Fear
there is this fear
about how things move past us
a chick turning into a chicken
it lays an egg
and more eggs and hatch into chicks
in a moment
you sit there unmoved
left out like a stone on a river bed that went dry
last summer
come spring
the tight buds burst into flowers
you sit there unmoved left out like a rusty gate diminishing
its body on the seashore.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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14 Thousand Eggs
now i am that chicken
that lays all those fourteen thousand eggs,
this small chicken
has tiny feathers
it cannot fly away but
it cannot lay its butt upon all these
fourteen thousand eggs
it is sad,
these fourteen thousand eggs
shall not hatch
how i wish i can hear the songs of
fourteen thousand chicks
what can their tiny voices be
to God? to those higher skies?
what cant they be?
shall they be angelic like those seraphims and cherubmims?
or shall they be the sounds of wailing
of grieving widows
of dissatisfied workers
of disappointed humanity
of men and women loveless upon the tracks of life
of children abandoned
of marriages in shackles and shattering
soon i shall retrace
what i have said
open the pages of this journal
and find out again
what life is,
if i have lived in
vain.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Soul Selects Her Own Society
The Soul selects her own Society --
Then -- shuts the Door --
To her divine Majority --
Present no more --
Unmoved -- she notes the Chariots -- pausing --
At her low Gate --
Unmoved -- an Emperor be kneeling
Upon her Mat --
I've known her -- from an ample nation --
Choose One --
Then -- close the Valves of her attention --
Like Stone --
poem by Emily Dickinson
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Exclusion (The soul selects her own society)
The soul selects her own society,
Then shuts the door;
On her divine majority
Obtrude no more.
Unmoved, she notes the chariot's pausing
At her low gate;
Unmoved, an emperor is kneeling
Upon her mat.
I've known her from an ample nation
Choose one
Then close the valves of her attention
Like stone.
poem by Emily Dickinson
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Meditations Upon An Egg
1.
The egg's no chick by falling from the hen;
Nor man a Christian, till he's born again.
The egg's at first contained in the shell;
Men, afore grace, in sins and darkness dwell.
The egg, when laid, by warmth is made a chicken,
And Christ, by grace, those dead in sin doth quicken.
The egg, when first a chick, the shell's its prison;
So's flesh to the soul, who yet with Christ is risen.
The shell doth crack, the chick doth chirp and peep,
The flesh decays, as men do pray and weep.
The shell doth break, the chick's at liberty,
The flesh falls off, the soul mounts up on high
But both do not enjoy the self-same plight;
The soul is safe, the chick now fears the kite.
2.
But chicks from rotten eggs do not proceed,
Nor is a hypocrite a saint indeed.
The rotten egg, though underneath the hen,
If crack'd, stinks, and is loathsome unto men.
Nor doth her warmth make what is rotten sound;
What's rotten, rotten will at last be found.
The hypocrite, sin has him in possession,
He is a rotten egg under profession.
3.
Some eggs bring cockatrices; and some men
Seem hatch'd and brooded in the viper's den.
Some eggs bring wild-fowls; and some men there be
As wild as are the wildest fowls that flee.
Some eggs bring spiders, and some men appear
More venom'd than the worst of spiders are.[16]
Some eggs bring piss-ants, and some seem to me
As much for trifles as the piss-ants be.
Thus divers eggs do produce divers shapes,
As like some men as monkeys are like apes.
