Concrete Images
hands with veins like vines
creeping up the banyan tree
piling hollow blocks filled with
mixed cement and sand and
pea-sized gravel building this
high concrete post and 8-layered
wall between our two houses
my good neighbors with
square faces do not have
the ability to use kind words
like they are new aliens from
another galaxy 10 light years
away from my bamboo bench.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Banyan Tree
Banyan tree, banyan tree
that century old banyan tree
standing grandeurly for us to see
banyan tree, banyan tree.
Cool breeze passing through
seeking blessings of banyan tree
branches shaking in approval
banyan tree, banyan tree.
Glassy green with majestic trunk
touching the earth, not breaking free
shelter home for different birds
banyan tree, banyan tree.
Yellowish streaks, some with reddish tinge
welcome every season with a glee
symbol of eternal life
banyan tree, banyan tree.
Shedding leaves, like tears falling
a grandfather lamenting on its knees
new plants cuddling around
banyan tree, banyan tree.
Lord Buddha became its buddy
meditation was the only key
peace you get underneath
that is why it is banyan tree.
Banyan tree, banyan tree
wish fullfilling, it is banyan tree
just pray here and let you see
Banyan tree, banyan tree.
A life giver and just for free
Banyan is my national pride
preserve these at any cost
don't commit a homicide?
God blessed us with banyan tree
heat absorbing banyan tree
has healing powers this banyan tree
banyan tree, banyan tree.
---- X -----
copyright/Children of Lost God/Tribhawan Kaul
All rights reserved
poem by Tribhawan Kaul
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A Place To Sit
Smoochers and snoggers, and resting joggers
all seem to stop at this concrete bench.
Ramblers and walkers, and street hawkers
all seem to stop at this concrete bench.
Mini’s and Roller’s, and lady strollers
all seem to stop at this concrete bench.
Old folk and young folk, and dogs with no folk
all seem to stop at this concrete bench.
Market traders and cavers, and money savers
all seem to stop at this concrete bench.
Children that play who meet everyday
all seem to stop at this concrete bench.
Students and teachers, and lay preachers
all seem to stop at this concrete bench.
Loose women and boys the ‘for sale’ toys
all seem to stop at this concrete bench.
Addicts and dealers, and police squealers
all seem to stop at this concrete bench.
Dogs out for a pee who can’t find a tree
all seem to stop at this concrete bench.
Drunks in the night who like to fight
all seem to stop at this concrete bench.
Spray painters and doodlers, and bench abusers
all seem to stop at this concrete bench.
Vandals and hooligans, and booted ruffians
all seem to stop at this concrete bench.
Demolishers and breakers, and obliterators
never stopped until they destroyed this concrete bench.
poem by Orlando Belo
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Feeling Hollow Is Not A Crime
feeling hollow is not a crime,
why worry? i like to feel hollow at times
i feel so light and guiltless, and i sit on a bench
and look at passersby, guessing what is also
inside their minds: that one is hollow too,
she is floating in air like a butterfly
and that one is hollower than thou
she has a halo.
now i feel hollow too, but i get so used to it
that it has gained weight like a feather from
the status of air, and i have become so sensitive
to what other hollow people like me feel,
to the nth time of their empty lives,
but, know what, only for a little time,
hollow minds become filled,
like hollow souls too filled with so
much divine grace.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Hoarded Silence
and so we made an understanding
to make our fences higher & stronger
& thicker,
we shake our hands and on that very day
we constructed things as planned
we heard some whistling that sound of the
mixing of the cement and sand and gravel
the putting of the blocks and finally the
shushing sound of the finishing touches
since then we could not see their affairs
in the same manner that we have kept strictly
on the privacy of our own events
the visitors that come the drinks shared
we know there is peace now
nothing of the old disturbance but when
everyone leaves to occupy their own private places too
what stays behind is the hoarded silence, this loneliness.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Sonnet- Nature Is Wonderful
A Banyan sapling's growing on the wall;
From near the drainage-pipe, luxuriantly;
Astonishing the people near-by all;
Its trunk looks almost like a mini-tree.
Look how, the leaves appear so verdant, stiff;
The aerial roots are three metres in length;
The tree looks gorgeous as if on a cliff;
And everyday, God gives it greater strength.
Bless'd is the Bird who spat the Banyan-seed;
Thanks to the water o'er-flowing from tank;
'Tis photo-synthesis, soil-less, indeed;
It cant grow fast like ones on River-bank.
But if the roots manage to reach the ground,
The tree will live a thousand years, ‘Tis found.
poem by John Celes
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Variations on a Theme by Joyce
The war is in words and the wood is the world
That turns beneath our rootless feet;
the vines that reach, alive and snarled,
Across the path where the sand is swirled,
Twist in the night. The light lies flat.
The war is in words and the wood is the world.
