Breakfast Is Ready (2)
breakfast is ready
we sit on our designated seats
we pray
we put our hands on the table
we take the spoon and fork
and knife
slice the cheese, break the bread
sip the coffee, chew,
no spitting, swallow
no choking
in here there is an implied admission
of hunger, thirst, and
emptiness.
we say the words thanks after,
amen to the next thirst and hunger.
conversations there are cliches.
but i admit, i dont give a damn now, nothing really matters.
i always say a little prayer for you.
Before i leave.I do not have to tell you.
honest.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Related quotes
Prosperity and poverty
Hunger for food has been met;
Hunger for love has set in.
Hunger for power has been met;
Hunger for ethics has set in.
Hunger for lust has been met;
Hunger for faith has set in.
Thirst for knowledge has been met;
Thirst for innocence has set in.
Thirst for contacts has been met;
Thirst for concerns has set in.
Thirst for comfort has been met;
Thirst for compassion has set in.
Love, ethics, faith lost,
Innocence, concerns and compassion missing,
Despite food, power and lust,
Despite knowledge, comfort and compassion,
The soul will die a slow death
Long before the body succumbs.
The world will not die of poverty
But it will sure die of prosperity.
25.07.2008
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Twenty-five years
Strong must these teeth be
Gnashing for twenty-five years
And yet whole and unbroken and sharp
Still willing to bite the dust
To chew pride
To masticate pieces of prejudice
And let the throat know
It must swallow and swallow still
There is so much still to be taken in
There is this thirst of the tongue
This hunger of the mouth
The craving of the stomach
The eyes study the art of waiting
The feet prepare to kick and the arms are ready
For the ambush
Of the enemy
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Appetizers For The Day
just a slice of green raw mango
to fill my thirst
a morsel of bread to satisfy hunger
a thin slice of onion
to invigorate the eye
red hot chili for my tongue
rosemary and thyme for my smell
finally a burp for the final sound.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Born With The Hunger
Hear the coyote howl
He's found his pray at last
In one moment of weakness
The chase is over so fast
He celebrates his kill
No mercy in his eyes
When you're born with the hunger
The hunger never dies
Midnight is on the prowl
And I hear it call my name
Danger lurks in the shadows
But it's all part of a game
Until I quench this thirst
I will not close these eyes
When you're born with the hunger
The hunger never dies
You and I, we're the same
We both carry this flame
To depths of our souls
Once the fever awakes
We can never escape
It's beyond our control
We're both born with the hunger
Oh with the hunger
Temptation bites your lip
One kiss ignites the fire
So begins the seduction
As we succumb to desire
Your body aches for more
Why are you so surprised
When you're born with the hunger
The hunger never dies
When you're born with the hunger
The hunger - it never dies
Never dies
When you're born with the hunger It never dies
When you're born with the hunger Oh, it never dies
He celebrates the kill
You're born with the hunger
It never dies
song performed by by Cher
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The hunger
the hunger thinks the rice
can chew both skin and bone
the hunger thinks it's nice
to eat although forlorn
the hunger thinks the corn
can swallow ears and eyes
deaf blind hunger born
self eaten within it dies
the hunger thinks the food
is just a body's unfair breath
the hunger knows the interlude
no food the body eats itself
the hunger thinks the body rotten
is just a place to survive and eat
the hunger of the lost and forgotten
makes its way to the last heart beat
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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Lunch Is Ready
you must have read before
that when a man is made to choose
between lunch
and poetry
he must choose lunch
it is 12: 20 noon
and if you wish
please finish this poem for me
make it say something
about hunger
the pinch in the stomach
the lack of guts
the impatience about life
for the meantime
i'll take what is offered on the table
i still have to chew
another idea that is fed in my mind
another poem
shaped like a fried chicken
scents of lumpia shanghai
images of white rice
exuding some fumes in
the light to the ceiling
clinking sounds of silver spoon and fork
and flowing clear drinking water
in the glass
in a whoosh
and the usual conversations
of sweet nothings
displayed on the table
like a soup
of bird's nest
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Bohemian
Up in my garret bleak and bare
I tilted back on my broken chair,
And my three old pals were with me there,
Hunger and Thirst and Cold;
Hunger scowled at his scurvy mate:
Cold cowered down by the hollow grate,
And I hated them with a deadly hate
As old as life is old.
So up in my garret that's near the sky
I smiled a smile that was thin and dry:
"You've roomed with me twenty year," said I,
"Hunger and Thirst and Cold;
But now, begone down the broken stair!
