Happiness In A Platter
fruits in a platter,
pineapple wearing a crown
apples, green and red in shining gloss
of their glory,
alligator pear
sleepy,
ripe mango,
your hands carrying them
your breasts
helping to put them all
in one platter
of flesh.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Related quotes
You Found My Way
you cook so well
and i am so
anticipating about
the new menu
on the white
porcelain plate
beside the
silver spoon
and fork
and the corrugated
knife fit for
the medium rare
steak
more rice please
more lemonades
and lots of
lettuce for the
salad
a ripe mango
and alligator
pear
on a platter
lady, you found your
way into
my belly.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Kiwi
Fruit without a stone, its shiny
pulp is clear green. Inside, tiny
black microdot seeds. Skin
the color of khakiImagine
a shaggy brown-green pelt
that feels like felt.
It's oval, full-rounded, kind
of egg-shaped. The rind
comes off in strips
when peeled with the lips.
If ripe, full of juice,
melon-sweet, yet tart as goose-
berry almost. A translucent ring
of seed dots looks something
like a coin-slice of banana. Grown
in the tropics, some stone
fruits, overlarge, are queerly
formed. A slablike pit nearly
fills the mango. I
scrape the fibrous pulp off with my
teeth. That slick round ball
in avocado (fruit without juice) we call
alligator pear:
Plant this seedpit with care
on three toothpicks over a glass
of water. It can come to pass
in time, that you'll see
an entire avocado tree.
Some fruits have stones, some seeds.
Papaya's loaded with slimy black beads.
Some seem seedlesslike quince
(that makes your tastebuds wince.)
Persimmon will
be sour, astringent 'until
dead ripe,' they say. Behind
pomegranate's leathery rind,
is a sackful of moist rubies. Pear,
cantaloupe, grapefruit, guava keep their
seeds hidden, as do raspberry, strawberry,
pineapple. Plum, peach and cherry
we know as fruits with big
seedstones. And fig?
Its graininess is seed. Hard to believe
is prickly durian. It's custard
sweetand smells nasty.
But there's no fruit as tasty,
as odd, or as funny
none
as fresh-off-the-vine New Zea-
land kiwi.
poem by May Swenson
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A Silver Platter
the silver platter is what your family gives you
your father makes it and you mother polishes it
and you are given what you need
in your life
some fruits and bread and meat and water
that you need in your journey when they start sending you away and
when they finally leave you
as what this world demands, the usual flow of life and the fading
death, and you find yourself still
thinking and coping and running and stopping and resting and running and walking and curling and stretching what
is all there,
then everything is consumed, the silver platter has nothing, tarnished
and you begin to worry
what used to be is not anymore,
you think life ends just like that,
no
reality bites now, like a snake, or a rabid dog, and you despise the
silver platter
its lasting effect on you, how it made you weak and unthinking,
complacent
and unable to grow your trees and eat the fruits
to raise your goats and eat their meat
to live your own life
and be strong yourself in the darkness that comes
when you still want to play
it is not too late, take the silver platter and throw it away
or bury it
lest another one comes and takes it and be another victim
of its temporary glow that almost killed you
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Woman is like a mango
A girl is a mango infantile,
That tastes in pickles.
A lass is about ripe mango,
That tastes in curries.
A woman is a ripe mango,
That tastes with its flesh.
At forties as juice and at fifties
As jelly, she lingers to my taste.
Even in sixties, she is like mango-essence.
In seventies, as endosperm of its nut
She still taste though differently.
Woman to men is evergreen.
29.05.2001, Berhampur
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Things Do Not Seem To Be Them After A Careful Seeing
a spoon
and a fork and they seem to appear
with food on a silver platter
when we talk we talk like poets now
after years
a spoon is no longer just a spoon
and neither is the fork
and neither is the food the food that we
eat on the table
and neither is the silver platter a mere
silver platter as it seems to be
for a spoon may be me and i may also be
a tongue and i could be a tongue to your
fork, a protrusion that stabs me like a knife
and the silver platter could be our mind
a garden where we put every seed
and the table and the cloth that covers it
with leaves and flowers
myabe our worlds, covered and uncovered
with some intricate designs
this could be our world now. a world of poems
where everything is a roll of sensitive skin
a mind so fertile with its array of metaphors
and similes and
exaggerations, and these make us so happy
we tiptoe, we choose the word, we equate
every object to a meaning, we dance to a lot
of its nuances, and then we touch and then
we are so silent. we choose not to hurt.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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There Is No Substitute For What Is Present...
