Do not expect too much
This is it, this is poetry
Written by this man
He is looking by his window
To the world like a little boy
Still wondering, scribbling
Some figures of man and
Superman, putting them wings
Imagining that soon they will fly,
Do not expect too much
I myself do not have wings
I do not promise you any
I am simply writing the view
The green ricefields I do not
Have rice for you to cook I do
Not have water for you to drink
I have these words, only you
Can convert them to steamed
Rice to cakes to bacons to ham
To fish to sea to clouds to sun
Or simply coffee for you to sip
When you still hunger for breakfast.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Related quotes
Rat 6
do you remember
rice fields? try imagining
the green rice fields,
put some hills
more hills, and put a gap
between two hills,
and put the sun
shining brightly
and then put some black
buffaloes grazing at the
foot of the hills,
and then on the left side
try putting a nipa hut
a window and a little girl
looking out for sparrows
and on the right side
put the running river and
a jumping fish
do you still think that this
could be your home?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Always Remember My Friend Poet
new to this site? new to this art?
this scribbling and nibbling
and quibbling and clicking
of metaphors from air
and other figures of speech
from out of nowhere
this is not the outer space
but it makes you feel just the same
the usual floating and fleeting
and painting and fainting and
gloating and bloating and sinking
and shrinking and yes sometimes
blunder and surrender and plunder
welcome to this world
to our world your world
a world of imagination
imaginary bowls and plates and spoons and forks
but with real rice and fish in there
where the coffee is hot forever
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Mother's Steamed Rice
the sweetest song from the kitchen
that i hear
is mother's steamed rice
its smoke rising
to the ceiling
of our old wooden house
the smell so fresh
so sweetly scented with
pandan leaves
so heavenly
in broad daylight
i can see the moon and stars
beside the plate full of white steamed rice
are five pieces of salted fish
their skin charred with the cinders
their eyes staring
poisoned with so much envy
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Cook Of The House
Ground rice, sugar, vinegar, seco salt, macaroni too,
Cook of the house,
Im the cook of the house.
No matter where I serve my guests,
They seem to like the kitchen best cause Im the cook of the house,
Cook of the house.
The salads in the bowl,
The rice is on the stove.
Green beans in the colander and where the res is heaven only knows.
Cinnamon, garlic, salt, pepper, corn-bread, curry powder, coffee too,
Cook of the house,
Im the cook of the house.
No, matter where I serve my guests,
They seem to like the kitchen best.
cause Im the cook of the house,
Cook of the house.
Where the rest is heaven only knows.
Matter where I serve my guests,
They seem to like the kitchen best cause Im the cook of the house.
Cook of the house,
Cook of the house,
Im the cook of the house.
song performed by by Paul McCartney
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Varied Menu
Chicken and rice.
Fish and rice.
Rice and chicken.
Rice and fish.
Varied menu - 'ish!
Nice jungle place.
There's plenty of space.
Fresh clean air
But that dietary pair,
Fish or chicken
.....Not again!
So more trekking with a frown
Back to Georgetown.....
poem by George BernardBloodyShaw
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Ode To A Strict Lifestyle Of The Past
'twas the cruel time
with grandpa when dropping a grain
of rice on the table cloth is such a big crime
when you like to eat but you cannot swallow
the food
when you like to drink but the water tasted
as bitter as bile
when the conversations on the dining table
are shallow as affection is strange
as nothing becomes more important
than a future
not be be bound in the house anymore
when papa did not do anything
when mama simply sobbed
and stayed silence
and surrendered everything to God
all we waited is the blackness of the night
black because death is indifferent
because time is not a rescuer
of those who sank into
the bottom
of despair
i recall all these cruel times now
upon a grain of white rice
upon a coffee deprived of milk and sugar
upon a bread without the butter
upon a naked table
scratched with a knife
stained with tears
i look over the window
and stare at the black butterfly merely passing by
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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High Noon
high noon
time to cook
for my wife
got to fry
the fresh fish
warm the rice
and place
the plate for
one person
only...
i have already
eaten just
before high
noon
left-overs
last breakfast
no problem
keep on writing
i am reading
your best poem
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Request To The Dead
I offer this water to you,
my father, grandfather and great grandfather,
and to you, soldiers and generals
who fought for us and who fought against us
and who were killed by this war.
