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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Related quotes
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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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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Shattered windows, Colors of white
Across the street is a new house with a room painted red, with no holes of white.
Next to me, a house purple, with its color pealing off, with holes of black and white
At the end of the street, an old house once yellow, what now remains white.
The sound of a hammer building a house, entering a place with a color unknown.
On the street,
Windows covered with ice
Some shine with light.
Some broken
Some fixed
Some lost, out of sight.
A house, two blocks from here.
Shines with lights of yellow, red, and green everywhere.
A wall keeping the wind from blowing anywhere.
The house next door, at the dawn of the day.
Paints its room black, and peals the color away.
The wall crumbles.
The wind blows across the colors of yellow, red and green
Breaks all the windows.
Turns the yellow to blue, red to black, and green to white.
The house two blocks away.
Adds a line of yellow red and green everyday.
To allow the house of blue, black and white to shine for us some day.
poem by Linda ErikssonBique
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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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A Picture Of A Cat
a gray cat on a brown
window sill
blue bird on a
green twig against
a white sky
black man on
a red chair
white butterfly
against a white
eye
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Sunrise's Entrance
sunrise is such a lady
with a fashion sense
clad in rays of light
slim between the
shadows of the trees
jeweled with diamond
warm like a lover's hand
sunrise dramatically
arrives full of hope for
another brand new day
there is a fruit tray by the
window
five shiny red apples
there is a base of white
magnolias inside a
golden vase by
the window
there is breakfast on the
table: smiling fried egg
tasty hot dogs, pearl white
rice, brewed coffee and
a slice of ripe yellow mango.
poetry in bliss
music from the breeze
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Lovely, Lovely, Lovely Memories Too
Lovely 6
On Sundays papa buys some kilos of big crabs
He cooks them and puts shredded coconuts inside them
Cooked in pure white coconut oil
All the family prays for this sumptuous dinner
No one is late & everyone is present.
Lovely 7
The white ducks all gather in the backyard during the black night
After eating brown snails in the green ricefield the whole day
Early morning you gather all their white eggs
Scattered everywhere like white stones
Your big brown basket is full as they look at you without any quack.
Lovely 8
It is midnight and everyone is asleep
You hear the slow rain dripping by the window pane
On a nipa roof
As you write your 8th love poem
Her face is still beautiful even when completely asleep
Lovely 9
25 years you have not heard of her
Tomorrow is Valentine’s Day
In your email a valentine’s greeting pops up
It is from her and you save it
Tomorrow morning you will open it again
Looking for the right words to read.
Lovely 10
Your music teacher now at 76 drops by
Your house this morning
You are invited for tea in his flower garden
Then he plays some pieces of Mozart
A little white dog wags its tail at you
As your heart jumps with joy.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Window
All night long, by a distant bell,
The passing hours were notched
On the dark, while her breathing rose and fell,
And the spark of life I watched
In her face was glowing or fading, -- who could tell? --
And the open window of the room,
With a flare of yellow light,
Was peering out into the gloom,
Like an eye that searched the night.
Oh, what do you see in the dark, little window, and why do you fear?
"I see that the garden is crowded with creeping forms of fear:
Little white ghosts in the locust-tree, that wave in the night-wind's breath,
And low in the leafy laurels the larking shadow of death."
Sweet, clear notes of a waking bird
Told of the passing away
Of the dark, -- and my darling may have heard;
For she smiled in her sleep, while the ray
Of the rising dawn spoke joy without a word,
Till the splendor born in the east outburned
The yellow lamplight, pale and thin,
And the open window slowly turned
To the eye of the morning, looking in.
Oh, what do you see in the room, little window, that makes you so bright?
