Emoting A Landscape
the rice paddies are dead, they have been long cracking
drying under the cruelty of the summer sun scorching every leaf and pebble
as the mud fish buries itself under for another hibernation
the trees are not complaining compliant with the strong dry wind
from the bald and browning mountain peaks towering to kiss the clouds
the pathways are bare and vacant for no child comes out and plays on the fields
the carabaos are kept under the shadows of the mahogany trees while the man
near the well bathes naked as the woman pretends to wash the dirty clothes
someone peeps with mad eyes, ready with his bolo behind the thick bush.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Back To An Old Place
it is summer
scorching summer
season creeping,
grasses are wilting
trees are shedding of
their last leaves,
what i see are bones
of trees,
skeletons of
branches,
the dry wind keeps
blowing the leaves
away,
what i have is this
bald surrounding
emptied of their
essence
beyond me are
brown mountains
vultures are
in the skies
eying for
death as prey
i sit upon a rock
the only rock
left here
i have no cover on
my head
i am half naked
i have no one to talk
to,
they have left this
arid place
a long time ago
i am back
i am telling the
sand soil,
i have something
to write and
tell the world
about it
it is summer
in this vast desert
a long time ago
this was ours
and the trees are green
grasses verdant
butterflies flutter
and innocently
land on our
hands.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I Have To Walk Away Again Looking For The Fresh Air
one finds a hard time nowadays
looking for fresh air
i step over a good view of the rice fields
from an Asian perspective
the rice fields are flowering
dews still sticking on the blades of grass
the sun is slowly rising from the mountains
a lot of fog hang on the sides
coconut trees are towering
not much winds today from the sea
a middle aged farmer stands under a tree
with his sweater on and his long bolo on his side
smoking his cigar
the woman in the house is cooking mud fish for breakfast
meanwhile she goes out and
starts a fire under the mango tree
burning a rubber tire
to drive some insects away
which she thinks are destroying
the tiny white flowers of
the tree
i smell the smoke coming from the cigar
it is floating in the air
the smoke from the rubber tire burning
is choking me
somehow that is what is being done to this world
brought about by ignorance and superstition and bad habits
i have to walk away again
looking for the fresh air
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Kiss Everything
Kiss for God..
Kiss to the world.
Kiss for empty space.
Kiss for the planets.
Kiss for the stars.
Kiss to the sun.
Kiss to the moon.
Kiss to the sky.
Kiss for fruits.
Kiss to the clouds.
Kiss to the mountain.
Kiss to the grounds.
Kiss to the lakes.
Kiss to the warm dew.
Kiss for trees.
Kiss to the rivers.
Kiss to the fields.
Kiss kiss for flowers.
Kiss grasslands.
Kiss the contains of the world to give peaces.
Kiss for dogs.
Kiss for cats.
Kiss for mouses.
Kiss for crocodiles.
Kiss for fish.
Kiss for turtles.
Kiss for penguins.
Kiss for snakes.
Kiss for bears.
Kiss for tigers.
Kiss for lions.
Kiss for rhinoceros.
Kiss for butterflies.
Kiss for rabbits.
kiss them and give them life.
Not enough only the kiss to say how amazing my nature.
Love them couse them was our life.
Appreciative Audience.
Soft moonlight filters through the trees
Which seem to dance to melodies
Created by the gentle breeze.
The shadows on the ground dance too
Or to my eyes they appear to
Disintegrate then form anew.
Sometimes the clouds blot out the light
The shadows gain a brief respite.
Rejoin the darkness of the night.
But clouds move on and when they do
And once again moonlight shows through.
The trees will dance, the shadows too.
The sun will rise to start the day.
The dancing shadows hide away
But where they hide no man can say.
The sun completes his daily quest.
Journeying from east to west.
Then sinks below the sea to rest.
The moon will rise she rules the night
Then once again to my delight
She bathes the trees in silver light.
The melodies played by the breeze
Will re awake the sleeping trees.
To dance again with practiced ease.
Beneath the trees reluctantly
the shadows still dance gracefully.
I watch in silence gratefully.