to view an apple in the internet
or climb an apple tree with many ripe apples
in cyberspace
they are nothing
compared to the ripe mango in my hands
to a virtual love that is described as true
love making vicarious
that is nothing compared to a kiss
that i planted on your
cheek of
peach
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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5. All Scone
Fresh baked scones all golden brown
With jam and clotted cream
Espresso coffee frothy whipped
For high tea what a dream
A platter full of sandwiches
Garnished green with salad
Piano in the corner plays
Another well known ballad
Torn between selections
Is it brown or maybe white?
Having cut the crusts away
Leaving nothing but one bite
Out came the fancy cake plate
Full of fresh baked scone
Six of them and four of us
I hope for more than one
We finish off the platter
Now scones all piping hot
I didn’t eat mine quickly enough
So one was all I got
poem by David Threadgold (2008)
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Beach Boy Blues
(words & music by sid tepper - roy bennett)
Im a poor hawaiian beach boy
A long way from the beach
cause someone shoved his face against my hand
Now Im a kissing cousin to a ripe pineapple
Im in the can
I was minding my own business
But drinking daddys juice
I swear Ill never touch that stuff again
Just like a pig before he gave his all that aluhau
Im in the pen
Got those beach boy blues
Dont the time go slow
Lonely beach boy blues
Only 30 days and 90 years to go
I want a taste of honey
From my wahinis lips
I want to be her ever loving man
But Im a kissing cousin to a ripe pineapple
Im in the can
But Im a kissing cousin to a ripe pineapple
Im in the can
song performed by by Elvis Presley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Take Me To The Liver
Id like to do some more songs about buildings and food
This is a song about liver, very high in protein, very good for ya
Hope you like it
I dont know why
You feed me so bad
Think of all the health food
I couldve had
You took-a my yogurt
And my whole wheat bread
You give me ding dongs
And twinkies instead
I wanna know
Can you tell me
When is it going to end
Take me to the liver
Push it on my platter
Give me a piece of liver
Oh, drop it on my platter
Scarfin it down
Scarfin it down
song performed by by Weird Al Yankovic
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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To Green
Oh! my green; Oh! my green
Where are you? Where can be seen?
Up above my chin
You are so thin;
I held you,
Saw you on tiny drops
Shining and shining
After shower found you smiling.
Where are you - going thin and thin
Oh! my green, Oh! my green.
Tempest came;
Came wearing wealthy jackets
Laid the traps showing lollypops.
It took my hands charmed on me
Studded with rubies (like) to fake me
Than I scramble and long for you
Repent my sin
Oh! my green, Oh! my green.
poem by Hrushikesha Mohanty
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On Promising Fruitfulness of a Tree
A comely sight indeed it is to see
A world of blossoms on an apple-tree:
Yet far more comely would this tree appear,
If all its dainty blooms young apples were.
But how much more might one upon it see,
If all would hang there till they ripe should be.
But most of all in beauty 'twould abound,
If then none worm-eaten should there be found.
But we, alas! do commonly behold
Blooms fall apace, if mornings be but cold.
They too, which hang till they young apples are,
By blasting winds and vermin take despair,
Store that do hang, while almost ripe, we see
By blust'ring winds are shaken from the tree,
So that of many, only some there be,
That grow till they come to maturity.
Comparison.
This tree a perfect emblem is of those
Which God doth plant, which in his garden grows,
Its blasted blooms are motions unto good,
Which chill affections do nip in the bud.
Those little apples which yet blasted are,
Show some good purposes, no good fruits bear.
Those spoiled by vermin are to let us see,
How good attempts by bad thoughts ruin'd be.
Those which the wind blows down, while they are green,
Show good works have by trials spoiled been.
Those that abide, while ripe upon the tree,
Show, in a good man, some ripe fruit will be.
Behold then how abortive some fruits are,
Which at the first most promising appear.
