Back To The Usual Walk In The Rice Fields
i am back to this place
and i am feeling strange
there are changes
and some i can tell have been missing
a few meters from where i stand
under this mahogany tree
where the wind is cold and fresh
flavored by the newly cut rice stalks
over this spread of golden fields
the well is still there
but the brown woman with earth skin is gone
an island of coconut trees
(and some mango trees
and banana shrubs)
has turned bald
and the grasses claim another territory to its grassland
the sparrows must have migrated to the nearby forest
the cable lines run an empty length of a sigh
from one pole to another
endlessly clinging is this anonymous electricity
the twenty or so white herons are here again
pecking on some little frogs in small ponds
i walk under the sun
revisiting reevaluating rekindling perhaps
the reasons why i must go on living
a life unlived for quite a time
why are the fields empty? why are the blackbirds circling the tree?
why do people pass by this path unable to know the significance
of this human journey?
the sun is up like an absurdity triumphant
a dog comes near me
it is waggling its tail and i am calling him another name.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Related quotes
Existences
Fenced carabaos of this Agricultural college Thrive on limited spread of grass Man-made They look forward To angles and rows of green hills and valley And clear flowing creeks To the other side The white herons, (wild ducks, sparrows, and mayas)
Fly above trees and (daffodils) And land on paddies with flecks Of surface mud fishes and tadpoles and mosquito larvae
I see The sparrows rest In flocks Lining up On electric cables Or Power Lines Watching army Worms and golden shells (kuhol) etching slowly, eating green greedily On rice and grass stalks
An owl hovers (the late owl, where was it last night?) On the island of twigs On an old mango tree (balding & ugly & dying)
No wonder The white herons (about twenty in all, I counted them patiently on digital cam) taunt The carabaos (muddy and thin as grasses were cut and cleaned by ROTC cadettes on Sundays, I can’t rationalize why the grass population be reduced) fenced On a limited supply of Manmade grass and Growth controlled
They wing finally when I got near them Lightly like blown leaves
This February wind And land on Carabaos’ backs Gleaning for lice Feasting on some pecking and swallowing & pecking again
Thriving on carabaos’ Hairs and skin some creatures though still
On the other side of the landscape A thin brown, woman With a buri hat And a rattan basket on one hand and a sack on the other Leans over A dry ricefield Gleaning for leftovers of palay
Beside her but not that really near The man drives the white herons Away to the other side of the island of banana trunks
Then he goes to the carabaos Their wet noses tied to an abaca roof and tied again to the cemented posts of this accredited agricultural college spreading about two hectares of stupidity
The questions about lice and herons and carabaos and grasses
And golden snails, tadpoles and mud fishes and sparrows died
The lice are free Feeding away from The eating white herons
They have flown away since then to the other side of my world
By now the flock of Sparrows On the electric cables or power lines Wing their way To a farther town as I leave them fast for lack of time for shortness of serendipity for lack of interest
There are pebbles inside my shoes.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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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
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I Have To Walk Away Again Looking For The Fresh Air
one finds a hard time nowadays
looking for fresh air
i step over a good view of the rice fields
from an Asian perspective
the rice fields are flowering
dews still sticking on the blades of grass
the sun is slowly rising from the mountains
a lot of fog hang on the sides
coconut trees are towering
not much winds today from the sea
a middle aged farmer stands under a tree
with his sweater on and his long bolo on his side
smoking his cigar
the woman in the house is cooking mud fish for breakfast
meanwhile she goes out and
starts a fire under the mango tree
burning a rubber tire
to drive some insects away
which she thinks are destroying
the tiny white flowers of
the tree
i smell the smoke coming from the cigar
it is floating in the air
the smoke from the rubber tire burning
is choking me
somehow that is what is being done to this world
brought about by ignorance and superstition and bad habits
i have to walk away again
looking for the fresh air
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Digital Photo Of The Ricefields
ripe ricefields early one morning
as i take my walk
it is a wide rectangular field
and on its tip on the right side
from this gravelled road
is an island of banana shrubs
bamboo grasses
and mahogany trees
and there is an old well there
that survives the past droughts
for scores of years
a little focusing will show
that there are bathers
there and one of them
is lovely.
Zoom in.
Never mind, she is too shy
and she is just for me.
Her eyes are soft
not like the almonds
her skin is smooth
like a ripe mango.
Zoom in.
