young horizon
On this golden silence
The morning starts to unfold
Rays of light like needles
Piercing the colder winds
Some leaves fall gently
The grass receiving them
A sparrow has just taken
This green fat worm on its beak
The sound of the wind
Whispers from the far mountains
It is a nice sunny day for me
Exciting Saturday, no work just play.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Autumn In July
It was a cool July and it was dusk.
The gentle winds that blew,
brushed the Autumn of your hair.
And a mist, as like in Autumn, touch
your face, as I stood still.
I could not help but wonder, as in Autumn,
are the bees yet in their hive; snuggled
closely, in their Autumn winter bed.?
An Autumn sun, hid behind the clouds above.
It knew not of this July, only of Autumn, in the air.
It knew of flowers drooping, their brightness,
now fading and curled. It knew of falling leaves,
and colors still so bright. A lone tree against a colored
sky, seemed naked in this July. With all of
this, and some to go, it must be Autumn, for this I know.
What of the woman, with the hair of Autumn?
Her eyes of Autumn color and colored clothes
the same. It can not be July, for
Autumn is abound.
Autumns every where. Circling sparrows in sky
above, swoop down, in hunt, for the final seeds
of Autumn. How could this be July,
or have the sparrows lost their way?
Surely, this is Autumn, for the chill is in they air.
And, isn't that an Autumn grass, below that
old oak tree? As the gentle Autumn winds,
carry silence for the day.
Now the mist of Autumn, are falling drops of rain.
No, not a shower in July, but an Autumn day,
now cast in gloom, against a steel gray sky.
Autumn, shall never be the same, since
that Autumn day in mid July.
poem by Waldon Pond Productions
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A View
driftwood
with seven twigs
on the shore
as clear as glass
is the water
and all stones and pebbles
are visible
above
blue skies
so blue that the white cotton clouds
appear like sperm cells moving
impregnating
an earth-sky womb
and then
it rains
the water rises
the drift wood again taken
floating
gently to another shore
another island
of white sands
a coconut tree towers
to reach a waft of cloud
winds as cool as ice
sands slipping on the fingers
a leaf from a guyabano tree falls
on the mouth
of a sleeping woman
beside her
the man whose arms are enclosing
her throughout
the rainy night
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Enumerations...
not those flowers,
never those summers,
not those rivers, not the sea,
never the ocean
neither the continents nor
the islands
neither the clouds nor the
skies neither the space
nor the galaxies
the grain of sand, a leaf,
adrift,
a pond, and the old frog,
never the storms or the
winds,
neither the alligators nor
the hammers
it is the stone, a butterfly,
a speck of
dust....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Caterpillar
Under this loop of honeysuckle,
A creeping, coloured caterpillar,
I gnaw the fresh green hawthorn spray,
I nibble it leaf by leaf away.
Down beneath grow dandelions,
Daisies, old-man’s-looking-glasses;
Rooks flap croaking across the lane.
I eat and swallow and eat again.
Here come raindrops helter-skelter;
I munch and nibble unregarding:
Hawthorn leaves are juicy and firm.
I’ll mind my business: I’m a good worm.
When I’m old, tired, melancholy,
I’ll build a leaf-green mausoleum
Close by, here on this lovely spray,
And die and dream the ages away.
Some say worms win resurrection,
With white wings beating flitter-flutter,
But wings or a sound sleep, why should I care?
Either way I’ll miss my share.
Under this loop of honeysuckle,
A hungry, hairy caterpillar,
I crawl on my high and swinging seat,
And eat, eat, eat—as one ought to eat.
poem by Robert Graves
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Conspiracy
A haggard hawk drops
A stone on the pond
Making a ring wave tricky trap
A fed up frog jumps up
Thinking of a drop
Hope of new life and rain
Swamps down quickly a crane
Making a feast out of the frog
Pond can't punish the culprits
Begs pardon with folded hands.
poem by Abdul Wahab
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Samadhi
an old man
sweeps leaves and
twigs
upon the grave of
his master
an old poet
loses himself
upon a frog
that once jumps
into the pond
the last one
was lost
in the middle of
the green ocean
in this poem
something is
happening
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Under the Violets
HER hands are cold; her face is white;
No more her pulses come and go;
Her eyes are shut to life and light;--
Fold the white vesture, snow on snow,
And lay her where the violets blow.
But not beneath a graven stone,
To plead for tears with alien eyes;
A slender cross of wood alone
Shall say, that here a maiden lies
In peace beneath the peaceful skies.
And gray old trees of hugest limb
Shall wheel their circling shadows round
To make the scorching sunlight dim
That drinks the greenness from the ground,
And drop their dead leaves on her mound.
When o'er their boughs the squirrels run,
And through their leaves the robins call,
And, ripening in the autumn sun,
The acorns and the chestnuts fall,
Doubt not that she will heed them all.
For her the morning choir shall sing
Its matins from the branches high,
And every minstrel-voice of Spring,
That trills beneath the April sky,
Shall greet her with its earliest cry.
When, turning round their dial-track,
Eastward the lengthening shadows pass,
Her little mourners, clad in black,
The crickets, sliding through the grass,
Shall pipe for her an evening mass.
At last the rootlets of the trees
Shall find the prison where she lies,
And bear the buried dust they seize
In leaves and blossoms to the skies.