The frost, the wind, the worm, with time doth show,
There flows, from much appearance, works but few.
poem by John Bunyan
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The ripe pear
Quartering this ripe pear
- a knife-and-fork job; it gave little away
except a slight softness around the stalk,
yet seems to contain more juice than
any work of man could hold -
quartering this ripe pear,
I'm caught up in wonder:
this is almost too good for human beings -
it should have a religion built around its praise;
as if it wishes to tell us something
that we might have overlooked
about such mouth-worn phrases as
Nature's bounty and God's grace..
or as if, two thousand years ago,
it had leaned, heavy on its branch,
from the wall of Plato's leafy Academy,
saw him writing of ideals,
and smiled;
and now I've written that,
I can eat this pear,
tasting it and what I've written;
this pear, I swear,
now tastes even better;
as if I had submitted
on some altar, to be consumed by praise;
praise that tastes of pear; pear that tastes of praise.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Under The Mango Tree
i like the idea
of doing many things under the mango tree
like
watching time go by like it is a stranger
and i
am a stranger too watching time pass by
like i am so interested
with what time
can do to me
making me old
making the mango tree bloom and flower and have fruits
and they are so many
that the mango tree bends
to the ground
and time stays for a while and ripens the fruits
and make all of them
in time
fall one by one to the ground
like some kind
of withered flowers
luscious, sweet, fruits of the mango tree
falling
by the slightest passing of the wind
and then the children
come and with all joy
pick them one by one
putting what they can
under
their shirts and still rushing
to keep
and take some more
under the mango tree
all the people
are so much alike
the rushing, the taking, the joy
of always having more
and it will never stop
as i watch time slowly go by
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Contemplative...
an empty platter left
in the yard of green grass
filled with the songs of birds
as breakfast
to blend with the lyrics
of an
empty mind
an empty
stomach
those idle hands
and these
numb arms
the tranquil soil
begins to say those
prayers
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Words Are Useful
in times of breaking up
words are useful
gently the words must be uttered
like some fruits in a silver platter
nothing hurtful
no one to blame
words become memories
flowers that you pick and then throw away
just like that
as easy as i once know you...
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Ingrates
sometimes
we are given so much life
all the beautiful flowers
blooming wildly along our usual paths
to the mountains and seas
we are given so much of air
this invisible abundance
we breathe and take every packet
of freshness in our lungs
and we, out of this familiarity,
and routine,
take all these for granted
even as rights
rather than privileges
even if you we do not ask
all these are given
handed like fruits ripe on a
golden platter
and we have all become
ingrates
and so the Giver has become so sad
regretting that He has created us
finally contemplating upon
a destruction
like the way a disappointed writer
deletes his composition
more of myself too
erasing what i have so carefully thought of
and written on the sand
there was once a time
i did not leave it for the waves
i did it myself
stamping all those castles, destroying each letter
leaving everything in a mess
that it really deserves
after all, i am but a man
angry about ungratefulness....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Something Descriptive Only For What Is In There
inside a wicker basket
are two red apples
beside three persimmons
on top of them
is a ripe mango
still
there is no sound
even a ripple of air
from the window
covered with
white lace curtains.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Mango Tree And The Children
the mango tree
blooms on the month
of May
fruits are heavy
soon
on all its branches
is opulence
Comes June
the children come
with their sticks
and slings
and stones
the mango tree is
hit once again
and all the fruits
fall to the
ground
the children
have all the fun
saliva flows from
tongues
dipping in
salt
as early as that
they know what fun is
by hurting those
that fruit so well
by taking the fruits
beyond
what they actually
need
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Fruits Of The Tree
What fruits we have!
Glittering with evil,
To shed innocent blood,
Shining with greed,
And we end in comfort that lasts only a moment
What fruits we bare!
Lost in ambition and passion
That we preach prosperity and success
As if they last an eternity
Swelling with pride that lasts a stint
Fruits of the tree
That the master has planted.
They can choose to ripen, or to stay raw!
They can choose to rot, or to stay ripe!
But, every fruit stands the test of time.
In the end, Ripe with truth and love,
Victory is imminent.
Rotten with deception and hatred,
Destruction waits:
The fruits from the tree of life
poem by Timothy muggaga
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Interlude
Mid this hot green glowing gloom
A word falls with a raindrop's boom...
Like baskets of ripe fruit in air
The bird-songs seem, suspended where
Those goldfinches--the ripe warm lights
Peck slyly at them--take quick flights.
My feet are feathered like a bird
Among the shadows scarcely heard;
I bring you branches green with dew
And fruits that you may crown anew
Your whirring waspish-gilded hair
Amid this cornucopia--
Until your warm lips bear the stains
And bird-blood leap within your veins.
poem by Dame Edith Louisa Sitwell
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