"I see that a child is asleep on her pillow, soft and white,
With the rose of life on her tips, and the breath of life in her breast,
And the arms of God around her as she quietly takes her rest."
poem by Henry Van Dyke
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The White Room
Spanna noo na noo na ne na naho
Spanna noo na ne ne naho
Spa noo na naho
Noo na naho
Noo na naho
Spa noo na naho
Spanna noo na noo na noo na naho
Spanna noo na noo na nehhey
Spa noo na nehhey
Noo na naho
Noo na naho
Spanna noo na noo na ne na naho
Spanna noo na ne ne naho
[more spa na noo ne na noo things]
Talk to me, talk to me
If you want to know the things we see
Then step inside our skins
The white room, the white room
We spin, we turn, watch and wait
As the world just creeps on bye
The white room, the white room
Ooohhaaa
Talk to me, talk to me
Far below, a small boat sails,
Catching fish from the sea.
The white room, the white room
We climb the mountain,
Feel the wind,
We climbed to touch the stars.
The white room, the white room
Ooohhaaa
The white room, the white room
[more spetta na noo ne na noo things]
The white room, the white room
The white room, the white room
[more spetta na noo ne na noo things]
The white room, the white room
song performed by by KLF
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I Feel So Light Like A Fur, Like A Feather
i finish some things today. Missions ending in
like a report rated excellent. Self-steem. Steaming
self-worth because i am doing things right.
The vigor of vanity subsumed like a folded
cloth in the cabinet. White, so white like light
from the window pane. No chirping bird. No
banging of the door. No closed window.
Plain sky. Plain sun. Plain day.
My heart listens. My arms fold. My hands clasp.
I breathe a breastful of air from your scented body.
I love this way of finishing a relationship.
We make love and then without saying any word
We part ways.
No sadness. Just a relish of memories.
No regrets. Just a body of memories. Streams of thoughts.
Unbounded. Unblocked by what they want to say.
Who cares? We had it, and that was enough fuel to make us
Move to another direction. To propel us to heights beyond our control.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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At Glan-y-Wern
White-robed against the threefold white
Of shutter, glass and curtains' lace,
She flashed into the evening light
The brilliance of her gipsy face:
I saw the evening in her light.
Clear, from the soft hair to the mouth,
Her ardent face made manifest
The sultry beauty of the South:
Below, a red rose, climbing, pressed
Against the roses of her mouth.
So, in the window's threefold white,
O'ertrailed with foliage like a bower,
She seemed, against the evening light,
Amongst the flowers herself a flower,
A tiger-lily sheathed in white.
poem by Arthur Symons
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The Little Boy In My Hometown
a little boy
finds the house too crowded
his father beats his
mother in the kitchen
where fish is
grilled
his sisters pull each
other's hair
in the living room
where he wants
to read
his brother breaks the
chair and throws plates
over the window
when no money is
given
it is like the house
is always on fire
and there is not even
a pail of water
and so the little boy
wants to run away
but there is no other
place
as the town is also
too crowded for itself
people are shouting
and beating each other
the park is neither
a peaceful place to
stay as bullies too
overcrowd there
and so the little boy
climbs a tree and
finally
finds a very cool place
to pray.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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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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bacolod 2011 May
(at kasai's resto)
little Tina i remember
was the one affectionate
with the white
kitten
that she saves from the
window in grandma's house
i have seen compassion
in her eyes
how did she grow to be
a woman
reserved, decent
and compassionate
to the little world
where she is
in now?
her mother who has
white hairs
smiles when Tina says
that marriage
can always wait
as she has still other
things to do
with
the present kittens
at the house
of the door
of her old house
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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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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The Old Family Picture
In the old
black-and-white
family picture,
I see
great grandfather
dead drunk
with his hat
slightly skewed.
In the same old
black-and-white
family picture,
I see
grandfather
as drunk as
his father is
with his hat
also slightly skewed.
Father fools
great grandfather
and grandfather
with his rice-washed-water
as the good old home-made
Makoli.
They all believe him.