So may the soul that warmed it rise!
If any, born of kindlier blood,
Should ask, What maiden lies below?
Say only this: A tender bud,
That tried to blossom in the snow,
Lies withered where the violets blow.
poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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Wasnt Born To Follow
(gerry goffin / carole king)
Though Id rather go and journey
Where the diamond crescents glowing
Run across the valleys
Beneath the sacred mountain
And wander through the forest
Where the trees of leaves are prisms
That break the light of day into colours
That no-one knows the names of
And when its time
I go and wait beside
A legendary fountain
til I see your form reflected
In its clear and jewelled water
And if you think Im ready
You may lead me to the chasm
Where the rivers of our vision
Flow into one another
And Ill stay awhile
And wonder at
The myths that theyve created
And lose myself within it
Cleanse my mind and body
And I know at the moment
As I stand in that cathedral
I will want to dive in
The white cascading water, water, water
He may beg
And he may plead
He may argue with his logic
He can mention all the things Ill lose
That really have no value
Though I doubt that he will ever come
To understand my meaning
In the end hell surely know
I was not born to follow
I was not born to follow
I wasnt born to follow, no, no
I wasnt born to follow
I wasnt born to follow, no, no
I wasnt born to follow
I wasnt born to follow
Said i......
song performed by by Dusty Springfield
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Clouds
Clouds, the clouds diffuse a sad and somewhat somber hue;
Rain, the rain descends aslant from angry ashen skies;
Winds, the winds bemoan their loss of reins and calm control;
Shades, the shades appear suffused, alone in lurid haze;
Trees, the trees enshroud the eyes of misty brooding woods;
Leaves, the leaves desert their branches, falling one by one;
Birds, the birds intone a tune, a mourning monody;
Grass, the grass surrenders blades, impaled in truant winds;
Fields, the fields imbibe and quaff to quench an arid thirst;
Stones, the stones repulse the pearls, exploding tears of gloom;
Streams, the streams meander, hushed, to distant vapid shores;
Clouds, the clouds diffuse a sad and somewhat somber hue
poem by Terry O'Leary
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Sent By Sparrows...
if i undress your eyes very gently,
will i find the last vestiges of fire?
did the great wings of hunger
scar the skies of your soulless darkness?
is the screech of the owl
hidden in your tight numbed lips?
does the snail trail of my body,
still cling to your need in the moonlight?
must my fingers fumble with the latch,
and my footprints haunt your sleeplessness?
or am i just the tree that fell
in the fury of the storm?
am i the leaf floating on the still pond?
the things i buried in the small wooden box,
that night beneath the willow.
perhaps among them were you and i....
will the spiders resurrect us?
if i am dead then let it be,
for what's given is what remains.
and the small imprint on your pillow
that smells faintly of me,
is just a bad dream sent by sparrows!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Looking Back At The Greens
i too look back at those green things
from the point of view of my
green thumb
a vegetable garden without an aphid on a leaf
a row of roses, lush green leaves
and red blooms
some petals falling due to the
wind
a line of green mint trees along the path
leading to the highway
sounds of motors threatening what green there is
i come back and settle on this patch
of green meadows
and grass and gray shade
my own shadow cast
on the huge gabi leaf.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Clouds Of Narcissus
the clouds of narcissus pass by today
along a clear pond by the side of a rice paddy
they stop to get a good glimpse of their faces and bodies
cottony white, shades of blue, pluffy, and soft
they stop and take a longer gaze, admiring every
beauty of its hands and fingers, a longer time
an island of grass some reeds and dry leaves
get curious about what is happening why the clouds
stop and made a longer stare over the clear reflection
of their bodies on the little pond. They talk. They are curious.
and then the clouds finally get done with what is usual.
they left. Slowly sail away from what they are seeing lovingly.
Nothing happens since then. They own no one.No one owns them.
They leave. They do not know how to love. Neither are they loved.
They are gone. The island of grass is silent. The reeds hush.
And the pond has become murky.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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My Morning
the house is surrounded by trees
and birds sleep there
some of those who do not have fears
made their nests
and this early morning i hear them sing
chirp if you may call it
but there is this feeling that nature is there
in the songs of birds
and the hush of the wind and the coming
bright rays of the sun
my dog is beside me
still asleep as i begin my prayers and rituals
for the day
behind the black shadows of the trees
the gray horizon starts
to brighten and now the mountains begin to
appear in view
their peaks touching the skies
as the clouds hang and float and drift....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Falling Leaf
Today a leaf came down to greet me
Falling gently on a breeze
With intentions to remind me
Of the things I must release
Nature teaches of life's cycles
When to cling and when to fall
There is a time for every season
And solace if we hear the call
But letting go is not se easy
We may need more than just a breeze
Graceful falling takes some practice
And a lesson from the trees
This human mind is often yearning
For some past or future day
But opening to present stillness
Allows a more fulfilling way
We cannot control our seasons
And grasping only brings more grief
Let us settle in the moment
Like the falling of a leaf
poem by Mark Bratlie
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The Ripple Of That Last Leaf....
like the leaves falling from the trees
yellowed and light
blown by the wind to the ponds
like a last sigh
from the muteness of its capillaries
this last leaf
as it lands on the pond
shall make the ripples
in your calm
atmosphere....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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