Little Child
when you have learned how to climb
the ylang-ylang tree
you finally find the nest of the brown sparrow
and you come to me
bringing four tiny eggs
do you not see two sparrows perched
on a branch?
do you not hear them singing their own
funeral hymn?
sorry, i am out of touch.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Worms Climbing The Ylang-ylang Tree
this is the season
for the worms to
climb the ylang-ylang tree
rain or shine
the seemingly endless
quest begins
i sometimes i think
do they ever believe
that somewhere
at the top of the
tree is the largest
and the greenest
of all the leaves?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Some Images That I Want To Remember
my little brown dog
bringing back
the black stick
that i have thrown
to the yard
the gray gravel
and purple pebbles
scattered
on a pathway
to her garden
the ylang-ylang tree
still blossoming
on this hot
month of november
a parked maroon
pick-up
some leaves
falling on the
hood
glass jalousies
still closed
some dusts
on the computer
keyboard
opening something
closed
and
dusting off
some unwanted
memories
my hands
shall caress the
letters
and i shall start
thinking again
what now?
where to?
and where
and why?
i am empty
and i am now ready
to fill myself again.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Then The Tears Shall Start To Fall
Another year has ended
Summer has come for us to bask in the sun
In sandy white beaches with friends,
But I must now take leave
My time has come
Alas, the ylang-ylang trees in our garden
Without me
Shall still bloom and spread its scents
When the wind comes again
Tonight
Then the tears shall start
To fall
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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242
then the tears shall start to fall
Another year has ended
Summer has come for us to bask in the sun
In sandy white beaches with friends,
But I must now take leave
My time has come
Alas, the ylang-ylang trees in our garden
Without me
Shall still bloom and spread its scents
When the wind comes again
Tonight
Then the tears shall start
To fall
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Early Morning
the rain just stops showering.
the leaves are wet and some dews are staying.
the sun peeps.the petals of the flowers open up.
some buds follow. some fruits hang heavily on the mango tree.
a pig is tied under and starts burrowing the muddy ground.
some leaves fall. orange in color.
soft winds from the sea come.
the twigs sway. a ripe papaya falls.
a stone receives it.
a cat comes to check if there is any fish.
a dog barks.a bystander runs to the other side of the road.
the canal is full of rainwater. some leaves clog.
moss thickens on the side of the cemented drainage.
a cockcroach runs away and hides on a crevice.
a rat looks over a railing on the roof of the camarin.
an ylang-ylang flower gets caught on the tin roof.
the white sampaguita opens up finally to the
sunny sky. a butterfly hovers. a bee buzzes near my forehead.
my hand makes a snap. it escapes away.
some fruitflies find a new territory on the rotten apple
which i threw last night in the garbage can.
i start the engine of my car. and then to the office i am gone.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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On Hearing And Seeing A Goldfinch
The last day of October a balmy day of Spring
And on highest branch of a blackwood tree a sunlit goldfinch sing
His twittering notes unmistakeable so pleasant for to hear
One of the smaller songsters of the Springtime of the year.
With red around beak and of grey, brown and fawn and gold
A sunlit goldfinch in song is quite lovely to behold
You do not need to see him you know him by his song
One whose voice is familiar and you never can get wrong.
In a cup shaped nest of rootlets lined with down, lichen and bits of hay
Four to seven bluish white eggs the female bird she lay
Her mate he does the singing whilst she hatches her eggs to life
One cannot say about her that she is not a good wife.
The last day of October 'tis so breezy and bright
And a goldfinch is singing in the warm sunlight
Butterflies flit around the flower beds and the dark brown honey bees
Are buzzing whilst gathering nectar from the blossoming bushes and trees.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Poems Are The Sparrows
Poems are the sparrows,
Swing they branch to branch,
In the green tree of poetry,
They chirp and pick the grain,
Of diction, thoughts, metaphors,
And bring in their beaks,
The straws of meters,
And thorns of realities.
Poems are the Sparrows,
Build their nests place to place,
In the valleys of poetic minds,
To lay and hatch eggs of wisdom,
Awake they early in the morn,
To sing hymn, when gently
Breeze begins to blow, to and fro.
The sparrows chirp in my heart,
And when hiding behind the tassels,
Extend I my hand to them to catch,
They fly away; and when I scatter
The grain, they cluster around me,
To sing the chorus of love and peace,
My restless heart then pours
Them on pages of the book,
And the starving ears become,
Impatient to listen to the honeyed,
Lines of love.
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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Her Letter Dated July 1,2008, To Me, It Is Poem By Itself
I wonder how many more poems related to me I've missed.
I also wonder if you're a mind-reader.
Every springtime when the cherries bloom,
I do think of fire trees dotting Mt. Makiling
and lining the highways of Los Banos.