I stand here, on this battlefield,
and give this water and this rice to you—
you must be hungry and thirsty.
Ask for nothing
other than water and rice,
don't add to the long list
of things I was not able to give;
be content with this water and this rice
and return
to wherever you came from.
Consider this: the years
I have spent with you were many;
and this: it will not be long
before I join you wherever you sojourn.
Had I possessed things
other than this water and this rice,
would I have denied them to you
and asked you to return ?
Whatever I have
other than this water and this rice
are surely not appropriate offerings
for departed souls.
True, I traverse everyday of my life
with this baggage of witheld things,
but whenever I look at them
I disintegrate and cry out
with a voice that rends
the heavens
and the underworld.
Tears fill my eyes
when I make this offering
of water and rice.
I know, when my turn comes,
I shall have neither.
Look, the sun has almost set.
Now, go back to wherever you came from
with the little water and the little rice I gave you.
Look, I myself do not have
either any water or any rice.
Look, I have nothing except the few things
I didn't give
and kept with myself.
[Translated by the poet]
poem by Ramakanta Rath
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There Is No Poem To Begin The Week With
THERE IS NO POEM TO BEGIN THE WEEK WITH
There is no poem to begin the week with
Emptiness is the beginning
I try to think
I try to listen to some internal rhythm
I write words down
My thoughts are simple and self- referential
The green- yellow light is there outside my window
The world is moving
Am I writing a poem or simply writing whatever sentences come into my mind?
I sometimes think poetry never stops being written within me
At other times I believe I am just ambitious and pretentious
Today this is the beginning
These lines these words
A poem to begin the week with?
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Writing is like
One that I had in a dream
I was a bird flying high
Smooth air on my wings
Then I suddenly
Fell down
I did not experience any
Cut on any of my wings
They simply stopped flapping
And the air slipped
Sucked by some
Monster in space
It is like writing
I fall down today
From the heights of
Inspiration and
My mind simply
Breaks down
No thought
No dictation
From up there
Every word is sucked
Into nothingness
And all the boredom
That I have confessed to you
Once twice and always
Such that
You believe that I am
Simply inventing things
For attention,
All these are true.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Situationer.....
he has been writing
he is thinking and then she calls him for dinner
there is a blackout
and she lights a candle so he can see the fumes of steamed rice
the green color of braised morning glory
he is silent and she does not ask
she does not know whether he has been writing a lot
whether he is lost in the maze of his thoughts
she has cooked dinner for him
she calls his name
it is dinner time and that is the most important hour
she trusts him
he is dying
the needed light for the evening did not come
there are no stars outside the window
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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At 7: 59 In The Morning
my coffee has gone cold
the grease on the fish has frozen again
the jasmine rice has lost its scent and gluten
and the lettuce gave away its crispiness
all because i am writing poems again
forgetting time forgetting the table
where breakfast has been served
losing and forgetting and finding myself
to the bosom of God
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Mountain Of Poverty
this is what i can tell you:
the children are running in the hills
looking for their favorite butterflies to play
chasing dreams, i suppose, who knows
what they really know and
feel, i was once a child myself, perhaps i have the right to guess
what simple wants they have,
freedom, but i can tell you about something else,
their breakfast today is only brown sugar and rice,
and they have not taken their baths in the river because
the water is dirty, and there is no water system in the hills,
primitive, and still undeveloped, the grasses are not cut
tall and wild, and the coconut trees are not bearing much fruits,
there is drought, and the tenants do not have a good harvest
of their upland rice and there are rats infesting the rice fields,
it rains so hard, the road is slippery and we all have to walk slowly
to keep themselves warm, the men drink wine and smoke
the women do not weave mats anymore, they're sold cheap
and they are so disappointed with what they are getting
sugar is a precious commodity here, no coffee,
salt is expensive, salted fish is a luxury,
bread is like gold here and children do not know what is bread all about
cookies do not exist here
stone age, this is stone age in the midst of an expanding world
the children here are left out
i stare at them as they throw stones at play,
dirt and foul smell, but on the other hand i look at the pictures
that i took on that day
less the smell, less the dirt on their faces,
they are so beautiful, and the mountains are still hopeful.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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In My Island...
