Descriptive...
the window is open
beside the garage where the white
pick-up is parked and below it
is the white poodle
sleeping soundly
it is 4: 07 in the afternoon
in my house in Katipunan
where the road is empty where
the trees are still
where the wind is as silent
as the grass
well manicured at the
center of the
yard.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Early Morning Poetry
a gray cat so gentle
sleeping beside my easy chair
soft wind enters the window
from the far mountain
the white silky curtains
by the window
sway to the direction of the wind
a red rose blooms on the side
of the limestone wall
horse grazing on the grassy plain
a white dog runs toward a wooden gate
a car stops on the yard near the veranda of this old house
a brother from far announces his arrival
hot coffee and pancakes on the table
fumes of white rice and smoke from the grilled fish
faint classical Mozart music plays on the cassette
light from the sun penetrating the screen of the dining window
a black and white family picture on top of the family piano
grandpa on his military uniform as mother carries father on her arms
memories flood the room and words keep creeping like worms
i want to say that there are no termites on this house but that would be a lie.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I Watch You From the Window When You Pick Up Poodle Doo
Is that your moody poodle,
You feed heated noodles to...
When I see you,
Rushing home from school?
I want to say to you,
That I could walk your poodle too.
And scoop up all that poo poo just for you.
I watch you from the window,
When you pick up poodle doo!
I imagine if I helped out...
You would not have to rush from school?
To noodle up your poodle.
Then pick up poodle doo.
Is that your moody poodle,
You feed heated noodles to...
When I see you,
Rushing home from school?
I want to say to you,
That I could walk your poodle too.
And scoop up all that poo poo just for you.
If you had a cat,
You wouldn't have to do that.
You would have so much free time.
I had a cat but he got fat...
And died when I chased him,
With a turkey butt he swallowed...
I was thawing.
For some greens I was going to buy!
He was the only cat I had,
That did not have nine lives!
I watch you from the window,
When you pick up poodle doo!
I imagine if I helped out...
You would not have to rush from school?
To noodle up your poodle.
Then pick up poodle doo.
I will do that,
If you want me to?
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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I Want a Wind
I want a wind
To start in the far-off mountain
To rush down in a raging fury
And fill this dull and silent valley.
I want a wind
To wrap around the gray tree trunks
To rattle the leaves and grass
To whistle by the window’s glass.
I want a wind
To make the pine trees clack together
To tangle the hair of the Barbie girls
To make the dust on the roads to swirl.
I want a wind
To take the litter on the sidewalk away
To blow the mist from the falls my way
To echo throughout this listless day.
I want a wind
To burst through the window and into here
To scatter the papers from their neat piles
To steal my breath and give me smile.
poem by Sophia White
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Bliss Remembered....
a rose
in a white porcelain vase
on top of
a glazed
wooden table
showered with
the early morning light
from the laced
window
while you were
still sleeping soundly
in bed
two yellow birds
chirp
on the sill
of the window
i am at
peace
beside you
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Mirror
Between the woods the afternoon
Its fallen in a golden swoon,
The sun looks down from quiet skies
To where a quiet water lies,
And silent trees stoop down to the trees.
And there I saw a white swan make
Another white swan in the lake;
And, breast to breast, both motionless,
They waited for the wind's caress. . .
And all the water was at ease.
poem by Alan Alexander Milne
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Daily
you wake up early
you wash your face
you use soap and water
you wipe your face with
a white towel near the sink
hanging
you dress up
you take breakfast
you chew your food
you drink your coffee
you read the papers
hear the news on tv
you go to the garage
warm up your car
you open the garage
and speed your way to your office
you read the whole day
you talk less
you take your lunch
and you cat's nap
you work the whole afternoon
you read a lot
you write
you are tired and ask your driver
to drive you home
you open the door of your house
you sleep with your shoes on
you sleep for some hours
you are hungry
you go to the kitchen and eat
the food made ready for you
by your housemaid
you are alone in this sequence
you turn on the tv
and the whole night you feel
you are the lookout
for something that is about to happen
you ask yourself, what is this all about?
you tell yourself, you do not know, it is just your daily routine
for years and years, and it goes on and on and you have no
way of stopping
they call it life
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Late autumn
The yellow veldt, the skeleton chestnut trees
specs of orange-red aloes in the kopje
are near to the old white house
and in the late afternoon shades draw long lines
while I walk up to the house on the red-brown dirt road
and most of the flowers in the garden are stripped bare
but a few irises are flowering yellow,
purple and cream brown
and the sky is dull blue and the early evening cold
is already on the wind that is rustling everything
and after years I open the garden gate
are coming back to my childhood home
stripped from illusions,
and I am bare from the childhood innocence
but full of hope
and looking through a mature man’s eyes.
poem by Gert Strydom
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That Afternoon
i was there again
standing by the side of the old
glass windows
hazy because of the dust
it is hazy, hazy
the sea is linen white
the coconut trees as tall as they are very old
planted perhaps before the war
before the Japanese came
and ravished the spirits of our innocent people
i was there again
standing on a moment
always seeing
that rusty van parked
without its front wheel
nobody from there is asking
what is happening
it is hazy, as hazy as dusts
on that old glass window
then a black bird flies through
it breaking the thin old glass
into shattered pieces
the afternoon ended
on that sudden noise
i am telling you
i am not shocked because
i am not new to this
how can i be? i am as old and as
tall as that coconut tree
i am from this place
and i know each grain of sand
on the shore
of that white linen sea.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Ruben's Mansion
it is not a house
in fact, it is a white mansion
placed on a one-hectare lot
surrounded by a well-manicured
garden and flowering shrubs
and fruit trees
one that everyone cannot but
always admire
when they come
and watch
Ruben's mansion
taking 2 years to finish
and 12 million pesos
in expenditures
as you go inside
the glass door opens
leading you
to a living room
twice as large
as my own house
in a remote barrio
the furniture are carved
from molave trees
shining with shellac
and glistening
with opulence
the motif of this
house
the kitchen is huge
four times as wide
as my garage
accommodating only
my second hand car
and the garage
is one that can handle
a party for the night
of ten tables and
fifty chairs and
a hundred people
one wonders
why Ruben has to make
a mansion like this
sheer taste perhaps
or his money
simply searching for something
to buy and spend
looking for some
vents
did he remember
how as a child
the family was shamed
because visitors
from Bohol
in 1970 could not
be accommodated
and they all murmured
how poor they were?
it must be traumatic
for Ruben
as a child
and it must be some
trauma
that molded his dream
to build a mansion
like this?
