Maybe It Is Just Like That.....
as you trim the bushes
outside the fence
i am eating cold spaghetti
with sour bread and i get no
hot coffee
it is a bright day
and the sun is slowly rising from a gray horizon
gone were the days when we cannot eat
if we are not together
maybe it is just like that.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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My sisters like cooking at my place. It has a bit more room, and the food tastes a little bit better. A big pot of spaghetti and sauce, some warm French bread - works all the time. I think I've been eating pasta for 26 years.
A Cold Cup Of Coffee...
must i know now the
significance of a coffee getting cold
after it is being served
on my table?
how do i not notice time passing?
like a breeze from the sea
because i have been preoccupied
looking at the horizon
anticipating the glory of the
sunrise that
i am waiting for most of my time
having spent
nights on isolated veranda
away from friends
and relatives?
a cold coffee now
that i regret having asked
and just like the rest of
my other coffees
it shall remain as it is
coffee on its brim
returned
untouched.....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Coffee!
Coffee beans all ground up,
Coffee in my favourite cup,
Coffee black, coffee white,
Coffee dark, coffee light,
Coffee right, to start the day,
Coffee at work, coffee at play,
Coffee midday, coffee at night,
Coffee to sober, coffee to excite,
Coffee weak, coffee strong,
But maybe instead some Lapsang Souchong! ! ! !
TEA! ! ! ! !
poem by Ernestine Northover
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Black Coffee
Feat. merry clayton
She smelled like flowers, she tastes like toffee
She kissed me slowly, she held me softly
Got too close and she backed up off me
Left me stone cold sober just like black coffee
Just like black coffee
She told me that shed always be thinkin of me
She said she wanted me to know that she really did love me
She said she never put no one else above me
Except her monkey, shes like a junkie
Just like a junkie, just like a junkie
It was april 25th, its up around 80
Found a spot out in the park where the grass is shady
She said her moms from jamaica said her fathers from haiti
Such a pretty lady, shes such a lady
She smelled like flowers, she tastes like toffee
She kissed me slowly, she held me softly
Got too close and she backed up off me
She left me stone cold sober just like black coffee
Just like black coffee, just like black coffee , just like black coffee
song performed by by Everlast
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Songs Of The Sky
In a sky of layered clouds,
dawn becomes a rainbow,
moving through the spectrum
toward the day.
In a sky of always blue,
no clouds ride the wind:
the sun burns brightly,
high and hot and long.
In a sky of may grays,
clouds crash, explode and roar;
rain-filled winds sweep across the prairie.
In a sky of many blues,
clouds dance on the wind;
and endless and quixotic
Rohrschach test.
In a sky of always gray,
no clouds seem to move;
overcast blots out imagination.
In a sky of cold, cold blue,
gray clouds scrape the treetops;
harbingers of winter storms to come.
Beneath a sky of darkening gray,
the prairie grasses rustle
on the small, forgotten farms
of what could've been
and was.
In a sky of mottled gray,
cold rains fall, now and then;
the seasons struggle
for control of April.
In a sky of broken gray,
cold winds precede the rains;
and before long
the darkened clouds re-gather.
In a sky as clear as glass,
and blue from top to bottom,
sultry days of August
slowly drift into September.
In a twi-lit noon-time sky,
this annular eclipse
leaves us just a
ring around the moon.
In a sky of many clouds,
sunset's an inferno;
ablaze, in this,
my father's final twilight.
In a sky that slowly burns,
the clouds of fire fade
and leave a darker beauty
to hold the night.
poem by William Kruse
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Setting sail
Setting sail
~
a morning sun breaks through
casting light on still waters
little ripples rise and fall slowly
today is not just another day
the air feels cold, crisp
a deep breath freshens the lungs
tired eyes look outwards
where the horizon beckons
slowly still stirring, a coffee
helps awaken the morning
while watching for the wind
to blow in the awaited change
quiet thoughts list away
like the morning tide drifting
soon the raising anchor
will cast away the past
poem by Matthew Holloway
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Coffee Is Fine
Having a brewing cup for coffee is fine,
Facing weather too hot, too much iron.
This strong iron is too late in taste,
Much of the flavours are inside.
The coffee is not tea, not even anything
Like the leaves of danger and bread.
My loaf of bread enriches the stomach
And all emptiness is about.