But this is but an egg, were it a chick,
Here had been legs, and wings, and bones to pick.
poem by John Bunyan
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Stone
how is it to be a stone?
how is it to be hard
and unfeeling?
how is it to be still
and immobile
rooted in
its place for years
and centuries
not growing
not speaking not listening
to the songs and sighs
of the river?
how is it to be completely
defenseless against
the moss
that invades and
covers
your body
of stone
the coldness
of the rain and
the boredom of the time
in years, in centuries?
how is it to be just being
inanimate
unmoved
untouched and
untouching?
you
you touch no one and nobody touches you
an island
of stone
you
are the stone
the rock
against
the middle
of the raging river
and i am asking all these questions to you.
oh! i am always the foolish one
petrified
facing you all day and getting
no answers
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Chicken's Life
we watch it from the beginning
an egg, plus days
hatching into a chick
seeing the first light
of the bulb
and the hen pushes
each chick into
the ground to feed
by themselves
until some feathers grow
beaks and claws
now we view a full grown
chicken,
at least, i am not talking
about a coward, do you understand?
do not, please,
chicken out from life's bitter days
we were babies
not chicks
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Three Cool Cats
Three cool cats,
Three cool cats
Are coming up in a beat up car,
Spitting up a lift of candy bar
Talking on about how sharp they are.
Three cool cats.
Three cool chicks
Are walking down the street
Swinging their hips,
Splitting up a bag of potatoe chips
I think cool cats really did flip.
Three cool chicks
Three cool chicks.
Well up came that first cool cat,
He said: man look at that.
Man, do you see what i see?
Well i want that middle chick
I want that little chick.
Hey man save once chick for me.
Well three cool chicks.
Three cool chicks.
Well they love like
Angels from up above
And three cool cats
Really fell in love.
But three cool chicks
Made three fools out of
Three cool cats.
Three cool cats.
Well up came that first cool cat,
He said: man look at that.
Man do you see what i see?
Well i want that middle chick,
I want that little chick.
Hey man, save one chick for me.
Three cool chicks.
Three cool chicks.
They look like
Angels from up above
And three cool cats
Really fell in love.
And three cool chicks
Made three fools out of
Three cool cats.
Three cool cats.
Three cool cats.
Three cool cats.
song performed by by Beatles
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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To K.M.D.
In the buds, before they burst,
Leaves and flowers are moulded;
Closely pressed they lie at first,
Exquisitely folded.
Though no hope of change they felt,
Folded hard together,
Soon their sap begins to melt
In the warmer weather.
Till, when Life returns with Spring,
Through them softly stealing,
All their freshness forth they fling,
Hidden forms revealing. [606]
Who can fold those flowers again,
In the way he found them?
Or those spreading leaves restrain,
In the buds that bound them?
Trust me, Spring is very near,
All the buds are swelling;
All the glory of the year
In those buds is dwelling.
What the opened buds reveal
Tells us—Life is flowing;
What the buds, still shut, conceal,
We shall end in knowing.
Long I lingered in the bud
Doubting of the season,
Winter's cold had chilled my blood-—
I was ripe for treason.
Now no more I doubt or wait,
All my fears are vanished,
Summer’s coming, dear, though late,
Fogs and frosts are banished.
poem by James Clerk Maxwell
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Flowers
(orbison/dees)
When I was a boy I ran among the flowers
Looking left and right at the bright array
I played through the spring, whiled away the hours
Lingered with the flowers every day
Flowers, pretty flowers, flowers, lifes bouquet
Flowers, pretty flowers, flowers, along the way
Flowers, pretty flowers, flowers, lifes bouquet
Flowers, pretty flowers, flowers, along the way
When the summer ends and the storms of life are over
When the winter comes and the petals fall away
They may write it on my stone, he was just a roller
But he stopped to pick some flowers along the way
Flowers, pretty flowers, flowers, lifes bouquet
Flowers, picked some flowers, along the way
song performed by by Roy Orbison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Power Of Mighty Silence
to stare and be unmoved
by any blocks
of inhumanity
the silence to violence
the ability
to be in place where others
stone you
the capacity to endure
the bleeding
when others slice your flesh
and eat them
like bacon
to stand your ground
when you
are right
to be unmoved in silence
when others
are laughing
and mocking
to be simply christlike
and look up
to the heavens
when the skies turn black
to give in to death
and feel the power
beyond it
why not?
why not?
be passionate
and be dead
and then
be too resurrected
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Summer's Yearnings
Summer's eyes look me for heat and flowers
succeeding the spring buds with which adorned her
I am cast as Spring Calling
buds my Siren Flowers
I rose
inside her
flower petal Springings
because I
heat from inside
lying down with her Summer Fevered Longings.