She is bathing now.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Lonely Bird On The Electric Wire
this afternoon i take a walk leading to the farm
it is harvest time
and i see the harvesters cutting the rice stalks filled with golden grains
they would group what they gather at a certain place
mounds and mounds of rice grains this time of a bumper year
on the other side are carabaos grazing
lots of grass to graze adding the recently cut rice stalks
i look at the clouds white and blue and shades of both
my attention is however caught by a single bird perched on the electrical wire connecting two poles about 30 meters apart
it is alone there
and i move closely to see whether it is really a bird
indeed it is one of the sparrows in the ricefield
but so unlike the rest it
it is sitting there alone.
our eyes met.
and i tell my wife about this lonely bird.
she says i am just making a metaphor
i sit alone in my garden now after dining
and i wonder if the bird flew back to its nest or to some territory of its own
where their species also live
and i wonder if the bird must be also telling the other birds that it saw
a man walking alone on that path leading to the farm
and unlike other men he prefers to walk alone
and i also think that perhaps the bird would also take issue about the fact that indeed
our eyes met
and i know the other birds would say
that it is nothing but also a sort of metaphor and to the least that
it is nothing but a kind of fable.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Countryside
Patches of dark grey clouds
and streaks of white clouds
on the greenish brown hills
blocking the daylight;
The water-filled paddy fields
the swaying of the coconut tree leaves
the raindrops on mustard flowers;
some black and white coloured
cows tied under a tree
and a herd of mooing cows heading home;
The smiles of children playing in
rain puddles, various coloured
umbrellas scattered from
here to there, people rushing
to their homes, a small
temple sheltering all;
The cool breeze, the droplets of
water on every face,
the smell of damp brown-earth
made the time stand still.
I paused and resumed
my journey of life.
Copyright©2011Rizvana Parveen
poem by Rizvana Parveen
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California Hills in August
I can imagine someone who found
these fields unbearable, who climbed
the hillside in the heat, cursing the dust,
cracking the brittle weeds underfoot,
wishing a few more trees for shade.
An Easterner especially, who would scorn
the meagerness of summer, the dry
twisted shapes of black elm,
scrub oak, and chaparral, a landscape
August has already drained of green.
One who would hurry over the clinging
thistle, foxtail, golden poppy,
knowing everything was just a weed,
unable to conceive that these trees
and sparse brown bushes were alive.
And hate the bright stillness of the noon
without wind, without motion.
the only other living thing
a hawk, hungry for prey, suspended
in the blinding, sunlit blue.
And yet how gentle it seems to someone
raised in a landscape short of rain—
the skyline of a hill broken by no more
trees than one can count, the grass,
the empty sky, the wish for water.
poem by Dana Gioia
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The Black Bird On The Cable Wire
there is this one
bird on the
cable
wire
connecting two distant
posts
behind is the sun rising like a cape of so much light
below are the green fields of rice
in rectangles
it is the first day of October
and not so cold yet
the path that i am taking stretches
kilometers
tall grasses in random lines are here
beside me.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Arrival Of The Sparrows
at first glance they look like stones raining
on the fields
my surprise is immense
i am stunned
when i get near
ah, these are the small brown sparrows
from faraway
landing on the
rice-fields of the fields of hay
the village sings again!
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Save Forests and Rare Species
The Franklin forests are extinct;
These trees of beauty are now rare;
No more are they found in the wild;
Their fragrant flowers tempt a child!
Last seen in 18 zero3,
By Altamaha river-side –
A deciduous tree or shrub,
It grows upto a twenty feet.
With leaves that change color by fall,
Its snow-white flowers are showy;
With golden yellow stamens free,
It is now grown in pots from seeds!
But nothing like the forests wild
Of Franklin trees that grew on own;
You could not find a path through them –
Home to wild animals many.
How Nature rears a forest dense!
–The secrets, no man deciphers;
The way they flourish in the wild,
No gardener can do like-wise!
As man destroys more forest trees,
For want of newer farming land,
Wild wondrous trees then cease to be,
And other species vanish too.
Deforestation is a crime
That has gone uncontrolled with time;
Rare species of trees, shrubs and beasts
Have been effaced from earth with ease.
The earth has lesser green cover!
’Tis growing bald, much more each day,
As forest trees are felled for wood,
At rates more than we ever should.
World’s rain-forests are turning scarce –
A cause of global-warming fast;
Landslides and floods are dangers new;
More species turn something of past!
Trees extract carbon-dioxide,
And make the air less polluted;
Wild beasts are on the rampage when
Their forest habitats are gone.
Save forests and afforest, man;
The clouds bring rain when trees ask for;
Wild beasts need forests for their homes;
Preserve forests in ways you can.
Copyright by Dr John Celes 6-23-2008
poem by John Celes
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Emoting A Landscape
the rice paddies are dead, they have been long cracking
drying under the cruelty of the summer sun scorching every leaf and pebble
as the mud fish buries itself under for another hibernation
the trees are not complaining compliant with the strong dry wind
from the bald and browning mountain peaks towering to kiss the clouds
the pathways are bare and vacant for no child comes out and plays on the fields
the carabaos are kept under the shadows of the mahogany trees while the man
near the well bathes naked as the woman pretends to wash the dirty clothes
someone peeps with mad eyes, ready with his bolo behind the thick bush.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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What You Will Miss Here Baby
...the ripe bananas
the coconut juice and young meat
the local wine
the rice cakes
the fruits that you can pick from the trees
the lone line of beaches
surrounding practically the whole island
the fresh air
the wide expanse of green fields
the peace and quite
the hospitality of the people
we have it just name it
and it's all yours for free
because we care.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I'm An Old Tree
Here is my beloved home
I'm an old tree
I grew up here
Here's where I belong
Here's the only place
Where I can face
In rough human race
Inspite of all difficulties and aches
Still I'm standing here
Here I've planted love seeds
I'm like an old trees
Don't take me off my root
My branches revive and sigh here
Since thousands and thousands of years
I'm an old tree that's living here
Inside these fields I've grew old
My branches and my leaves
Once they've born here
The only place they've been
How can I leave
I have memories here
All my childhood years
My desires and all my dreams
Are planted right here within
These fields I've born and ill live in
poem by Sossi Khachadourian
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Counting
fifteen heads of buffaloes
grazing on the rice fields
twenty in all are the mounds
of rice husks
this harvest season
ten heads of men bowing
down to earth
sixteen heads of women
singing a summer song
a moon still up the crown
of mahogany tree
this early morning
a lone bird flies away
from me.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Why Do You Think That This World Is Not Interesting?