I know they do not dance for me
And I am privileged to see
The shadows dance under the trees.
Friday,23 September 2011
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Back To The Usual Walk In The Rice Fields
i am back to this place
and i am feeling strange
there are changes
and some i can tell have been missing
a few meters from where i stand
under this mahogany tree
where the wind is cold and fresh
flavored by the newly cut rice stalks
over this spread of golden fields
the well is still there
but the brown woman with earth skin is gone
an island of coconut trees
(and some mango trees
and banana shrubs)
has turned bald
and the grasses claim another territory to its grassland
the sparrows must have migrated to the nearby forest
the cable lines run an empty length of a sigh
from one pole to another
endlessly clinging is this anonymous electricity
the twenty or so white herons are here again
pecking on some little frogs in small ponds
i walk under the sun
revisiting reevaluating rekindling perhaps
the reasons why i must go on living
a life unlived for quite a time
why are the fields empty? why are the blackbirds circling the tree?
why do people pass by this path unable to know the significance
of this human journey?
the sun is up like an absurdity triumphant
a dog comes near me
it is waggling its tail and i am calling him another name.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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When We Meet Again Sometime This Summer
i tell you, i do not like winters, and i do not wish
to go where winter lies. I am intolerant of anything
that freezes me, that thaws, that gives me frost,
that bites like an ant, that solidifies me like
refrigerator ice.
i like summers. Flowers blooming. Green grass
spreading. Butterflies in different colors in the garden.
Bees just enough for the buzz. I love trees. I love
rivers, and springs and creeks.
Bamboo trees beside the rocks beside the pebbles
beside the river. I like the songs of the rivers. Lots of rivers.
Gentle rains. Hush winds. Cool shades. Shadows of mountains.
When we meet again, i like it to be this summer.
Lots of sun. Warmth., Sweat. Perspirations. Palpitations
of the hearts of the young on summer time.
Under the cool shades of the trees on summer nights.
I always remember summer nights.Strong summer winds.
Flown hair. Drying pants and underwears. My legs exposed
Beside the brook. I like being naked. I like being on top of
everything.
With you, on you, by you, within you, in your mouth all over your face.
Oh summer breeze. See you. Feel you. Love you.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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An Old Woman With A Straw Hat
an old woman with a straw hat
and rotten clothes
deep eyes
bony cheeks
barefooted and cracking lips
and stinking odor
like a dead fish thrown
on the market canal
this morning as i meet her
is asking me
who is the owner of the sky
and the earth
and the sea and the mountains
and the grass
and the trees and the birds
and goats and pigs and
root crops
she is asking me where he lives
and if he is still alive
she has many questions for the owner
of all these
for until now
she remains to own nothing
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Simple life I live
An afternoon walk
Seeing the white birds again
On these green ricefields
And the carabaos wallowing
Refreshing their skins in mud holes
It is the beginning of the
Planting season again
The weeds are uprooted
The plows run again
To make this land arable
The rain comes and too
The sun and the wind
The hills are greener
The trees are blooming
And so are the flowers
Along the footpaths
My dog walks with me
And his friend dog too walks with us
The wind so cool touches my face
The man nearby pastures his carabao
The woman washes some clothes in the river
The waters are still clear reflecting bluer skies
There are no sounds of buses in here
Far from the city in this little village
Where people are still innocent about greed
And grief and self-made confusions
The complications, the sophistications
I can live on a cup of rice, this mudfish,
This glass of water from the rock’s spring
This big banana leaf on my head
And the moon above everything else
And some stars lighting this lovely darkness
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Spring and All
By the road to the contagious hospital
under the surge of the blue
mottled clouds driven from the
northeast -- a cold wind. Beyond, the
waste of broad, muddy fields
brown with dried weeds, standing and fallen
patches of standing water
the scattering of tall trees
All along the road the reddish
purplish, forked, upstanding, twiggy
stuff of bushes and small trees
with dead, brown leaves under them
leafless vines --
Lifeless in appearance, sluggish
dazed spring approaches --
They enter the new world naked,
cold, uncertain of all
save that they enter. All about them
the cold, familiar wind --