When wisterias bloom here,
I think of the jade vine in Makiling forest.
The pink, red and white flowers of azalea are pretty when they bloom in April to May,
but they can't compare with the explosion of colors of bougainvillea flowers trailing over the terraces of the buildings of IRRI where I used to work years ago.
I wonder if they are still there.
I did ask my father to plant ylang-ylang or sampaguita years ago,
because in Dipolog,
I can hardly find them anymore.
But father preferred palm trees, orchids, and anthurium.
Yes, I'll always miss the land of my birth.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Treecreepers
Elusive birds them one don't often see
Treecreepers build their cup shaped nest of bark behind loose bark of tree
From predators concealed and hidden away
And pinkish spotted eggs the female lay.
Shy woodland birds of humans they show respectful fear
They climb tree trunks in search of insects and when human to them venture near
Of the tree trunk they disappear to the other side
Of watchers eyes they'd much prefer to hide.
They will never be renowned as birds of song
Though their familiar chirps one hardly could get wrong
The ornithologists and bird watchers on studying them don't spend much of their time
And they seldom have inspired the poets to rhyme.
From the day they leave the nest until the day they die
From ground up they climb the tree and then to the next tree fly
To climb again in search of invertebrates such things they like to eat
They must have great strength in their tiny feet
In wooded places they like to reside
And from predators their cup shaped nest they hide
Shy little birds when human to them venture near
To the other side of the tree trunk they disappear.
poem by Francis Duggan
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What you ask?
A punctuation mark… Molten in wax
A shimmering flirtation within the night!
A 'dog's cock 'a flower like Devils Flax
With its yellow and orange tongue—alight!
In the Qin dynasty— the first made of whale fat.
(221-206 BC) . What you ask? O the simple earliest candle.
'And, peddled to princes not any wharf rat'
Used to compose; by George Frederick Handel.
It was an interjection a big 'bang'
Can you imagine their exclamation? !
When White ivory keys scented of ylang-ylang
Went; splat, splat, splat in golden summation.
A dazzling feat was their interjections
Now we have light let's answer many more questions.
............................... ...............
A 'dog's cock' and 'bang' are also names for a punctuation mark!
poem by Mark Heathcote
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A pair of Sparrows on my lovely Lemon Tree
Those were the days
So joyous and carefree
When I could watch the preening of
A pair of sparrows on my lovely lemon tree
Summer days were so short, winters were so long
And for endless hours one could go on a kite flying spree
When I could watch, hopping here and there
A pair of sparrows on my lovely lemon tree
Enjoying tender sunshine in winter is a past
And chapattis from an earthen hearth a history
When I could watch, assembling of a nest by
A pair of sparrows on my lovely lemon tree
What seemed to be mundane at that time
Life in my backyard so ordinary
Bliss it is in hindsight, chirping of
A pair of sparrows on my lovely lemon tree
I still sometimes motivate myself
To get off the treadmill and shake the shackles free
But can’t anymore find in my back yard
That pair of sparrows and that lovely lemon tree
A pair of sparrows on my lovely lemon tree..
A pair of sparrows on my lovely lemon tree.......
30 July 09
poem by Ravi Singh
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The Mother Sparrow Grieves Upon The Untimely Death Of Her Beloved Fledgling
today, there is no grand funeral
like that of the death of
a statesman
or that simple funeral fit for
a laborer in the world of
mankind,
the mother sparrow grieves over
the death of her fledgling
there is no burial
they do not know what are white flowers
their meaning
the torn wings are carried by the worker-ants
some useless feathers are left above a sand mound
soon there are skeletons of frail bones
baked throughout the year by the sun
soon only dusts
the mother sparrow as we knew it from science
does not keep a memory
they keep on their far journey
nest from nest to nest on those seasons
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Interlopers
Two tables along
From two Dutch lovers whispering
And a housemaid pushing a broom,
Three sparrows hoop round a menu.
A flea-bitten dog climbs onto a seat,
Not ordering,
Lolling abundantly.
This is not reciprocal.
I do not perch on sparrow's branch,
Or slouch in the brown dog's kennel.
Moreover,
Not content with
Patronising the eatery,
Even now
Three sparrows are hopping about this page,
The flea-bitten dog is lolling across this poem.
poem by Sheena Blackhall
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The Blue Tit's Nest
Some childhood memories with us seem to linger
And I recall when I was nine or so
Of seeing blue tit fly from hole in standing tree stump
One April day more than forty years ago.
I stood on tip toes and tried to look inside the tree stump
But all seemed dark in there I needed light
I hurried back home for to fetch a flash lamp
And what I saw a memorable sight.
A little nest of moss and hay and lined with feathers
And nine pale eggs with freckles brown to red
Laid by the little bird with yellow unders
Blue wings and tail and tiny blue cap on head.