Her roses bloom from my Spring Pollinations;
I give her Summer Glory
and and receives
all my Spring
Offerings.
'What good it be
dressed up in Summer Light' you say
'in Summer Jasmine Perfumes
if you do not arrive each time
to kiss me in my feverish night? '
'What sates sweet summer lips' longings
without your spring kisses joining
kisses which seal our souls
In unspoken understandings;
lips which kiss and hold in the secret night
hearts pounding
melding souls
swept up in destiny's yearnings
you offering a wet mouth
I a crimson cheek quivering
we two lost in Shudderings Desire
which press us two together
two on two
making then between us
Love's Single Season.
because lovers
make things
previously apart
into One
and
Discrete Time
fades into
into
Summer's Eternities.'
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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Your Feet On Top Of The Stone On The River
you put your feet
on top of a stone
on a clear river
you want to feel
the stability of
love
the hardness of
a foundation
you want to be on
top of the
situation where
the water flows
and you
on that stone
becomes
unaffected
you let time flow
like water
you let yourself
steady like
your feet unmoved
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Gagging Order
I know what you're thinking
But I'm not your property
No matter what you say
No matter what you say
Move along, there's nothing left to see
Just a body, nothing left to see
A couple more for breakfast
A little more for tea
Just to take the edge off
Just to take the edge off
Move along, there's nothing left to see
Just a body, pouring down the street
Move along, theres nothing left to see
Just a body, nothing left to see
Move along
song performed by by Radiohead
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Dry River Bed
The river- was, but died away,
leaving behind sand and stone,
a dry river bed.
The river that once led the way,
To Rameses throne,
Has no more life- dead.
The river from which reeds grew and swayed,
now dead and gone,
all that's left-a dry river bed.
The river that was marvelous by day,
and treacherous once the sun was gone,
is now but a dri river bed.
The river- beautiful, no words could say,
left behind - just a dry river bed.
poem by Esnala Banda
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Time And Fear
you like time that way
clockwise always like the hands of the clock
stopping is prohibited
like you are broken
a disease
you are time
you move with accuracy always at a certain point
no past just the future
not staying longer with the moment
that is what people are supposed to be
always moving on
no crying over spilt milk
nothing overwhelming with the past
sometimes i just sit in the corner and watch
merely curious of what we are and what am i for real
i let time go and i stay and i relax myself a bit
unmoved, unmoving, i become an object of your disdain
theirs too
a clock without hands
what can i be? a man without feet
with hands but never using any finger
i look at the world like i do not belong here
i sit obeying no one
i deny the sun and i am not talking with the moon
and i see a time bending before me
begging for me
praying that i may go with it or i be left out dying slowly
i am staying and i am waiting
they ask me why i am doing all these
for what reason? under what justification?
and all that i can say is that i am no longer afraid
i have enough of what i really need
to know to have to hold to cherish
and finally to give everything away
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Unmoved Mover, see who am I!
The Unmoved Mover!
The universe that moving,
The universe that is changing,
The universe that is playing,
Projecting and hiding,
Playing that hide and seek,
Who is that hides and who is that seeks,
Who is that moving the infinite universe?
The one, who that can Be moved by prayers,
Does he really move,
And can He move, before He move worlds for us?
He is infinite, filling all space,
Can he move the universe,
can he move it without the space
Can He move it without 'Time'
When He fills the space,
how can he move himself
or how can he move something in space?
