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
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Related quotes
When I remember the fish
When I remember the fish,
The river longed me to go,
Wriggling and meandering, slippery in this
Imaginary waters of my world,
I become a fish.
When eye sea them eat the fish;
They cast their nets for a random catch, they
Drop their hooks for a strangling pull, then,
I become a fish no more.
When them fail to catch the fish;
As the fish wriggles an escape,
Then eye long to be like one as eye
Wonder whether or not am a fish.
©1998
poem by Akachukwu Chukwuemeka
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Shallow Water
Do fish swim up-river
Why do they make it so hard
So hard on themselves
Do they not know
Down-river is the way to go
Aha, but what is down-river
There is an enemy
He will look for you
When you go
When you leave your home
Unfamiliar territory
Your waters become are shallow
Do not be afraid of the enemy
But take a freind where you go
Do not fear the shallow
poem by Deci Hernandez
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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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Darwin's Fish
Darwin had a fish named Very Brighte
‘Twas marked with spots of orange amongst the white
Such a fine example of selective breed'n
'Twould be a shame to see him eat'n.
Charles D., taught this very special fish
To take a walk on a contrivance; called a leash.
On days when weather was good and fair
Brighte was released from his leather snare.
Under trees so green and supple, the two
Frolicked, as only friends could do.
One day they took a different path
As they were deep in thought, discussing math.
They approached a glen so inviting
The fish dictating, Darwin writing.
There in the cooling shade,
A brook's babbling sound was made.
‘Memberances of times in distant past
Thru his brain the pictures flashed.
Caused him (the fish, not Darwin)
To leap right in.
‘Twas here, the poor fish did discover
A truth known to father, mother, sister, brother.
Pollywogs, as well, have found it's true,
One cannot go home to waters, blue.
As he sank into the deep,
Poor Darwin's fish began to weep.
Sink or Swim, he did remember.
But forgot all else, that day in September.
Perhaps he forgot how to swim and drowned.
Yet his body was never found.
But Darwin was convinced that it was evolution,
That brough Brighte's life to its conclusion.
poem by Sidi J. Mahtrow
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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 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
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Lovely, Lovely, Lovely Memories
By an old river beside a bamboo grove
She bathes herself
Only the bamboo leaves hinder
Your view of her long black hair
As she splashes naked in the
Clear River.
Lovely 2
There is a nipa hut on the side of a hill
You meet her when it is dark
She lights your cigar
As you get near her
You decided to smoke later
Lovely 3
You are rocking yourself on a rattan hammock
On a late afternoon when the rest go home
It is Saturday
She stays
You watch her come near you giving you something
She says it is the key to her room and she is all alone tonight.
Lovely 4
The cogon grasses have grown tall & thick on the hillside
Both of you hide in there
Nobody sees you
The tall cogon grasses dance wildly to the slow wind
Lovely 5
Four years in the university studying chemistry
You return home finally
You embrace your old mother meeting you by the door
Outside you see the guava tree filled with its ripe yellow fruit odor
So heavily laden like a big Christmas tree
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Nature At Its Best!
In walks across the countryside,
What wondrous sights these eyes have spied -
From foxes darting clean away
To badgers when they're lost in play!
A butterfly flits past my face
Another flower to embrace!
Perchance and serendipity
A flying eagle I might see...
An otter's seldom seen, and yet,
It happened once - I'll not forget!
I don't catch fish, I watch them swim -
Mid waters clear and waters dim.
Both frogs and salmon like to leap
From waters shallow, waters deep...
Binoculars assist me well,
Across the meadow, hill and dell...
I write down species one by one,
As this itself adds to the fun!
From nature books I swot and swot!
It's great to know I've learnt a lot!
I hear the calls of many birds -
It's almost like they're speaking words!
I like the redbreast robin most!
It's humble without need to boast!
Two hedgehogs visit now and then...
I've called one 'Bill', the other 'Ben'!
I like God's creatures near or far...
In fact, to me, each one's a star!
They're not all noble like the horse,
Yet they all bless my nature course!
poem by Denis Martindale
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The City And The Town
this is what the city has to offer
neon lights, ambulance screams,
loud music, beer and ale,
a small room, a busy life,
a little sleep,
exquisite dinners,
late shows, gags, gigs.
but i have enough of all these,
i went to the little town
and have this wooden house,
beside a river, there are flowers
blooming and vegetable gardens,
and tranquil horizons,
a beautiful sunset
a brighter sunrise,
crustal clear rivers,
home fishing, and mountain treks,
and fresh smell of green grass,
and cool shades of trees,
mountain shadows,
full moons and singing birds
love calls, and fresh fruits
direct from the trees,
wild chickens, and
horses to ride and carabaos
to pasture, goats to feed
and turkey chases,
a very peaceful sleep at night
under the moon
lamp-lit room and some cicadas
in concert with the frogs
and crickets and worms
and then the rain
starts to fall
you hear the sweet hum
of the nearby river
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Those Feelings
i
the first exhilaration was when you were issued the visa.
in your mind is 'America! America! '
here i come, 'America! ' as though you are going to heaven.
the family butchers the 60-kilo pig and the whole village rejoice
over your success.
