En.Citatepedia^®.ro

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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The Farmer And The Stray Dog

the farmer arrives
bringing with him his
viand and rice
places it in the corner
of his hut,

the stray dog
gets in through its
sense of smell
and finds its catch
the farmer's
viand and rice

the catch is taken
far away

the farmer
is not angry for soon

a woman with a long
black hair arrives
bringing him
his broiled fish
and newly cooked rice

the woman is not
his wife
and there they are
under the shade of
the mango tree

the stray dog watches
as this story unfolds
to the final chapter
inside the hut
on such a very dark night

the dog is clever
and it knows the ending
the farmer is not angry
for dogs. mind you,
never tell.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Mountain Of Poverty

this is what i can tell you:
the children are running in the hills
looking for their favorite butterflies to play
chasing dreams, i suppose, who knows
what they really know and
feel, i was once a child myself, perhaps i have the right to guess
what simple wants they have,

freedom, but i can tell you about something else,
their breakfast today is only brown sugar and rice,
and they have not taken their baths in the river because
the water is dirty, and there is no water system in the hills,
primitive, and still undeveloped, the grasses are not cut
tall and wild, and the coconut trees are not bearing much fruits,
there is drought, and the tenants do not have a good harvest
of their upland rice and there are rats infesting the rice fields,

it rains so hard, the road is slippery and we all have to walk slowly
to keep themselves warm, the men drink wine and smoke
the women do not weave mats anymore, they're sold cheap
and they are so disappointed with what they are getting

sugar is a precious commodity here, no coffee,
salt is expensive, salted fish is a luxury,
bread is like gold here and children do not know what is bread all about
cookies do not exist here

stone age, this is stone age in the midst of an expanding world
the children here are left out
i stare at them as they throw stones at play,
dirt and foul smell, but on the other hand i look at the pictures
that i took on that day

less the smell, less the dirt on their faces,
they are so beautiful, and the mountains are still hopeful.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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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Bury Me In A Scrap Yard

I’ve been a truck driver all my life,
and when it’s my time to go,
bury me in a scrap yard,
where all the old trucks go.
I am used to the diesel smoke
and burning rubber,
just bury me with the old wrecks
and no one will notice me there.
I’ve spent a lifetime on the road
with squealing brakes, burning rubber
and diesel smoke choking my throat.
I’ve driven my old truck
a thousand miles or more
and then back home again.
Therefore, when it’s my time to go,
bury me in a scrap yard,
where all the old trucks go
and if you want to give me a marker
put a detour sign over my head.
I’ve seen loads of them
wherever I had to go,
so when I go to the Lord,
bury my earthy remains
underneath a scrap yard
where all the old trucks go
as I will be at home there
with diesel smoke and burning rubber.

poem by David Harris
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Grass is easier?

Up on a windy hill a tree is
a grassy field wind is the breeze
birds and bee's play and play
long lost lovers sign there names
in the tree
a tire swing sways and sways
on this tree
children songs and voices
filled the air at the time
now and days the grass is dead
tree is bare and the birds and the bees
play else ware
long lost lovers are lost
the names wore and decay
on this tree
a tire swing once swayed
on this tree children played
now on this tree smoke and ash lay
songs and voices now all gone
for this is the tree we once plaid on

poem by Cody Lee Jones
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Mother's Steamed Rice

the sweetest song from the kitchen
that i hear
is mother's steamed rice
its smoke rising
to the ceiling
of our old wooden house

the smell so fresh
so sweetly scented with
pandan leaves
so heavenly
in broad daylight
i can see the moon and stars
beside the plate full of white steamed rice
are five pieces of salted fish
their skin charred with the cinders
their eyes staring
poisoned with so much envy

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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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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Come, Come Stay With Us, This Is Our Paradise

on the other side is the coastal beauty
of sky blue clear seas and coconut palms
at the opposite of the other side one takes
the road leading to the green mountains
the forest trees are nest of birds and
the branches are playthings for monkeys
below the mountains are villages
sleepy and peaceful and cooler with
fresh air and flowery gardens
a vast expanse of rice and corn fields
rivers still teeming with fish
the people still opting for peace

this is our paradise. Come, stay with us.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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My Home Is Where My Heart Is

my home is where my heart is.