He is the Unmoved Mover of universe,
He himself created room,
He Himself moved Himself in Himself
Creating Himself the time and space,
He Himself manifested at different points
And keeping space between these points,
Infinite He split himself into elements
five or a few
And created particles and forces between,
That expanded matter and space,
Created events,
so that the time has any meaning,
He Himself became nucleotides and cells,
Joined them as building blocks,
To build house for himself,
And became homesick always,
Yet wept for his lost glory and beauty,
Wanted to have back all that lost and hide,
When He was busy in building a nest for own!
He was thinker without brain,
And He is that,
He is I am,
'I am' is he,
If you ask 'who are you thee and
where are you thee? '
He replies, Iam tree in this tree,
I am the stone in this stone,
I am the star in this star,
Iam the air in atmosphere,
Iam the water in rivers and ocean,
I am the bacteria in this bacterial house,
Iam the bull in this bulls body,
I am the grass at your feet,
I am you in your body,
I am that in which I feel,
When you ask me who are me,
I say I a proud Hindu,
Or I say I am a proud sikh
Or I am a proud muslim
Or I am proud Christian,
Or A proud Aryan But I fail to say,
I am humble human,
Iam like point in infinite
universe, and is a child of God, all
are his children, so we are
brother and sisters!
And I am that infinite when I am in my own infinite glory and infinite beauty!
Look through you, I look at myself,
Look around, I look at myself from all around,
Look I am talking to myself,
I am that call myself as you when I see from that point from this point of space and time, both which have no existence without my folly in wisdom or wisdom in folly!
poem by Ramdas Bhandarkar
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Planting African Marigolds (Cavatina Sequence)
Under the summer sun's harsh glare I hoed
and I weeded,
to and fro I planted the seed in rows,
flowers I needed
to like their mother grow almost waist high
but unheeded
of all my efforts not a single one
appeared as the soil turned to stone.
Some more seeds I harvested from dried buds
as spring came on,
some the weavers might as their food devour,
they may be gone
with the whispering churning rampant wind
but some alone
would burst through the earth, would no season mar,
like blazing flaming yellow and red stars.
poem by Gert Strydom
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A Chick
When I was a kid,
We used t' keep some chicks on farm.
They were cute and fun.
One day so sunny
A breeze of wind came along
And brought a kitten.
The cat looked around;
The cat sniffed and eyed a chick;
The cat mewed 'yum, yum.'
The chicks heard the cat;
The chicks thought: 'Jesus, help us! '
All rushed home but one.
'Folks call me Thomas, '
The bully cat told the chick.
'You call me no Tom! '
'You work for Thomas,
Everybody works for me.
You hear me, you bum? '
'Go get me some food,
Sing me a song, make it rhyme,
But don't play the drum.'
'Amuse me, and please me,
So I make it a quick kill.
Let's party 'n' have fun.'
The chick went nearby
And got them a bottle of wine.
They drank, the chick 'n' Tom.
Insober they were,
And lots of chatting they had.
Much was forgotten.
When the morning came,
Tom was fully unconscious.
He mixed wine with rum.
The chick was so-and-so.
He lifted his head and said:
'God! What have I done? '
'I killed Tom, the cat!
God, forgive my haplessness!
I learned the lesson.'
April 08,2010
poem by Montazar AnNayef
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Chick, Chicken (couplet)
Both chick and chicken are dear,
Chicks for perceiving, chicken for consuming.
Ravikiran Arakkal
poem by Ravikiran Arakkal
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Some Questions for Me...
perhaps i am too serious as a mountain
unmoved by the grief of those
clouds drifting
seeking comfort in the air that now
dominates them
because they have no direction
where to go
and no reason why they are going there
i am too serious, people are damned
and they do not make a sound
about this mountain that does not move and keep
on numb
and unfeeling and indifferent to what is happening
to the river
the snails and the squirrels and rats
and grass
perhaps i am dead
perhaps i am another senseless mountain
not knowing why i am here
perhaps i have become a stone
a grain of sand
a gasp of air
perhaps i have become another meaningless cloud
hanging upon
my side...
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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