I Welcome The Rain That Comes In The Month Of August
equate the month of august with agony, it simply sounds like that
does not jibe well with sorrow or sadness, sounds too underestimating
and it goes well with the rain that comes surprisingly today
on this hot month, on this arid soil, on this acrid atmosphere
between us, this silence, inside us the rambling thoughts of
alienation, around us is the smell of spices of separation those that
when sliced like onions when peeled by our trembling fingers make us cry,
out there our eyes look at different directions and our hands are taking
the forms of mutual dislike like some roots spreading down the deep recesses
of this earth, preferring to be anonymous in this undescribable boredom
i like the rain, the sound of dripping, the slowness of life, dripping from my
hands like raindrops, like things gradually wasting themselves reaching my
toes, numb to my nails, wanting to be buried to the ground and simply
be forgotten
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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When The Rain Comes
this i can tell to my nephew
that when the rain comes
all we do is listen to the rhythm
of its own sound
there is music to every dripping
rain at the gutters of
our soul
there is this feeling of having
to be with the cry of the
world
to be wet with its tears
to be divine
and pure
when the rain comes
there is the urge to dance under the sky
to be one with the earth
and rain as the link between the earth
and the sky
our limbs as paths
our feet as thirsty roots
our hands stretching
for more
of what is yet to come
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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God's Humor
lying on the ground
only hearing the sound
of my beating heart
with flesh ripped apart
screaming out in pain
sounds get muffled by the rain
veins can be seen
a knife stabbed in ur spleen
blood dripping on the floor
i don't wanne live no more
take my soul away
u start to pray
to the sun, rain or air
or to one that doesn't care
with all thats done to you
u get picked up for round two
sliced flesh everywhere
does ur god even care
ur in so much pain
let me pierce ur brain
finaly it's over u think
then u get a wink
from the sun, rain or air
i'll let u live in despair
with scars everywhere
to show u... i do care
poem by Paddy Jansen
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False Lights, Termites, Stones
we are
to them
always
the image
of departure
and so it
seems to
be, as
always,
sadness that
they smell
on our skin
our hair
they imagine
bags and all
the stuff that
must be
there
they hear
the sound of
buses honking
and waiting
they like to
close the
doors of the
house
and see to
it that all
windows
are closed
what they always
see in us
is the look of
misery
of time wasted
of
dripping water
that
dries the moment
it meets
an arid
soil
i sigh to all
these
wrong notions
but i only
have silence
to offer
before their
altars
they are not gods
and i guess
tomorrow
early morning
i simply
have to destroy
them
these plasters of
Paris
these cranky
obsolete
stones
these false lights
termites and
pests of
my wooden world
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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That's Why I Am Here With You....
again this is just an outpouring
of rain
all my loneliness dropping like
rain
all my sadness dripping
like rain
again, this is nothing about
anthologies
or who gets the Poet of the Month
thing
in any community magazine
this is rain outpouring
this is a form of therapy
on everyday malady
nothing about art or musing
when tomorrow rains again
i will be here
when sunshine comes and
flowers bloom in the field
when my beloved sings and
sleeps with me in bed
why should i be here?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Sound Of The Rain
do not mislead me with the
point-of-view of the frog
you croak and you say this
is how something beautiful
sounds, how ugliness feigns
i tell you i like the rain and
the frog likes it too, i am
one of those frogs bathing
and jumping on the pond,
but do not mislead me with
your sound, it does not sound
like the hush of the wind,
it has no color of the moon,
i am one of the frogs of this
pond, but i do not wish to
sound like you: i am in love
with the sound of the rain,
and this is the one that makes
me stay. It is not you, your
sound is not gentle, it is
rough like the skin of the
teething toad. I love the
rain, the way it sounds,
and that is enough
for my suffering.
Dripping.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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November Rain
November rain washed away my guilt
November rain washed away my pain
November rain - so tired I felt
November rain was not just any rain
Long I longed with deep torment
For so long my body waited
November rain, , , , Oh, sweet friend
November rain- slowly I faded.
November rain- I cried within
Steady and slowly, it kept on pouring
November rain, watered my skin
And deep inside, I heard my roaring.
November rain, it refused to quit
November rain kept on pouring
And alone outside, in the streets I wept-
dripping... dripping and falling.
poem by Amy Phillip
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Lichtenberg
(New South Wales Contingent)
Smells are surer than sounds or sights
To make your heart-strings crack--
They start those awful voices o' nights
That whisper, " Old man, come back! "
That must be why the big things pass
And the little things remain,
Like the smell of the wattle by Lichtenberg,
Riding in, in the rain.
There was some silly fire on the flank
And the small wet drizzling down--
There were the sold-out shops and the bank
And the wet, wide-open town;
And we were doing escort-duty
To somebody's baggage-train,
And I smelt wattle by Lichtenberg--
Riding in, in the rain.
It was all Australia to me--
All I had found or missed:
Every face I was crazy to see,
And every woman I'd kissed:
All that I should n't ha' done, God knows!