everything has a reason, that is the tenet, nothing happens by random
that is a restatement, perhaps an accent, and emphatic stress for those who still doubt.
every reason explains itself, whether you know it or not, they have mouths and minds.
though they do not speak to you, or think of you, they think, they speak. A premise.
the fire tree blooms today, and there is fire all around the wildlife part. Warmth is intentional.
Fire for summer. Warmth on a hot day. There is a reason. The petals speak for themselves.
an old pedicab under the mahogany trees, the driver pedals its way on a dusty path.
a child wearing an orange shirt sits restlessly wanting to jump screaming. Noise in stillness.
the trees are shedding off yellow leaves and the ground accepts a good cover. There is no sound.
the grasses are starting to wilt and the moss on the pebbles are dark brown. Time to die.
the joggers are here feeding an activity to this oval the silence of which is finally broken.
Summer. This is rest for most. The holy week and time to reflect. Meanwhile the sun shines
on top of the world, the clouds are cottony and so white. The wind blows on my face.
There is a reason for everything. That is tenet and i know nothing happens by random.
I scribble some notes on my mind. Stating what is not spoken by the sun, the trees, the mountains, the joggers, the dusty path, the child in orange shirt. The pedals squeak and
I am watching and listening. There are too many reasons wanting to be written. Anger, and
pain and bliss and company and solitude. Why do you think that this world is not interesting?
Are you not amazed with what we still do not know? Did i not tell you the color
of the daffodils? Or that the man pedaling its way under the mahogany trees
is an old man feeling so useless and that the child in orange is his grandson?
Life need not be what we think we do not have.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Where Are the Birds of Wenzhou, Bei Bei
‘The skies are empty and grey at dawn,
They’re empty and brown at noon,
Where are the birds of Wenzhou, Bei Bei
Deep in the afternoon?
Even at dusk when the air is still
Or the cool breath heaves from the sea,
I wait for the beat of wings then, Bei Bei
Rushing to comfort me.’
‘The birds were once when the paddy fields
Ran down by the river tides,
When the sky was blue and the air was clean
And the trees reached up to the stars.
The birds were here when the skies were clear
No buildings blocked the view...’
‘But where are the birds of Wenzhou, Bei Bei
Why have they gone from you? ’
‘They left when the smog came rolling in
And the insects died on the ground,
When the grass turned white and the acid rain
Caused all the trees to drown.
They left when the river turned yellow mud
And the fields died under the road,
When men built towers of thirty floors,
They left the town in droves.’
The skies are empty and grey at dawn,
They’re empty and brown at noon.
‘The birds of Wenzhou took their nests
And travelled to old Hangzhou.
They went to live by a wondrous lake
That tales will tell, is blue...’
‘Where are the birds of Wenzhou, Bei Bei...
Have they forsaken you? ’
8 November 2005
poem by David Lewis Paget
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Summer
summer is an ancestral house
surrounded with antique trees
blushing leaves
rainbow flowers
nearby the blue sea
white sticky rice and
grilled tangigue
fresh buko juice and
straw hat and a swing
between two coconut trees.
and silence and sea breeze.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Green Ricefields
green ricefields spreading to a distance
some white herons circling and landing finding a hiding place
for a while gone and then the wind comes from the trees swaying
the white herons in a flock of fives fly away again
to another rectangular spread of a green ricefield
a scarecrow stands in the middle of the place
the clouds arrive turning from pale to grey to blue
the sun has come in full grandeur
i am just amazed, sitting on a bench praying
simply watching and wondering
they all say that i am lazy and doing nothing
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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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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Friends of the Forest (Memories of Clayoquot)
A small band of protesters
gathered in the forest.
Together their voices growing,
rising on the wind.
A Chorus.
'Stop cutting the tree's'
they cry.
'Stop raping the land.
Our Mother Earth gives us life,
touch her with a gentle hand.'
No Help
from government officials.
'Just pass the tax.' they say.
And the workers in the forest
don't want to find another pay.
So the Friends of the Forest
take a stand to show us how
the power of our words and actions
can start a change
here and now.
The future's in our human hand.
Reuse the trees.
Replant the land.
Show the world a better way
as the forest's guardian.
We are God's
each of us
in a small way,
creators of a future world
with each choice we make today.
poem by Angela Michel
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