America is your gateway to what you perceive as an escape
from poverty. This country is a haven of corruption. This country
is not offering you opportunities to rise to a higher level of existence.
The politicians here are good for nothing but promises.
You keep telling yourself. Patriotism is gone.
ii
Then you are in America. You have your first taste of snow inside your room.
Outside it is cold, and you begin to say, this is not what i dream about.
You are one of the jobless. You only fill in for work. Those who promised to
help you avoid you. You have become another useless number in the world
of perceived opportunities.You lock yourself. Money is hard to find here too.
The parties are not helpful hints about your quest for survival.
You go unhealthily surfing in the internet. No one remembers you.
No one is giving you. Everyone is asking for the money that you promise
to send back home. Your mother is sick. Your father is a drunkard.
Your brother is a drug addict. Your sister is pregnant.
iii
Then you begin to feel so alone.
You begin to think about going home.
Back to your country.
It is what you miss. The simplicity of life there.
The sun. The rice field. The fishing on the surf.The picnic on the hills.
Under the mango tree. The bath in the river.
The Sunday gathering by the sea.
A game of chess with a friend at the plaza.
The Jaycee activities.
The novena of the Holy Rosary on Wednesdays.
Sunday church.
The loafing. The hammock tied between two coconut trees.
The song of the gentle waves. The coolness of the nipa hut.
The anchovies. Salted fish and raw mangoes.
Coconut vinegar and the raw fish. Chunks of tangigue.
The sweet smell of the pork adobo.
The humba. The rhumba and the tango and the boogie.
The humility of your people.
The carabao ride towards the mountain.
Your friendly tenants. The spring on top of Saluyong hills.
The tuba. Dakak beach and floating restos.
iv
the Dipolog airport is wide and long.
You hear the song of your going back home.
Soon. Soon.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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When I Was A Child
when i was a child
i used to fish in the nearby river
there was silence
i can hear the songs of the reeds
and the whispering sighs of the nipa palms
i sat and waited
until a fish swallows my hook, line and sinker
and the with one pull i got the fish
off the water and into the soil
it grapples for death
for taking my bait.
now, i have become a man
and i have nothing to do with the fishes anymore
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Fixation
between two islands
of my life
i set upon a swim
this middle portion
of clear calm waters
it is not deep
no storms not even a wave
it is crystal clear
and beneath
a white sandy floor
some fish lick my legs
and tickle my pelvis
some sea grass massage
the soles of my feet
and so i like it here
and i am not going somewhere
or anywhere
the other island
which they call eternal bliss
for a while
can wait
it is between day and night
it is between heaven and earth
it is between life and death
it is what you call
my sinfulness.
in here i am very happy
and that is all enough for me
the sky blue waters are so cool
& the surroundings simply beautiful
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Fish And Rice
Daniel phoned me today
with his usual two year old exuberance
which comes naturally when you are two
and comes naturally when you're fifty two
until you extinguish it with old damp habits,
and he said
'Fish! Fish! I like fish very much!
Daddy, fan fan, fan fan', (Chinese for rice)
and yes Daniel has already mastered
three languages, English, Mandarin and enthusiasm
the last of which he is most adept at.
Well I thought he was enjoying his fish supper
but not so, and I should have known,
this exuberance could not be the result of food
unless perhaps a rare taste
of smooth creamy chocolate.
No he was feeding fish,
fish with an appetite for rice?
No, but no one had told him the ingredients of fish food
or me for that matter
and of course he was right,
as far as the fish are concerned
this was indeed the rice of life.
And he was now suddenly very upset
standing in the corner, arms folded, despondent
what happened? I asked
I am told by my reporting wife
that there had been a message I had missed,
and should have known.