(As He knows I'll do it again),
That smell of the wattle round Lichtenberg,
Riding in, in the rain!
And I saw Sydney the same as ever,
The picnics and brass-bands;
And my little homestead on Hunter River
And my new vines joining hands.
It all came over me in one act
Quick as a shot through the brain--
With the smell of the wattle round Lichtenberg,
Riding in, in the rain.
I have forgotten a hundred fights,
But one I shall not forget--
With the raindrops bunging up my sights
And my eyes bunged up with wet;
And through the crack and the stink of the cordite
(Ah Christ! My country again!)
The smell of the wattle by Lichtenberg,
Riding in, in the rain!
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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A Picture Of A Bound Man
one time
by chance i see a man bound
with ropes
all over his body
that even his toes and
fingers cannot move
i recall the feeling once
when i let time bound me
when i let time pass by me
and i have done nothing
to change
who i am
and what i am supposed to be
when my being
is simply left to the winds
and the seasons
to the blackness of the night
and to the bleakness of my days
when i just lay on the floor
crying
when i just let the door close upon
its face
when the windows are useless
without its hands
when the floor has no mouth to make the
sound at all that
even the termites shy away
when i feel the nearness of death
hushing upon my ears
when i simply close my eyes
and let things
hop and hover upon
my being
when i have forgotten
even to say
to hell with
life....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Picture Of A Bound Man Who Forgot To Say...
one time
by chance i see a man bound
with ropes
all over his body
that even his toes and
fingers cannot move
i recall the feeling once
when i let time bound me
when i let time pass by me
and i have done nothing
to change
who i am
and what i am supposed to be
when my being
is simply left to the winds
and the seasons
to the blackness of the night
and to the bleakness of my days
when i just lay on the floor
crying
when i just let the door close upon
its face
when the windows are useless
without its hands
when the floor has no mouth to make the
sound at all that
even the termites shy away
when i feel the nearness of death
hushing upon my ears
when i simply close my eyes
and let things
hop and hover upon
my being
when i have forgotten
even to say
to hell with
life....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Rain drops fall from heaven
Tears swelling up in my eyes every night
Rain drops fall from heaven
Simply a walking disguise in the light
Rain drops fall from heaven
Wondering when i will be alright
Rain drops fall from heaven
Growing so weak no energy to fight
Rain drops fall from heaven
Losing all hope in my mind
Rain drops fall from heaven
Wishing that i could simply unwind
Rain drops fall from heaven
As time goes love makes me blind
Rain drops fall from heaven
Wishing i didn't have to leave her behind
Rain drops fall from heaven
Wanting to make everything right
Rain drops fall from heaven
Wishing i could see her in sight
Rain drops fall from heaven
Wishing I had the strength to fight
Rain drops fall from heaven
Wishing i could hold her tight
Rain drops fall from heaven
Never knowing if she remembers me
Rain drops fall from heaven
Never know if we were meant to be
Rain drops fall from heaven
Wishing i had more time to see
Rain drops fall from heaven
My family that always loved me
Rain drops fall from heaven
Thinking back to the times we had
Rain drops fall from heaven
Smiles and laughter but yet so sad
Rain drops fall from heaven
Just sitting here all alone
Rain drops fall from heaven
Wishing i was way back home
Rain drops fall from heaven
Now the only thing that is on my mind
Rain drops fall from heaven
Is the memories i have way back in time
Rain drops fall from heaven
The tears from my eyes and deep inside
Rain drops fall from heaven
Matches the drops that come from the sky
Rain drops fall from heaven
If you could even begin to wonder why
Rain drops fall from heaven
It is simply those tears from lies
Rain drops fall from heaven
Every time it rains i stare to the clouds
Rain drops fall from heaven
Hoping one day she will simply fall
Rain drops fall from heaven
Right into my arms where she belongs
Rain drops fall from heaven
So that i can sing her a song
Rain drops fall from heaven
A song that tells her how i feel
Rain drops fall from heaven
A song that is nothing but real
Rain drops fall from heaven
That will be the day that will bring me joy
Rain drops fall from heaven
Too bad it wont happen to this boy
Rain drops fall from my eyes 24/7
poem by Joshua Thomas Gage
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We Walk Naked In The Rain
we walk in the rain, we walk naked in the rain
we like the shower in nude, we like the droppings of rain in our nudity
dripping in our curving naked bodies, in eroticism
to all the waters slowly crawling around us to all the dainty showers from above us
the droplets the heavy rain, the coldness dripping in our chins, our lips, pelvis, legs and
toes
and the warmth now enclosed between us.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Kindness
Things are destined to be lost
To be broken
The leaves fall and rot
At the foot of the tree
The roots soon shrink
And become part
Of the indifference of the
Rocks and the soil
Things move out
And up
Like vapor and then
Change their forms to air
But there are those that weep
And keep
Whatever was lost and destroyed
The leaves they take with their hands
And the roots
They stroke with the toes of their feet
Caress and
Kindness their virtues
That humanity has soon discarded
They grow the seeds in their hearts
They keep the fire of love
Burning
And the earth and the sun and stars
All smile at them
They too grow and scatter and travel
To all the places of this earth
Their forms too many
The gods know
They too must grow and get the world
Of the grass of sorrow
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I Asked The Rain To Stop Today
I asked the rain to stop today
To see if it would oblige
To stop pounding on the window,
And saturating our lives.
