It Is So Common
a common plague
here
how a fly
hovering on
a carabao's back
now behaves
and feels like that
big black
carabao itself?
not uncommon
yet everyone
speaks to no one
about
this discrepancy
as the carabao grazes
on the pastureland
stupidly
as usual
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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319
a common plague
here
how a fly
hovering on
a carabao's back
now behaves
and feels like that
big black
carabao itself?
not uncommon
yet everyone
speaks to no one
about
this discrepancy
as the carabao grazes
on the pastureland
stupidly
as usual
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Giving the carabao feelings of wings
The carabaos are grazing again
It is summer and
The white herons are teeming
On the green fields
Some take the usual sight
Of friendship
The white heron on top
Of the carabao’s back
They are so close I wonder
If there is this familiarity
Between them
Their friendship has lasted
For centuries
They say the white herons
Feed on carabao's lice
And to repay the kindness
The carabao gives the bird
Its free ground ride
I disagree totally
There is no pecking that I see
And there is no distance
Whatsoever that the carabao gives
This is friendship, this is a picture
Of friendship, the heron is giving
The carabao the feel of its white wings.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A fly that lands on a carabao feels itself to be higher than the carabao.
Paco De Lucia In Guitar Strings
the guitar strings of paco de lucia
are not new to me
the sound of his spanish guitar
strumming on my mind
they were with me
in my childhood
with my friends
we get a smooth
long and strong
coconut palm
take it on top
of a hill
covered with green
carabao grass
and we ride
on the palm
slide it
on the hill
and
yehey
yehehey
yehey yehey
we laugh
so hard
my little
brown friends
that
the foreign
white visitors
call monkeys
we take
the coconut palm
on top of the hill
we ride on it
and we slide
on the
hill
green
with
carabao grass
grass
yehey
yehehey
yehey
we tumble
and roll
when we
reach the
foot of the hill
covered with
green
carabao
grass
we
crash
there may
be some bruises
on our arms
and
legs
but we
laugh
we enjoy
the sliding
the falling
the crashing
on the green
green
carabao
grass
we
crash
yehey
yehehey
yehehey
we are
the happy
little brown
monkeys
yehey
yehehey
yehey
we are
happy.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Life Is So Beautiful
i step out as the door opens
the rain just stop its downpour
it is cold and the flowers are wet
and the grass glisten with drops
of water on its blade
the red rooster jumps from a tree
and flirts with a gray hen
i look to the sky and then
around the nearby hills
some birds fly towards the trees
a carabao grazes on the plain
deep within me i still want
more years, more years.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Farmer and His Carabao
Sitting on a saddle-like mounted stones,
Watching the river runs gently yonder,
Wondrous, countless, tiny whirlpools,
Sublimely caught his eyes to ponder;
Alone, he sees, he hears nothing but
To himself as high as the bird flown,
To charcoaled stem of a dead tree, it sat,
Mimicked all noises if he had not known;
Under that tree, his carabao rests in a paddle,
Snorting and snoozing on his muddy cradle,
But his master came to drag him out again,
So he rose without a splash of complain.
Back and forth, he and his master worked on,
To an acre of land that this man only owned,
As they labored together, time didn’t matter,
‘Till the summons of the night ruled thereafter.
Like a glowing star afar from the moonlight spot,
A kerosene lamp lit by the window of cogon hut,
While the son’s fueling a kiln to steam a pot of rice,
The farmer and his carabao made home without sighs.
poem by Efren Petalver Carranza
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Plain Citizen Juan De La Cruz
he thinks he is part of the government,
correct,
he is part of the people whom the government taxed
taking his money
and later some of his property, his chicken, his pig, his carabao
his plow,
then the government enters into war
plain juan de la cruz becomes the soldier
killing another soldier
in the killing fields in the mine fields he will soon lose his arm
if not both his feet
plain juan de la cruz
then the rebels come, the insurgents, the belligerents
juan de la cruz is not in his house
his wife and children are now the pawns
the victims
the servants
the wife cooks for the comrades the child runs to the nearby store
to buy cigarettes and liquour
then they too will ask for the chicken, the pigs, the carabao,
the rice and some vegetables and beans and
a little money to support their cause
plain juan de la cruz
plain citizen, will he survive the war on both sides?
let us have a sandwich
for a metaphor, this poem looks like it,
plain de la cruz is in between
and he has no choice.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Invincible Giant
i am a giant
not a silly cyclop
i have two beautiful eyes
two moons
you are pygmies
ants
am a carabao
i am a tower
of light
you are boat abducted
by a storm
i am a rock
you are the rain
with all these
i only speak
i do not touch you
i only whisper
i am all these
but you shall never see
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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My Money
Say you love me
Say you love me
That is the only aspect of my life that I am missing
You saying you love me
I wait for years for you to say that you love me
I have stayed so long alone
I work so hard like a carabao
i have saved so much money
Now please I beg you
say you love me too.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Reality...two
three well covered farmers
plow the rice fields
beating the carabao
under a drizzle of soft rain
this november
at the right side of this scenery
a herd of carabaos graze
vast expanse of grass and
beside them two children flying kites.