Now the grass, tomorrow
the stiff curl of wildcarrot leaf
One by one objects are defined --
It quickens: clarity, outline of leaf
But now the stark dignity of
entrance -- Still, the profound change
has come upon them: rooted they
grip down and begin to awaken
poem by William Carlos Williams
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Into The Land Of Shadows
into the land of shadows
light always plays with trees
the trees hide what light
wants to steal
light wants to take back
wisdom and happiness
bathe wisdom with so much light
until it melts into dullness
and take away the shadows of
memories
to make happiness remember
light conquers
the shadows run under the skirts
of trees
the sun in full force heats up
sadness screams
shadows of trysts and traces
of glimpses now lay dead like daisies
poem by Sebastian Soberania
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Child Woman, Woman Child
Orbison/dees
Coo coo, thats you, wonder why I love you, you do voodoo, thunder clouds above you
Crazy, kooky, lazy spooky, oh what a clown, always around
And I have found youre a woman. child woman. woman child
Long legged woman when I see you walking you look good
Hey little woman when I hear you talking you sound good
Child woman, woman child youre driving me wild child woman woman child
Youre into my mind then youre out of my mind child woman
You wind and unwind my mind, time after time child woman ooh child woman, yeah child woman
Flying uptight, dont know where youre going, trying your kite when the wind is blowing
Funny lady, sunny, shady off to the fair, sun in your hair
Oh, youre aware youre a woman child woman, woman child
Strong minded woman when you start groovin you look fine
My kind of woman when you start movin you look fine
Child woman, woman child youre driving me wild child woman woman child
I dont see you there, I see you everywhere child woman
I dont even care -yes, I really do care child woman, ooh child woman,
Hey child woman child woman, woman child
song performed by by Roy Orbison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Home Sweet Home
sunday on a home sweet home
from the city
to this little nipa hut
on top of a hill
that father built
where the guava trees are filled
with ripe fruits
where i climb and gather and taste
the sweetness of its pink flesh
where the carabaos rest
in the coolness of mudholes
where i take my ride on them
in the river nearby
on crystal clear waters
where some fish swim on shallow waters
inviting me to fish and catch them
for lunch of pearl white glutenous rice
and with banana leaves as plates
and some wild chicken's barbecued breast
and with my bare hands and
some childhood friends
we shall take this simple feast
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Plow Of My Papa
today is the last day to sell the plow of my papa
it is a necessary part of his lifetime
in fact
his lifetime is the plow itself that made the lines
of his own poetry in the fields
of rice and corn
today another man shall have it
at the price we all wanted
we have sold all that he had
the land, the house, the trees he planted
when he was still alive
when he was still strong and cruel and so imposing
this is his only plow
and we have dedided to dispose it finally
to any man
we are now at the stage of reconstructing our lives
and the plow of papa must go
we shall have our own fields now of rice and corn
on a white canvass we draw
the new sun, its color shall be warm, something new really
to the feel of our skins
the darker ones shall be replaced by the flowing color
of the clouds like feathers of birds always ready to fly away
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Autumnale for M lady ernestine
The falling leaves dance in the breeze
and clothe the ground beneath the trees,
in autumn colours rich a rare.
The trees themselves will soon be bare.
Left no defence against the wind.
Their winter plans are well designed,
bare twigs and branches hold less snow
than useless leaves they have let go
The wintry gales to no avail
try hard but they are doomed to fail,
They can’t destroy the sturdy trees;
resisting with apparent ease.
Although they bow before the blast
they know that winter cannot last
The winds will die and fade away
the trees will they’re here to stay.
Spring will return the trees will green
as if the winter had not been.
The trees put on their new spring clothes
along with every plant that grows.
8-Oct-08
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Why Do You Think That This World Is Not Interesting?
everything has a reason, that is the tenet, nothing happens by random
that is a restatement, perhaps an accent, and emphatic stress for those who still doubt.
every reason explains itself, whether you know it or not, they have mouths and minds.
though they do not speak to you, or think of you, they think, they speak. A premise.
the fire tree blooms today, and there is fire all around the wildlife part. Warmth is intentional.