Feeding fish is more essential for happiness
than eating fish,
and on his return home, freely swimming happy fish
should be waiting for his love and bliss.
poem by David Taylor
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Those Better Years
the farm yielded
more than what the
storehouse can
ever hold
the mangoes ripen
with no one to
pick them up
the birds feast on the
grains and the butterflies
feast on fruit juices
dropping to the
grassy ground
the rivers are clean
crystal clear creeks
with fish teeming
the seas have white
seagulls over them
the bottom all filled
with corals and
fish crowding
the crabs bite us
when we pass the river
we never pick any
the geese abound
and no one uses a gun
to kill anyone
there were no cities then
no tyrants no conquerors
there was peace
and progress
until the discoverers came
and named our lands
in the name of their king.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Some things that can happen with a fish
A fish that drinks like a fish, that is a fish in excess
A fish that fishes in troubled waters, that is a fish taking advantage of another fish in trouble
A fish that fishes or cuts bait, well, to be or not to be, to retreat or to attack, that is the fishy question
A fish that is neither fish nor fowl, is a fish that is neither one nor the other, lacking some convictions
A fish out of water, is a fish feeling left out, no longer in his accustomed environment
Do you have other fish to fry for now?
Is there other matter requiring my attention?
Poor fish,
the lake is finally fished out from his fishy mind.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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31
A fish that drinks like a fish, that is a fish in excess
A fish that fishes in troubled waters, that is a fish taking advantage of another fish in trouble
A fish that fishes or cuts bait, well, to be or not to be, to retreat or to attack, that is the fishy question
A fish that is neither fish nor fowl, is a fish that is neither one nor the other, lacking some convictions
A fish out of water, is a fish feeling left out, no longer in his accustomed environment
Do you have other fish to fry for now?
Is there other matter requiring my attention?
Poor fish,
the lake is finally fished out from his fishy mind.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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To have a feel of my food
To have the feel of my food not just the taste of it in my tongue
I use my bare hands, the rice I fold between my palms the fish
I touch with my fingers, and then my mouth opens to swallow and savor
Just like you tonight, I feel you with my bare hands I taste you
With my tongue because you are the food of my soul and my soul
Feeds on you as you also feed on mine
We are bare all over, not just our bare hands
We touch we feel we lick we breath with our noses
On our skins, we feed on our flesh, we go deeper
Into our souls, our eyes feast on the food we lay in front of us
The lights of our eyes open in our room the festivity to a beginning
We feed on ourselves we are hungry & greedy & we are never full
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Cross River My River
We are a people from the river
So you do not withhold seafood
From greasing our hungry plates
And giving us savoury taste
As our fathers deploy nets and bamboos
To court fish for the fire at home
Our people paddle their boat
To the centre of your being, and made boast
About the day’s catch, snatched from you
But you do not rage and swallow them up
For the way they gloat
Oh! Sweet Pretty River
You flow to nourish our land like Eden
And supplyfruits and vegetables at no price
To you we owe our home called Paradise
A place flowing with milk and honey
For which we did not pay a penny
Cross River, my pretty river
Mother of all goodness and blessedness I hail
No name would have been better
Than the one you gave a people
Cross River, my pretty river I hail
poem by Serena Eyo
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Gloom And Doom
it was when your excitement was only the strong wind from the forest
the ripe mangoes fall for
you to pick them up
you run for excitement, the thrill of ripe fruits falling to your hands
it was when your sadness was only about a failing grade
on a math quiz
it was when your happiness was the carabao ride
from your nipa hut to the public school
it was when your sweet face was kissed by your mama
your hair caressed by a friend
simple memories
it was when your escape was the plunge in the river
with your naked friends
it was when your conversations are about fairies and princesses
and frogs and lost shoes
it was when the coolness was the thick grasses spreading
on the plains
it was when joy was the playing and bathing under the rain
on the month of November
now these changes have made things more complicated
people are hard to deal with and
a self that is deeper, darker
and difficult to really understand
now there are more severances, dreams that do not come true
failures keep coming, alienation of the self, the soul from the body
reverses, and uncertainties, longer nights,
without the stars,
a moon covered by thick clouds,
the heavy rain promising another big flood
gloomy crystal balls, smokes of fire, and
misfortunes of the mind
that earthquake is not the last.
when will this bad karma ever end?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Death of My Childhood Place
I miss the place so much
where I could climb trees
ate star apples and green mangoes
from fruit trees near our house
bath in the river
made a raft
out from banana or bamboo trunk
go boating with my brother
and enjoyed swimming in the river
Where we made a makeshift dam
got some catfish
or played with the tadpoles
and shooed away the frogs
and on rainy day
played with my childhood friend
creating pots and anything from the mud
forming clay vases and figurines
and enjoy the drizzles of the rain
But father sold the place
and we moved to an urban zone
where trees don’t bear fruits
and fruits are not on trees but in groceries.
and clays are beneath the cemented road
and during rainy days
people will not go out
and everyone seems so busy on
their business and their job
so in grief of my childhood place
and gone with it is my childhood stage
poem by Champs Ulysses Cabinatan
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