on the telephone wire
two finches watch
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Concerning Your Public Confession
that public confession
was more pubic
lots of kinky hair
and grossly
irritating and you ask
me if now
i must devour you
my sensibility is
touched like a
makahiya plant
in the ricefield
stepped by the
carabao's hope
let me tell you
babes
i'd rather be
devout and
reserved
rather than devour
you and be
fatal
at the end of
my happy days
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Progress In The City
life was so simple
then: papa plowed the field
mama cooked sweet potatoes
water was inside a bamboo pole
plates were banana leaves
we rode on carabao backs
picnicked on nearby rivers
climbed coconut trees
no one minded us
whether we were right or wrong
we were happier then
then everything changed.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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the Filipino Poem 1
As written by Bimboy a grade two pupil in
Olingan elementary school section sampaguita:
The sun comes to my barrio this morning
It peeps between two hills and on the side
Is our nipa hut and on the ricefield my father
Pasturing the carabao while mother cooks the
Mudfish in the kitchen while my sister looks
Out the window and waives at me who is
Holding this pen writing this poem on paper.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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To A Woman That I Think I Know
tonight
i shall climb the old mango tree
that papa planted
when i was still too young
to understand
the fading of the moon
i shall cling to one of its strong branches
but due to my weight
it shall crack and given in and fall
i shall fall with it
straight to the mud hole
where papa's carabao
is wallowing
then i shall ride upon its back
hold its tail
and it shall run towards
a creek
where i shall plunge
and clean myself and
then rise
from its waters
and then i shall meet you again
and you shall tell me
how interesting things
have been
i shall ask from you
which has been so interesting?
is it me? or my falling?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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At The Beach On A Sunday Morning
this is an isolated place
the coconut trees are growing uninterrupted
by the talisay trees long ago cut by papa
fenced by barbed wires and planted with carabao grass
this is one thing that sometimes i miss in my life
the molave gate is left open
for the caretaker knows that i am coming
to spend my sunday here...
i told them that i prefer being alone this time.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Excerpt: The Magma
the natives are smelling so badly
saliva dries on their lips
they rub carabao manure on their bodies
and put
a dead beetle on their navels
there is no water in the river where they come from
it was taken by thirsty fish towards the
China sea
they are thin
i mean their children who only eat
buds of
the guava tree
their stomachs are filled with air
their
hairs with lice
i guess you know when this happens
and why this happens
because, it is fiesta time
and there is no more road for us to use
because the more important figures
are busy playing
deaf.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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These Memories Of The 80's
i
Teacher entrusted me the key to the classroom
I lost it
That night I could not sleep
How to open the room tomorrow morning
My friend called he has the duplicate
ii
A lanzones tree full of fruits
I am up there
Eating all that I can
iii
On the beach I forgot to bring my trunks
I finally decided to dive
All naked with you.
iv
The river is deep and murky and muddy
I am riding on top of this big black
Carabao
i am
whistling i am humming a song
i also hear the wind singing with me
v
In the dorm I do not know how to play the guitar
My roommates only asked me
To sing
A birthday song
we drink some wine
i write some poems in my heart
and then we take
our sleep
under the stars
our bodies tired on soft green grass
after the final exams
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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No One Demands
... that there must be respect
to the wings of a fly, a mere fly
on top of a garbage
from your kitchen,
that there must be respect
to a leaf of a mahogany
on a permission to take it
away from a twig,
that there must be respect
for the handful of water that
you drink from the river,
that there must be respect
for the porcupine fish
from the bottom of the sea
even if it's form be
hateful,
the air is sacred
the sea is sacred
the tree is sacred
like every man, every baby,
every eye
every hand
the spider is sacred
and so is the carabao
resting in the mud hole
after a hard day's toil
every carapace
an empty shell
every grain of sand
belongs to no one
respect and live
on the blessings
of Mother Earth.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A New Haircut
all i need today is a new haircut
my thick hair is covering my head
and i do not really like it
like a carabao dung
it is giving me a certain feeling of a hat
a buri hat with lots of protruding fibers
untrimmed
what do i need a hat for?
when there is no rain
when there is no sun
when there is no
heavy debris falling on me
i just wanna be free
i want my brain open
washed by the rain
bleached by the sun
true to its nature
& form
thinking
w/o
any covering
without the bias
without the prejudice
of
scalp
of
hair
plain brain
exposed to all the elements
it will tolerate a certain form
of fungal infection
a certain
brain longing to be
brain dead.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Remembering The Simpler Days Of Your Life
it was when your excitement
was only the strong wind
for the ripe mango to fall for
you to pick
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 sweetness
was tasted by your mama
like an icing from a cake
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 hard to deal with and
a self that is deeper, darker
and difficult to really understand.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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