1996
poem by Sangnam Nam
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Gala
Gala hangs from the window frame
Dressed in black and white
Her face is colourless
In the moonlight
She turns around and her lips move
But the words just drop away
She leans on the back of a chair
And her arms begin to sway
She and I can hear voices
Talking in the room next door
Saying things we used to say
That we cant believe in any more
Weve seen too many castles crumble
Made too many innocent mistakes
Who could have known that one house
Could hold so much heartbreak?
And then the clockbell rings
The wind blows in -
Gala makes for the door.
Her eyes blaze
And her hands are shaking
She opens her mouth and roars!
Gala doesnt want, gala doesnt need
She claws at her face
With her nails till it bleeds
She runs down the stairs
In her poor bare-feet
Shes too woman to cry or go down on her knees
Then her mother is there
And her voice is soft
She pulls gala close
She soothes galas cuts
And gently chides
And gala knows...
That gala shouldnt worry
She neednt be afraid
Because there are sailors on the sea tonight
In ships that God made
Look! they cast out the line
With a heave two-three-four
And they sing as they pull
Our lost souls aboard
song performed by by Waterboys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Gala
Gala hangs from the window frame
Dressed in black and white
Her face is colourless
In the moonlight
She turns around and her lips move
But the words just drop away
She leans on the back of a chair
And her arms begin to sway
She and I can hear voices
Talking in the room next door
Saying things we used to say
That we cant believe in any more
Weve seen too many castles crumble
Made too many innocent mistakes
Who could have known that one house
Could hold so much heartbreak?
And then the clockbell rings
The wind blows in -
Gala makes for the door.
Her eyes blaze
And her hands are shaking
She opens her mouth and roars!
Gala doesnt want, gala doesnt need
She claws at her face
With her nails till it bleeds
She runs down the stairs
In her poor bare-feet
Shes too woman to cry or go down on her knees
Then her mother is there
And her voice is soft
She pulls gala close
She soothes galas cuts
And gently chides
And gala knows...
That gala shouldnt worry
She neednt be afraid
Because there are sailors on the sea tonight
In ships that God made
Look! they cast out the line
With a heave two-three-four
And they sing as they pull
Our lost souls aboard
song performed by by Waterboys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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NEGRENSE HOUSE, Silay
it is retold that in this house
live the ghosts
whose bodies of women and
children
of a religious family
were huddled
sometime in the
1800 mercilessly killed
by cruel monsters
inside the basement
the white bearded man
who sits on one of those antique
chairs
says that cries can still be heard
from those
12 empty rooms
the place is
a historic landmark now
where this old house stands still
unwavering to the
passage of time
unlike those which were
buried a long time ago
by limbo
and cannot be remembered
you cannot feel dust here
as one looks at the world from this window
one can feel
eternity at the fingertip
the words pass by
as i stand still trying to listen to the faint
cry of the
wind from the sugar fields
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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the smooth life of G.E.
Every picture is see is what you describe
as perfect. A new baby for the family. The mother
looks and smiles. The proud father begs to
carry the baby even for a few minutes.
There were pictures of the marriage.
Black and white, old as the ancestral house
where the big family once lived.
There is this garden full of perennial flowers
It is as though your life is nothing but Spring.
Nothing of the winter
Neither the autumn.
Summer is well spent. The grandchildren
are not sickly and grandpa is not drinking any liquor.
The house is well kept. Every object is in order.
The chickens have always the correct feeds.
The cow is fat and the turkeys are ready for Christmas.
Sometimes i think
I must be envious.This is not my family.
What i had was messy.
I need not tell anybody.
But on the other hand,
I think that something so ideal cannot be true.
Like a fairytale.
Like a story fit for kids...ending
with And they all live happily ever after.
That is not really true.
That is just an illusion.
I go for something that i have.
The tears wet my pockets.
The novel is too interesting.
The hero falls and dies.
The tragedy like the one written
By Sophocles
always give me that
catharsis.
Not yours. Not your family.
Not your success.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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