The rain is ruin and our ruin rides
The swiftest winds; the wood is whorled
And turned and smoothed by the turning tides.
--There is rain in the woods, slow rain that breeds
The war in the words. The wood is the world.
This rain is ruin and our ruin rides.
The war is in words and the wood is the world,
Sourceless and seized and forever filled
With green vine twisting on wood more gnarled
Than dead men's hands. The vines are curled
Around these branches, crushed and killed.
The war is in words and the wood is the world.
poem by Weldon Kees
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Flute - a triolet
Hollow and holes of bamboo played with air.
Most natural, magical, musical instrument.
Makes melodious the complete atmosphere
Hollow and holes of bamboo played with air.
In hands of Lord Krishna, Hindus wish to be flute.
In tranquillity, ears sense celestial experience.
Hollow and holes of bamboo played with air;
Most natural, magical, musical instrument.
poem by S.D. Tiwari
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Much Like the Use of Cement Is Mixed
The strength in my words is intended.
Much like the use of cement is mixed,
To concrete the enhancement of steel...
Brick, aluminum and/or wood.
You may attempt to weaken it,
By use of any depiction you wish.
But the origin is not in conflict.
Nor is my mission to portray a feathered boa.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Christina
It all began so easy
With bricks upon the floor
Building motley houses
And knocking down your houses
And always building more.
The doll was called Christina,
Her under-wear was lace,
She smiled while you dressed her
And when you then undressed her
She kept a smiling face.
Until the day she tumbled
And broke herself in two
And her legs and arms were hollow
And her yellow head was hollow
Behind her eyes of blue.
He went to bed with a lady
Somewhere seen before,
He heard the name Christina
And suddenly saw Christina
Dead on the nursery floor.
poem by Louis Macneice
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The four building blocks of the universe are fire, water, gravel and vinyl.
quote by Dave Barry
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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425
one more day papa
for me to get to know you more
how the days and years have built a wall between us
how you kept on telling me that after mama died the years had become so
hollow and even so cruel
one day more papa
you have always repeated that we are destined to be split
like a bamboo
and that sharp bolo does it with nothing but seconds
i leave back to where i am
and you will be staying to where you are
you tell me your heart is broken
but i will not tell you that mine too is bleeding
one day more papa and there will be no other days
i have long been dead away from your hands
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Yellow Badge of Courage
(A tribute to the late Pres. Cory Aquino
1933-2009)
In ev’ry light post on an avenue
instead of an ol’ oak tree
as it used to be,
In ev’ry tree along the hi-way
instead of an ol’ oak tree
as it used to be,
In ev’ry edifice high or low
instead of an ol’ oak tree
as it used to be,
In ev’ry single family home
instead of an ol’ oak tree
as it used to be,
In ev’ry private or public vehicle
instead of an ol’ oak tree
as it used to be,
And in ev’ry soul rich or poor on the street
instead of an ol’ oak tree
as it used to be,
One could see a yellow ribbon
big and small tied around it.
symbol of someone returning
in one piece, in triumph but tragic
Comes latitudinarian woman
moxie to fight against tyranny and oppression
Unite Now! Victory is ours!
The obstreperous people power cry
Twenty six years after ubiquitous yellow ribbons
sprouted once more
only to bid farewell to her chanting people
a lasting adieu never to return
Quietus ol’ woman left a legacy
No one could ever forget in every one’s occiput
Keep the corvine neighbors away
Let peace and democracy flourish forever
poem by Noel Horlanda
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The Wedge
Were bobbing on the surface
And the shadow glides below
They say she feels my heartbeat
Oh..but how Ill never know
That its the ocean flowing in our veins
Oh..that its the salt thats in our tears
Oh..cause we could have come so very far
Oh..in at least as many years!
Take the highway through the great divide (x2)
Im building you a pyramid
With limestone blocks so large
I drag them from the mountain top
Youll need a two car garage
And its the ocean flowing in our veins
Oh..that its the salt thats in our tears
Oh..cause we could have come so very far
Oh..in at least as many years
Take the highway through the great divide x2
Cause its the ocean flowing in our veins
Oh..that its the salt thats in our tears
Oh..cause we could have come so very far
Oh..in at least as many years
Take the highway through the great divide
song performed by by Phish
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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It's Time For You Escape
in concrete houses
in concrete silence
nobody can not hear
your call
concrete houses are
sinking more than once
in the wine
when the clocks
are hitting
at the morning hour
concrete hearts
being getting cold
are slowly undergoing
the life
although it this way aches
escape ahead of yourself
nobody will catch up
with you
and even behind you
nobody will dropp tear
you will rescue yourself
escape - already time
poem by Maria Barbara Korynt
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Christmas Trees
old homeless man...
watching then sell
Christmas trees from
a gravel lot...
thirty dollars, half memories,
faces or shadows,
long gone!
shuffles his feet,
his hands in his pockets,
fumbling his change...
old man, move on!
maybe come back tonite,
swipe a tree in the dark,
drag it on down to the tracks....
a bare Christmas tree,
and a lonesome old fire....
shadows and faces,
waiting quietly on death!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Staying At Ed's Place
I like being in your apartment, and not disturbing anything.