I asked the rain to stop today,
With my umbrella held tight,
I pleaded with the mighty rain,
Until the dead of night.
I asked the rain to stop today,
To get a little relief,
I asked that rain to stop today,
But it kept coming down in sheets.
I begged the rain to cease today,
I begged on hand and knee,
I waited for the rain’s reply
But it only dampened me.
Dripping, cold, damp, and tired,
I walked into the night.
I was so upset at the stubborn rain,
I didn’t see the lights.
Bleeding, Lying, Dripping, Dying,
A rag doll in the street.
I asked the rain to stop today...
poem by Michael Norton
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Seed, Qou Vadis?
seed falling on the ground
brought by a night bird
wet by the rain of dusk
you have no choice
but to crack your hard covering
and then grow
some roots and leaves
in time's blessing
some flowers
then fruits
then the silence of the wilting
follows
to be back into a seed again
eaten by this night bird
and thrown back
to a distant soil
seed,
you must begin
your cycle again
for what choice do you have?
the night bird does not
even know
and the soil simply receives you
and the rain of the dusk
simply wets you
and they do not even know
what & why
they are doing all these
this is the cycle
of the seed of life
and wilting and death
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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August....
August is the month for kids it’s the last few weeks of freedom before a new school year begins.
August is the month where many parents are excited that its here cause they don’t want their kids home alone.
August is the last month before fall begins.
August is the only month that has fewer holidays than most months.
August is the month where most teens are happy because it means that it’s the last school year for most.
August is the month that I really don’t care for but I also like as well.
poem by Natasha Ligons
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If You Look For A Rhyme, So Sorry I Don't Have It
i don't jam and i don't rhyme
my life does not rhyme
and some parts simply
do not fit
until now
like a dovetail
of wooden pieces
to make
your chair
so sorry but i don't have
rhyme
it is the truth
it is the truth of this world
some things do not fit
some people do not just fit
square pegs in a round hole
square lives in a round dimension
it is the truth of this world
fingers in the hands
toes in your feet
look at them as a family of your
unique body
i like to rhyme i like to jibe with you
and sing the harmony of
our song
the truth is
there isn't
and so my dear, let us look at each other's eyes
again
can you do it without blinking?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Decision To Be Happy
I am watching water
dripping from the gutter
the rain has just stopped
falling
the sun begins its part
spreading soft light on the window panes
my wife has finished taking her bath
and kisses me on my cheeks
breakfast is ready on the table
and the smell of rice and pork grill spreads in the house
the water that drips from the gutter
to the leaves of the fortune plant appears
like diamonds bringing all that gladness
to the younger hours of the day
well, ask me what is this all about
oh yeah, this is all about this decision to be just
simply happy.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Dancing In The Rain
Let the children dance
In the rain
They are free!
Let them run on the
Green grass in the rain
They are free!
Let us hear their sounds
Of excitement
They are free!
Let us see them drink
Raindrops
They are free!
Their shoulders caressed
By rain dropping from
Roof tops to their toes
Let us see them
Play in the rain and in the
Mud
Let them get dirty
Let them be washed by the rain again
They are free!
Don’t you see we are all
These children dancing
In the rain?
We are free!
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Blank, Numb, Floating
it is 1: 55 a.m.
i hear the rain falling
she is fast asleep tired of the demands of her day
i leave her and she takes the pillow for me
i turn on the light
and see this room of books and paperworks
i turn on the computer
i am feeling nothing and i am floating like i am but a spirit
i am numb and i am feeling so dumb
i see this blank wall
i am feeling so empty
i look at her again
she utters words in her sleep and i will not wake her up
i lay my hands on the keys
run my fingers on some letters
there is nothing to write
in particular but there is something to run my fingers on
this feeling
this attempt to imitate the sound of the rain in letters
to put the motion of the rain to put its smell
to be wet and to have the rain run over me
all over me all over me all over me all over me
blank, numb, floating and wet
this is the poem now
at 2: 03 a.m.
it has gained finally this form
and scent and motion and color
that you have never seen
or felt the way
i do.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Busy...
you body clock
does not tell time,
busy body, slimy fingers,
trembling hands,
wrecking nerves
fast tracking heart,
exploding ideas
killing boredom
it's been this way
since
nothing is written
the spirit is away
the body is left here
comatose
dreams like butterflies
hovering on some red flowers
heartless sounds of
discontent
fingers dissociated from hands
the eyes are closing
like closed computers
at 8 o'clock in the morning
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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