the white furniture are the veranda
the black umbrella at the side of the door
the green grass the lush trees
the pathway filled with pebbles
the ceiling with a fan
the stairs without dust
the railings with shellac
mahogany smell of walls
the well at the backyard
the smell of bacon at the kitchen
scrambled eggs and fresh milk
every morning
the smoke rising to the roof
of white steam rice

mother calling us all
and father waiting
praying for grace
and then this hearty meal

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Way To Live

a little fish rises from the
water to
eat a bubble of
air

from the tree a
kingfisher with an eye
for fish
swiftly dives and
with its sharp long black beak
catches the
little fish

a boy with a rubber sling
aims at the blue kingfisher
hitting it with a
stone crushing its
round head and
sharp long and black beak
to the ground

a ripe coconut falls
from a tree and
hits the head of the
boy below

the lizard that climbs
the coconut tree
looking for brown beetles
at the top
does not notice how
all these events
happen

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Not Finished

A perfect night
the stars are sparkling bright
staring into the sky,
the little house in the creek
sits nestled under the tall mossy tree
the house aged by nature...beautiful
as the rain starts to pour
the tall mossy tree protects the house and its front door
the mossy tree bears the weight of the sky
as the house is kept dry
more clouds swarm in recklessly
lightning cracks as it sets fire to the tall mossy tree
the tree stands strong....
but i doesn't know if it can last long
as the rain runs down the tree's trunk and roots
like tears

poem by Wandering Scarlet
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Rural Sounds

mooing cows
barking dogs
flowing river
grassy plains
hushing winds
tall mountains
foggy hillsides
rising cliffs

a little brown boy
harvesting water apples
a little girl lifting her skirt
to catch them

father plowing a rain fed field
elder sister washing dirty clothes in the river
brother catching fish for breakfast
mother cooking rice

smoke rising from the chimney
reaching for the gods residing in the skies

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Cigar

Some sigh for this and that,
My wishes don't go far;
The world may wag at will,
So I have my cigar.

Some fret themselves to death
With Whig and Tory jar;
I don't care which is in,
So I have my cigar.

Sir John requests my vote,
And so does Mr. Marr;
I don't care how it goes,
So I have my cigar.

Some want a German row,
Some wish a Russian war;
I care not. I'm at peace
So I have my cigar.

I never see the 'Post,'
I seldom read the 'Star;'
The 'Globe' I scarcely heed,
So I have my cigar.

Honors have come to men
My juniors at the Bar;
No matter - I can wait,
So I have my cigar.

Ambition frets me not;
A cab or glory's car
Are just the same to me,
So I have my cigar.

I worship no vain gods,
But serve the household Lar;
I'm sure to be at home,
So I have my cigar.

I do not seek for fame,
A general with a scar;
A private let me be,
So I have my cigar.

To have my choice among
The toys of life's bazaar,
The deuce may take them all
So I have my cigar.

Some minds are often tost
By tempests like a tar;
I always seem in port,
So I have my cigar.

The ardent flame of love,
My bosom cannot char,
I smoke but do not burn,
So I have my cigar.

They tell me Nancy Low
Has married Mr. R.;
The jilt! but I can live,
So I have my cigar.

poem by Thomas Hood
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Goddess of the Goats

Full moon high in the sky
fog coming in
breaking like waves
against the hills and fences
Rudder was crying
baaing her silly head off
because
she couldn't find her baby
at 3am

and I
Goddess of the goats
get up from my warm bed
not that it mattered
since I was awake anyway
in my flannell pj's and rubber boots
find the baby
sleeping under what's left
of the catapah tree

a tiny little creature
smaller than the big ginger cat
who guards the farm
against invasions of rodents
when he feels the urge
I take the baby to Rudder
who sniffs it and decides
yes, this is my baby
you may go away now human

Fog rolls in
while in the shrine
erected in the hallow
of the one tree
left standing
candles burn down
smoke and fog uniting

Smoke and fog
moonlight on the fields
white goats shining in moonglow
dancing hooves in the night
whip-poor-will song
with cricket harmony

And I
Goddess of the Goats
with the knowlege
that all my goat girls
and their babies
are safe
can go back to bed

poem by Maggie DeMay
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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
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Smokin The Herb Again