I marvelled at this wondrous sight of Nature
How one small bird so many eggs could lay
The memory all those years has remained with me
And I still can picture what I see today.
I still can picture forty five years later
Nine speckled eggs in nest of moss and hay
Some things from childhood always remain with us
And from the memory never fade away.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Lullaby of the iroquois
Little brown baby-bird, lapped in your nest,
Wrapped in your nest,
Strapped in your nest,
Your straight little cradle-board rocks you to rest;
Its hands are your nest;
Its bands are your nest;
It swings from the down-bending branch of the oak;
You watch the camp flame, and the curling grey smoke;
But, oh, for your pretty black eyes sleep is best,--
Little brown baby of mine, go to rest.
Little brown baby-bird swinging to sleep,
Winging to sleep,
Singing to sleep,
Your wonder-black eyes that so wide open keep,
Shielding their sleep,
Unyielding to sleep,
The heron is homing, the plover is still,
The night-owl calls from his haunt on the hill,
Afar the fox barks, afar the stars peep,--
Little brown baby of mine, go to sleep.
poem by Emily Pauline Johnson
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I Have Seen Your Picture With Your Daughters In Kimono
i have seen a long time ago
you and your daughters in their colorfol kimonos
then there was this guitar that you play
and the english language that you teach
and the education you are giving them
there are other many people in this world
not just us,
we are not living inside walls and fences
there are other playgrounds out there
where you my children can
play
beyond colors beyond chinky eyes
are other possibilities with us
the firetrees here burn with loneliness
this summer
forgetting the color of your memories
Japan, the city of the sun
where you now live
has claimed the name of your soul
but i know
under the blooms of cherry blossoms
this spring your heart still beats for the fire trees here
you still love the scent of the champaca
miss the yellow ylang-ylang on the hill
and the dama de noche has more love stories
to tell for the dark nights
where fireflies still flicker
those that we have long forgotten
still exist
we shall meet somehow filled with stories those left untold
when we have busied ourselves
with what could have been so unnecessary
those that we see only after they have been taken away
and time shall sit in one corner of the garden's wooden benches
and ponder
was there something wrong with the past?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Mother Sparrow Leaves Not Carrying Anything
the mother sparrow does not
know about a funeral
how can it hold a white flower
entertain meaning
using its black, short beak?
today, her young sparrow
lies dead
shattered wings, severed feathers
the worker-ants are sensing the scent of blood
the delicacy of sparrow meat
and now carry them all toward their
queen
underground
there is no memory for mother sparrows
there is no son
the fledgling is gone, gone
then she flies far away
to another season
not carrying anything, not a seed even inside her gut
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Lonely Filipinos
Some lonely Filipinos
Working for a living
Read poems of
Happiness
To appease their
Feelings of loneliness
Away from home
Here in a foreign land
At freezing temperatures
They wish for
Sunshine, and blue clouds
White sand beaches
And warm embraces
Of loved ones
Sometimes loneliness
Wins and they look
Inside themselves
Finding certain strengths
In old Molave trees
Flexibilities in green
Pliant bamboos
And sampaguitas scents
Or could be ylang-ylang
Perfume,
Or they resort to food,
Cook the adobo & dinuguan & puto
On wintry days perhaps,
And to really kill
This rampage of boredom
They make thin slices
Of raw mangoes
Dipped in bagoongs,
Black paste of shrimps
The taste lingers
In taste buds and
Tongues start to
Water,
To green slices of raw mangoes
Salivation is easy.
On these thin slices of
Green raw mangoes
Perhaps the Filipino
Forgets what loneliness is all about.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Sparrow In My Mind Is Enough For Me
i do not need two or more sparrows to know what a song
of that sparrow is all about
more sparrows become a crowd and i cannot figure out the intent
of the song
the notes blur like a mist that i erase from the side of the glass window
i do not need a living sparrow
for i do not wish to capture one and choke it inside the cage of my hands
i only need the most freeing sparrow inside my mind
the one that i can erase if i do not need it anymore
without inflicting any pain without holding any feather any longer.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Amazing Grace
In the little town where I am the Preacher
every Sunday we are open
we sing what we call our healing hymn.
It is the last hymn of the service
and before we sing it, I ask everyone
to think of someone who is not well.
Whether they are at home or in hospital.
I ask them to picture in them in their mind
the person whom needs God’s help in some way,
and as they sing it,
think they are singing it to them as well as our Lord.
The hymn we sing is Amazing Grace,
what we call our healing hymn.
We raise our voices high without accompaniment.
If you heard us singing
you would not find a wrong note sung by anyone.
Instead, you would hear a choir of voices
like a heavenly choir.
24 May 2008
poem by David Harris
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