I've suffered enough of your spite . . . so there!"
Bang! Bang! I slapped on the table bare
A glittering heap of gold.
"Red flames will jewel my wine to-night;
I'll loose my belt that you've lugged so tight;
Ha! Ha! Dame Fortune is smiling bright;
The stuff of my brain I've sold;
Canaille of the gutter, up! Away!
You've battened on me for a bitter-long day;
But I'm driving you forth, and forever and aye,
Hunger and Thirst and Cold."
So I kicked them out with a scornful roar;
Yet, oh, they turned at the garret door;
Quietly there they spoke once more:
"The tale is not all told.
It's au revoir, but it's not good-by;
We're yours, old chap, till the day you die;
Laugh on, you fool! Oh, you'll never defy
Hunger and Thirst and Cold."
poem by Robert William Service
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Let Them Be
let the shoes come and accommodate your feet
and the gloves your hands
and your shirt and pants let them all come near you
and wear your body
let all of them come
let them be let them be
let them have you
the shoes will take you to the door of the house
the home you are longing
the stairs meet you
and the windows open like eyes looking out to another face
the floors and ceiling give you a space
where you can sit with the chair
that opens its arms
a glass serves you milk
or orange juice, tell it what you want
to quench your thirst
a saucer, a plate, a spoon and fork
they all come before your hands
some muffins and jelly
they all come before your mouth
they all come to feed your hunger
this is your home now.
Destiny is waiting.
You do not do a thing.
They all do it for you.
There is no worry.
Destiny does it for you.You see.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Human Being...
a thirst remains a thirst
a thirst for everything
a hunger for everyone
always dissatisfied...
wo/man
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Truth Is Calling
There's a nation of lost souls,
who dwell in pride
and fill themselves with emptiness,
to declare light where it dwells not.
There's a home of thieves,
who trade their souls
in exchange for vanity
that blinds their eyes with satiety.
There a slum of immorality:
Colored with coated beauty,
crowded with swooning sex pests,
raising the desires, filling their passions.
There's an empire of rulers,
whose hearts flame with tyranny
and their minds racing with greed,
planning a feast on their subjects.
There's a land of thirst,
a thirst for knowledge.
There's a wilderness of hunger,
a hunger for wisdom.
poem by Timothy muggaga
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A Little Sunshine
a grain of rice
on a table cloth
beside
a cup of hot
coffee
imperceptible
but when a connection is found
soon
the spoon and fork
shall understand
some pieces
no matter what
do not fit
on a reasonable landscape
what is the grain of rice
doing on a breakfast table?
your mind is furious
i think it is cool
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I Take the Fork
I take the fork,
And select what I choose to eat.
I sample the vegetables...
To then sip on juice or spring water.
I slice the meat with a knife.
I taste for seasoning.
To see if it pleases.
It does...
And I repeat.
I take the fork,
And select what I choose to eat.
I sample the vegetables...
To then sip on juice or spring water.
I slice the meat with a knife.
I taste for seasoning.
To see if it pleases.
It does...
And I repeat.
I might have dessert,
With coffee.
I use a spoon,
If icecream is served.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Vanishing table manners of a deprived loner
A poverty-stricken morning and the ragged Sun wipes the infected eyes lazily of his questionnaire palm.
In the gloomy breakfast on the hopeless table lain a rotten scramble egg and few slices of transparent bread.
Then salmonella dance in the peanut butter.
A decanter full of tap water, the broken tumbler;
And a rusty fork & spoon,
A faded napkin and some venomous toothpicks.
He sits on his rickety chair with tearful eyes and looking into the infinity through the seaside shattered window in his shack.
And he dreams of an invulnerable haven.
* Our Father;
Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us.Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.
-Amen-
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Dinner
i see how loneliness opens its mouth
and swallows you whole
there is this dinner
and you are
what is served to its hunger
and thirst and you do not even make a sound
when you are gone
into the deepest throat
of emptiness
there is no sound
there is only the willingness to be lost
and to be forgotten
loneliness ate you for dinner
and i will be its breakfast tomorrow morning
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Learned... This Hunger and Thirst
one who sleeps on the floor
cannot fall,
in the morning one wakes up
with thirst, the one
that even you drinking
water and wine
in dreams
never gets satisfied, there is
this hunger that continues
to be hungry, that no
bread in breakfast
or bacon or scrambled egg
can satiate,
there is this soul that you cannot
touch, but
gives you that feeling of you being here
and yet not really here
as though your one foot is in the ocean
and the other
is on the mountain trail
always looking for the
right way to finally find what you are really seeking...