Fire for summer. Warmth on a hot day. There is a reason. The petals speak for themselves.
an old pedicab under the mahogany trees, the driver pedals its way on a dusty path.
a child wearing an orange shirt sits restlessly wanting to jump screaming. Noise in stillness.
the trees are shedding off yellow leaves and the ground accepts a good cover. There is no sound.
the grasses are starting to wilt and the moss on the pebbles are dark brown. Time to die.
the joggers are here feeding an activity to this oval the silence of which is finally broken.
Summer. This is rest for most. The holy week and time to reflect. Meanwhile the sun shines
on top of the world, the clouds are cottony and so white. The wind blows on my face.
There is a reason for everything. That is tenet and i know nothing happens by random.
I scribble some notes on my mind. Stating what is not spoken by the sun, the trees, the mountains, the joggers, the dusty path, the child in orange shirt. The pedals squeak and
I am watching and listening. There are too many reasons wanting to be written. Anger, and
pain and bliss and company and solitude. Why do you think that this world is not interesting?
Are you not amazed with what we still do not know? Did i not tell you the color
of the daffodils? Or that the man pedaling its way under the mahogany trees
is an old man feeling so useless and that the child in orange is his grandson?
Life need not be what we think we do not have.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Bare Windows
I look at the world
Through bare windows,
And see it all --
Bright sunlight,
Deep shadows,
Birds in flight,
Bare dead trees,
Thick tangled vines
That whisper in the breeze.
Fox hunts the mouse.
Snake slithers by
Shedding his dry skin house.
I look at the world
Through bare windows,
And I love it all.
poem by M. Elizabeth Barrett Doyle
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Across The Fields
Across the sky, the clouds move,
Across the fields, the wind,
Across the fields the lost child
Of my mother wanders.
Across the street, leaves blow,
Across the trees, birds cry --
Across the mountains, far away,
My home must be.
poem by Hermann Hesse
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Walking From Xiamen And Looking At The Blue Sea
East face Jieshi mountain
And gaze blue sea
Water how dancing gently
Mountain island towering
Trees grow thick
Hundred grasses lush
Autumn wind soughs
Big waves rise up
Sun moon their journey
As if from this in
Milky way splendid
As if from this in
Very lucky very lucky oh
Song sing wish
East of Jieshi mountain, I gaze at the blue sea.
The water dances so gently, the mountain island towers.
Trees here grow thick, a hundred grasses are lush.
The autumn wind soughs, great waves rise up.
The path of the sun and moon, seems to come from within.
The splendid Milky Way, seems to come from inside.
Oh, I am so lucky, to be singing my song!
poem by Cao Cao
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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The Fish Pound and Violin
My grandpa stay in the house
Near the river
Where its water flow end in the South Ocean
His garden hedged with Bamboo trees
In front of the garden planted three tuft trees
The children like to climb the tuft tree
Pick up the fruits and eat on the tree
Glad and laughing
My grandpa was silent and said nothing
He just smile subtly, and gaze at far away
There is a fish pond in the backyard,
In its edge planted pineapple and banana trees
My grandma always give brand and papaya leaf to the pound
Giving food for the fish like Gurame, Sepat dan Nila,
While my grandpa make a biola, gitar and bass
In the litlle studio, near the kitchen
I passionatedly gaze the fish jump around
And glad
While they don’t know their destiny
Decided by mothers in the cities
On the frying pan, roastibng, caserate,
With imagine to ecpanced their plan on the rice filed
Near the road forgeted how farmer produce,
Fish, rice and vegetable,
And actually
Their Self conscience.
poem by Prasetya Utama
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The Country
i let you drive
as i sit calmly on the rear side of the car,
i do not wish to speak to you
as i watch the countryside
on a very hot summer
rice fields newly harvested
cracking chunks of soil, brown grass, stacks of hay,
trees with yellow leaves, smoke from the house chimneys,
patches of fog hanging on mountains
behind us on this road towards home
dusts, dusts, dusts.....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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