As in the woods I wouldn't want to move a tree,
or change the play of sun and shadow on the ground.
The yellow kitchen stool belongs right there
against white plaster. I haven't used your purple towel
because I like the accidental cleft of shade you left in it.
At your small six-sided table, covered with mysterious
dents in the wood like a dartboard, I drink my coffee
from your brown mug. I look into the clearing
of your high front room, where sunlight slopes through bare
window squares. Your Afghanistan hammock,
a man-sized cocoon
slung from wall to wall, your narrow desk and typewriter
are the only furniture. Each morning your light from the east
douses me where, with folded legs, I sit in your meadow,
a casual spread of brilliant carpets. Like a cat or dog
I take a roll, then, stretched out flat
in the center of color and pattern, I listen
to the remote growl of trucks over cobbles on
Bethune Street below.
When I open my eyes I discover the peaceful blank
of the ceiling. Its old paint-layered surface is moonwhite
and trackless, like the Sea—of Tranquillity.
poem by May Swenson
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Snow wonderland
Matching scratches
White square patterns, design by print feet.
Back and forward & square.
Walking straight to shine light & moving shadow
Reflect the way home
Cold needles are sewing the red faces looking around.
Everything is enchanted by light and mud.
Pine tree green cover in a sweet icing.
Drops, smoking, cold melting ice
On my hands warmed pocket.
Broken snow, walking on the front steps.
Inside the house, outside a paint window
Nature a great painter.
After the night.
Museum of white morning colours
Shouting scarf's and boots
Angels games.
Raining melting tree.
Warm grey sky.
White bushes with orange and red berry faces.
White pyramids of smoking chimney.
Keeping warm thrones.
poem by Luca Menin
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Fallen Oak
That storm took down my neighbor's oak
and smashed the light post too.
They fell across and blocked our street,
So no cars can get through.
Once lofty branches block the walks-
(That tree was very tall.)
The slab of concrete at its' root
was lifted by its fall.
The tree and post are obstacles
With which we must contend.
The victims of a fury
we can scarcely comprehend.
How fast the darkness did descend-
The rain in torrents fell.
We heard the crack of splintered wood-
and crashing steel as well.
The North part of our street has light.
a Sodium Vapor Glow.
But south, the Darkness quick descends,
There no cars dare go.
My house, for now, still bathed in light
Our tree survived the storm.
But darkness was made visible
by a sudden touch of Fall..
poem by John F. McCullagh
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The Dwellers Had Gone
Four dejected sons,
Shouldered a catafalque,
Of their deceased father,
Each propped the corner,
And went ahead sweating,
With prints of grief on the faces,
The Imam also move ahead
In their company, and the five
After having performed obsequies,
Stood with grave looks around
The fresh dug conic heap of earth,
And raised hands for the prayer
For the deceased mason,
Whose built houses of the village,
Still stood behind the banyan tree,
But with the silence prevailed lanes,
For the dwellers had gone,
To watch the annual dogs’ fight
Fight till death,
Death either of the one or of the both.
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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Bombsite Conversation.
Fay sat beside you
on the concrete stairs
of Banks House
looking out
into the Square
where young girls
played skip rope
or boys having toy guns
reenacted WW2
taking no prisoners
firing noisy cap guns
and Fay said
where shall we go?
where do you want to go?
you said
away from the noisy guns
and skip rope games
she replied
and so you both got up
and went out
into the Square
and down the slope
the morning sun
blessing your heads
she in her summery dress
of yellow and orange flowers
white socks and sandals
and you in your grey tee shirt
and jeans and battered
black shoes
and you walked up
Meadow Row
between the houses
on either side until you turned right
by the public house
and onto the bombsite
behind the greengrocer store
and there you both sat
on the remains of a wall
looking around the ruins
and wild flowers
growing between bricks
and broken concrete blocks
and Fay said
I wonder who lived here
when the bombs fell?
what did they feel?
you studied her fair hair
tied in a bow
her blue eyes
scanning the scene
the white and yellow flowers
the weedy green
scared I guess
you said
I would be
she said
my mum said
she hid under
the dining room table
with her niece
where she lived
when the bombs fell
and there was the sound
of bombs falling
and explosions
and bangs
and people calling
and children crying
you said
Fay put her arm
under yours
and squeezed it tight
and lay her head
on your shoulder
and she whispered
I'm glad we
weren't here then
glad we were born
after the War
me too
you said
and she squeezed
your arm tightly
some more.
poem by Terry Collett
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