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Pragmatist
the popularity of the sun
that comes day to day is not the issue for now
it is the light that it carries
feeding the leaves that
feed the cows that feed us too
it is not even beauty
that golden sheen of its hands that reach upon the
breasts of the hills
the thighs of the plains
the lips of the waves of the seas
it is the food that matters
the survival of all who rely on the satisfaction of every hunger
it is not which
came first the egg or the chicken
it is that which satisfies the hunger of each stomach
that matters for now
never shall you write about
a sunset
or a sunrise
it is the frying pan and the oil
the egg
sunny side up and the fork and the plate
how long has this been
that you have become another selfish pragmatist?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Living Water
For all men who hunger and thirst, let Jesus, in your life be first,
He will from a fountain higher, come fill our heart’s every desire.
The Lord will cause living water, to flow from within you forever,
When you truly come to know, Jesus Christ, eternal waters flow.
Through the Holy Spirit my friend, His living water will never end.
In everyone who Christ redeems, from inside flow living streams,
When you thirst for righteousness, Christ will fill your emptiness.
Not with a trickle or just a drop, but with streams that won’t stop.
All who thirst, Christ has willed, from His fountain shall be filled.
Filled through The Spirit above, sent to men through God’s love.
The well which feeds the spring, is regulated by the Eternal King,
And the well will never run dry, for its source is The Lord on High.
Rivers of water shall fill the life, of all who come to Jesus Christ.
They’ll hunger and thirst no more, when they know Christ as Lord.
God fills all our remaining days, with ever flowing joy and praise.
Being His example to all around, as the Love of Christ abounds,
A love from Christ that has its start, in every truly believing heart.
It comes only as you believe, and the Spirit of Truth you receive,
This living water He gives you, Christ wants to give to others too,
Using the living water of your life, to draw others to Jesus Christ.
For Those Who Grieve
no one
no one can really stop you
from eating the bark of the tree
the thick skin of the
fruit
no one can tell you what should have
been proper
or better
you like the skin and you throw away
the fruit that could have
satisfied your
thirst and hunger
the bark has poisoned you
the moon has warned you too well
the worm is wriggling
its frail and elongated
body
you have no ears
your sense of smell so badly damaged
and now you
are dying
no one tells you that life is as sweet
as the ripe fruit of the tree
that luscious flesh that flowing
juice
your gaze is sharp as a knife
stabbing even the
sun
and you are always right
what you have been searching
that can satisfy your hunger and thirst
is not found on the fruit
not even in the tree
it is in the poisonous bark
that useless skin
that silly coat
definitely it is not even here
where we are all grieving
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Things Do Not Seem To Be Them After A Careful Seeing
a spoon
and a fork and they seem to appear
with food on a silver platter
when we talk we talk like poets now
after years
a spoon is no longer just a spoon
and neither is the fork
and neither is the food the food that we
eat on the table
and neither is the silver platter a mere
silver platter as it seems to be
for a spoon may be me and i may also be
a tongue and i could be a tongue to your
fork, a protrusion that stabs me like a knife
and the silver platter could be our mind
a garden where we put every seed
and the table and the cloth that covers it
with leaves and flowers
myabe our worlds, covered and uncovered
with some intricate designs
this could be our world now. a world of poems
where everything is a roll of sensitive skin
a mind so fertile with its array of metaphors
and similes and
exaggerations, and these make us so happy
we tiptoe, we choose the word, we equate
every object to a meaning, we dance to a lot
of its nuances, and then we touch and then
we are so silent. we choose not to hurt.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Self We Share
Thirst is angry with water. Hunger bitter
with bread.
The cave wants nothing to do with the sun.
This is dumb, the self- defeating way
we've been.
A gold mine is calling us into its temple.
Instead, we bend and keep picking up rocks
from the ground.
Every thing has a shine like gold,
but we should turn to the source!
The origin is what we truly are. I add a little
vinegar to the honey I give.
The bite of scolding makes ecstasy more familiar.
But look, fish, you're already in the ocean:
just swimming there makes you friends with
glory.
What are these grudges about? You are Benjamin.
Joseph has put a gold cup in your grain sack and
accused you of being a thief.
Now he draws you aside and says,
'You are my brother. I
am a prayer. You're the amen.'
We move in eternal regions, yet
worry about property here.
This is the prayer of each:
You are the source of my life.
You separate essence from mud.
You honor my soul. You bring rivers from the
mountain springs. You brighten my eyes.
The wine you offer takes me out of myself into
the self we share. Doing that is religion.