there is no regret having stayed
in this humble land of my
forefathers,
there are no chocolates,
no green money,
nothing of those jumbo hot-dogs
and burgers and hams and sandwiches
no coffee or tea
nothing of those cakes and wheat breads
plain potatoes and dried fish
and staple rice
no earthquakes, no volcanic eruptions,
no tsunamis
i am not stuck in here
we live here
forever.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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This Early Morning With You Talking And Talking
regret, it is with deep regret that i tell you
that i regret sitting on this
computer chair
and facing the screen
and i am here writing for you
as you talk and talk
and talk and talk
like a quacking duck
oh Adam did not lay eggs,
or have the temerity to hatch them and so the chickens came first
how nice of you
regret that is all i feel now
i could have gone
out and take my walk
i could have read
the most wonderful poetry
of the trail
the line of green mahogany trees
blooming with their summer leaves
the sun finally coming out
with an array of clouds
and white herons
gliding and landing
on ricefields
and grasses creeping
and covering
the mud and the stones
indeed, it would have
been lovelier that way
and i should have
been happier
than simply sitting
and writing
and feeling
what poetry should
not be
this early morning
with you
what a hell!
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Decision To Be Happy
I am watching water
dripping from the gutter
the rain has just stopped
falling
the sun begins its part
spreading soft light on the window panes
my wife has finished taking her bath
and kisses me on my cheeks
breakfast is ready on the table
and the smell of rice and pork grill spreads in the house
the water that drips from the gutter
to the leaves of the fortune plant appears
like diamonds bringing all that gladness
to the younger hours of the day
well, ask me what is this all about
oh yeah, this is all about this decision to be just
simply happy.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Poem about Poetry - Essence
i do not like writing poetry for the
self professed sophisticated people
they cannot take words for what they are
and have the penchant to take more than
what you wish to say; they gobble up words
like the black hole and expect every new line
to have a word from the thesaurus when all i want
to say is simply I love the world for what it is
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Responsibility From The Words Of Grandpa
we all eat together
partake the white rice and the
fried fish
and home made coffee
every breakfast
as he tells stories
about his exploits during
World War II
and then when everyone is
finished listening to
every word
from his mouth placed
on his square jaws
he makes the last remark
that the last one to leave
shall wash all
the plates
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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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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Poverty
he is arrested today on a charge of grave threats
against his very own aunt who owns a store selling rice and salted fish
and sugar and coffee and eggs and mongo beans
he has nothing to eat and hurt his back and cannot really walk straight
like an ordinary man
yesterday he asksed a little help from his aunt for he was so hungry and had not eaten his breakfast as last night it rained so hard and his lamp went out andcould not catch the american frogs on the pond that taste like chickens for his supper with his mother and two other siblings who are very hungry too and there are no more bananas and potatoes in their farm which did not yield a good harvest of rice as the cost of fertilizer has gone more than twice their price last month and they have nothing to spray to kill the army worms
and the clerk asks if they have no chickens and there is none as all died
because of bird flu that came too early this year
and he was too angry because his aunt would not give them a little rice
or at least let them borrow for the meantime that they have no work
because the municipality is laying off all the casual employees that dig
the ditch along the muddy road
and so he threatened his aunt as he was so hungry and he took the chupa of
rice and a cup of mongo beans and a piece of salted fish for home
and so he is arrested today not just for grave threats but also for theft
he is the thief
that hunger and anger have successfully molded before our very eyes
that know no pity no compassion, and we shall now ask:
what is the verdict your honor? is he guilty as charged?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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