Yo yo yo, yo, yo yo what
Smoking
Were smoking, were smoking the herb again
Were smoking, were smoking, were smoking the herb again
Were smoking, were smoking, were smoking the herb again
Were smoking, were smoking, were smoking the herb again
Damn, I really wish I could find my sack man
Must have got eaten by pac-man
If I had it I could smoke again
Smoke with my friends to the very end
But now Im trying to comprehend
Whens the next time that Ill smoke again
I need to know, please tell when will we smoke again
I got a buddy, his name is ted
Hes got a problem going through his head
He doesnt know how to puff puff give
But I like so Ill teach him and Ill let him live
Everyday we teach him right
When he divides, we have to fight
But at the end of the trying day
We says its ok and we puff away
Just the other night, I saw you, you were smokin not sharing and being tight
But thats ok, you are my friend, well smoking until the very end
The lessons that we put out, we order you to try it out
Its nice to smoke, yea thats what were all about
Smoking
Were smoking, were smoking the herb again
Were smoking, were smoking, were smoking the herb again
Were smoking, were smoking, were smoking the herb again
Were smoking, were smoking, were smoking the herb again
Hey, ho, hey ho, hey, ho, hey, ho, hey, ho, hey, ho
I smoke, you smoke, we smoke, they smoke, smoking everywhere
I smoke, you smoke, we smoke, they smoke, smoking all together
Smoking
Were smoking, were smoking the herb again
Were smoking, were smoking, were smoking the herb again
Were smoking, were smoking, were smoking the herb again
Were smoking, were smoking, were smoking the herb again

song performed by by Incubus
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Lime Tree

That lime tree on the distant rising ground
(If it was a lime tree) showed her yellow leaves
Above the renewed green of wet August grass--
First Autumn yellow that on first Autumn eves
Too soon was found.

Comfortless lime tree! Scarce an aspen leaf
Like a green butterfly flitted to the ground;
There was no sign of Autumn in the grass.
Even the long garden beds their beauty brief--
Their mignonette,

Nasturtium and sweet-william and red stocks,
And clover crouching in the border grass,
And blood-like fuschia, eve's primrose and white phlox
And honeysuckle--waved all their smell and hue
Morn and eve anew.

But that far lime tree yellowing by the oak,
Warning oak, elm and poplar and each fresh tree
Shaking in the south wind delightedly,
And clover in the closeness of the grass,
Warns also me.

And now when all the trees are standing still
Beneath the purple and white of the west sky,
And time is standing still--as stand it will--
That early yellowing lime with palsied fingers
Cannot be still.

poem by John Freeman
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Old Dreams Are Simple

rubber slippers on my feet
for christmas
fried chicken wing on the table
a cup of white rice
a glass of water

gazing at the stars and the moon
cool winds and shadows of tree
silvery river
a wooden boat and a paddle
with you
beside me

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Life Is Just A Tire Swing

By: jimmy buffett
1974
I remember the smell of the creosote plant
When wed have to eat on easter with my crazy old uncle and aunt
They lived in a big house, antebellum style (antebellum)
And the winds would blow across the old bayou
And I was a tranquil little child
Chorus:
Life was just a tire swing
jambalaya was the only song I could sing
Blackberry pickin, eatin fried chicken
And I never knew a thing about pain
Life was just a tire swing
In a few summers my folks packed me off to camp
Yeah me and my cousin baxter in our pup tent with a lamp
And in a few days baxter went home and he left me by myself
But I knew that Id stay, it was better that way
And I could get along without any help
Chorus:
Life was just a tire swing
jambalaya was the only song I could sing
Chasin after sparrows with rubber-tipped arrows
Knowin I could never hurt a thing
Life was just a tire swing (tire swing)
And I never been west of new orleans or east of pensacola
My only contact with the outside world was an rca victrola
And elvis would sing and then Id dream about expensive cars
And who wouldve figured twenty years later
Id be rubbin shoulders with the stars
Life was just a tire swing
Then the other mornin on some illinois road
I fell asleep at the wheel
But was quickly wakened up by a ma bell telephone pole
And a bunch of grant wood faces screamin is he still alive?
Through the window I could see it hangin from a tree
And I knew that I had survived
And life is still a tire swing
jambalaya is the best song I can sing
Blackberry pickin, eatin fried chicken
But I finally learned a lot about pain
Life is just a tire swing (tire swing)
Life was just a tire swing (tire swing)
Life was just a tire swing (tire swing)
Life was just a tire swing (tire swing)

song performed by by Jimmy Buffett
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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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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