(or am i just
jealous
of his ambition)
i need not ask some
more
his lips are sealed
he is dead
and he has no way
explaining
a sensitive matter as building
a mansion
while the rest still
thrives on
mediocre houses and
unfinished makeshifts
and no one lives
in this house anymore
perhaps some dreams
still live here
dreams unfulfilled
and once fulfilled
these dreams now
refuse to die
a mansion is still a house
and when no one lives there
need i say
that it is never a home
and after this party
tendered in the name of Ruben
we all go home
and then think for once
i must build a home
and for the meantime forget about a mansion
or just a house.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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We are moving to places where our hands still touch
What you did was make this yard of cement
Some hard posts and high fences and barbwires
You call it safety; you call it clean to see
There will be no shrubs, no trees, just this
Big house and empty rooms, a garage full
Of cars, some phones and TV walls
We move to other places then since we disagree
We leave this place of cement and fences and walls
We move to the hills where we still have our trees
Our long winding rivers, the rocks and grass
The winds and skies, we move to places where
The birds are not caged, where they sing the sweetest songs
Where we and the rest of us are free
Where on mountaintops and cliffs and drifting clouds
Our hands still touch & shake the Hands of God.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Social Chickens
i wonder why the
white and red chickens
escape from their
house
tonight they roost upon
the branch of an old
tree
so high that they can
see
above our fence
the road
the red and white chickens
too of my other
neighbor's yard
roosting on the other tree
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Twelve
a woman in an early morning sweeping some trash
away from the house
a heap of garbage
thrown on the road for the garbage truck to pick it up...
whistles her way inside the house
locks the gates
enters the door
and opens all the windows of the house
meeting a brand new day
filled with warm sunshine
and cool air breathings
from the yard's green trees.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Easter Scene
a woman in an early morning sweeping some trash
away from the house
a heap of garbage
thrown on the road for the garbage truck to pick it up...
whistles her way inside the house
locks the gates
enters the door
and opens all the windowsof the house
meeting a brand new day
filled with warm sunshine
and cool air breathings
from the yard's green trees.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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On a hot summer afternoon
On a hot summer afternoon
I open the window and listen
To the flowing wind
Dry leaves on the tree rustle
The atmosphere filled with dust
The sun shines
Emitting tremendous heat
Making the wind hot and severe
Everybody on the street
Runs for shade
Throats dry
Thirst for water increases
Every soul
Search for a glass of cold water
Birds and animal rest in shades
Waiting for the sun to set
I close the window
In a huff
Never to open and feel the wind
On another hot summer afternoon
poem by Nirantar Dr.Rajendra Tela
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Final Door.......
Brown house
Grey smiles
Green green grass
Black shoes
Crystal tears with heart felt whispers
Hugs
Blue sky with cream teeth
Green green grass
(hold that thought)
Glassed water grasped
Taut innards
Flowers brought
White horses
Braided manes
White lilies
Window pane
White carriage
To carry forth
Green green grass
Hold that thought
Passing traffic
Collars grasped
Blurry images
Tend then pass
Crystal tears
Smart black tie
Shake and smile
Avoid the eye
Deep breath enter in
Listen watch
Let them begin
Then stare at the floor
'Bye bye darling'
Open door
poem by Karen Sinclair
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Absences
It's snowing this afternoon and there are no flowers.
There is only this sound of falling, quiet and remote,
Like the memory of scales descending the white keys
Of a childhood piano--outside the window, palms!
And the heavy head of the cereus, inclining,
Soon to let down its white or yellow-white.
Now, only these poor snow-flowers in a heap,
Like the memory of a white dress cast down . . .
So much has fallen.
&n bsp; &nb sp; & nbsp; And I, who have listened for a step
All afternoon, hear it now, but already falling away,
Already in memory. And the terrible scales descending
On the silent piano; the snow; and the absent flowers abounding.
poem by Donald Justice
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White Comedy
I waz whitemailed
By a white witch,
Wid white magic
An white lies,
Branded by a white sheep
I slaved as a whitesmith
Near a white spot
Where I suffered whitewater fever.
Whitelisted as a whiteleg
I waz in de white book
As a master of white art,
It waz like white death.
People called me white jack
Some hailed me as a white wog,
So I joined de white watch
Trained as a white guard
Lived off the white economy.
Caught and beaten by de whiteshirts
I waz condemned to a white mass,
Don't worry,
I shall be writing to de Black House.
poem by Benjamin Zephaniah
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Sexy Woman
white clouds
blue sea
green long island
on the shallow waters
a woman faces me
white bra
white panty
(two piece)
at the middle
the water touches
the center of her
being
the grass of her earth
is wet
she walks away
dripping
her hair is long and curly
black
she does not own me.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Those Little Birds In My Country
one is red
up the tree
one is blue
down the drain
one is white
at the center
of the house
the others eight
in all
on each window
one sun
with eight rays
no stars
this time
not one
stripe
the Filipino people
has learned
to hate.
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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