The cup of coffee has managed my upper class,
My thinking causes thinkers to abandon,
The ridding of thinkers and scholars is appalling
In the extreme.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Black Coffee (feat. Merry Clayton)
She smelled like flowers, she taste like toffee
She kissed me slowly, she held me soflty
Got to close and she back up off me
Left me stone cold sober just like black coffee
Just like black coffee
She told me that she alway be thinkin of me
She said she wanted me to know that she really did love me
She said she'd never put no one above me
Except for monkey, she like a junky
Just like a junky
Just like a junky
Its April 25th its up around 80
Found a spot out in the park where the grass was shady
Said mom from Jamaica, her father Haiti
Such a pretty lady, she such a lady
She smelled like flowers, she taste like toffee
She kissed me slowly, she held me soflty
Got to close and she back up off me
Left me stone cold sober just like black coffee
Just like black coffee (x3
song performed by by Everlast
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Clouds
The clouds as I see them, rising
urgently, roseate in the
mounting of somber power
surging in evening haste over
roofs and hermetic
grim walls—
Last night
As if death had lit a pale light
in your flesh, your flesh
was cold to my touch, or not cold
but cool, cooling, as if the last traces
of warmth were still fading in you.
My thigh burned in cold fear where
yours touched it.
But I forced to mind my vision of a sky
close and enclosed, unlike the space in which these clouds move—
a sky of gray mist it appeared—
and how looking intently at it we saw
its gray was not gray but a milky white
in which radiant traces of opal greens,
fiery blues, gleamed, faded, gleamed again,
and how only then, seeing the color in the gray,
a field sprang into sight, extending
between where we stood and the horizon,
a field of freshest deep spiring grass
starred with dandelions,
green and gold
gold and green alternating in closewoven
chords, madrigal field.
Is death’s chill that visited our bed
other than what it seemed, is it
a gray to be watched keenly?
Wiping my glasses and leaning westward,
clearing my mind of the day’s mist and leaning
into myself to see
the colors of truth
I watch the clouds as I see them
in pomp advancing, pursuing
the fallen sun.
poem by Denise Levertov
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No man is lonely eating spaghetti; it requires so much attention.
quote by Christopher Morley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Red Browed Firetails
One can't mistake them for their scratchy song
To small seed eating family of birds they belong
Some call them red browed finches others the red browed firetails
And the females hard to distinguish from the males.
With red bill and brows and neck and unders gray
And red rump, dark tail and greenish wings I see them every day
They perch on fence wire near where paddocks are
And to get their food they don't have to fly far.
They live in small flocks on a diet of seeds
And I see them often amongst grasses and weeds
Of the human kind they do seem rather shy
And from the paddock to the fence they fly.
On sapling tree or creeper they build their globe nest of dried grass or hay
Where they lay up to six eggs of white to gray
And their nests hard to find and well hidden away
From currawong and other birds of prey.
Red browed firetails or finches birds I often see
On paddock fence wire or on branch of tree
Of human kind they have a healthy fear
And they fly away if to them you come near.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Sea Slant
On up the sea slant,
On up the horizon,
The ship limps.
The bone of her nose fog-gray,
The heart of her sea-strong,
She came a long way,
She goes a long way.
On up the sea slant,
On up the horizon,
She limps sea-strong, fog-gray
She is a green-lit night gray.
She comes and goes in sea-fog.
Up the horizon slant she limps.
poem by Carl Sandburg
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Rondeau
Fleas, stink, pigs, mold,
The gist of the Bohemian soul,
Bread and salted fish and cold.
Leeks, and cabbage three days old,
Smoked meat, as hard and black as coal;
Fleas, stink, pigs, mold.
Twenty eating from one bowl,
A bitter drink -it's beer, I'm told-
Bad sleep on a straw in some filthy hole,
Fleas, stink, pigs, mold,
The gist of the Bohemian soul,
Bread and salted fish and cold.
poem by Eustache Deschamps
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Reminiscing Those Carefree Days...
the days are coming and going
the coconut tree that you once planted at the back of the house
has become so tall
and fruitful
rising above the roof and the other trees
growing at you
neighbor's backyard
the nights are dark as usual but soon when you begin to look at those hind sides
carefully
you will notice a collage of stars
blinking
like city neon lights
a comet once passed this path but you were then asleep
preoccupied with the thoughts of
your past
those cliffs that you have not climbed ever
the deep seas that seem to warn you about some people
people in the past
drowning
do not fear
bright mornings are still here everyday bringing you a bouquet of red roses
and scents of coffee
and toasted
bread
just be patient
high noons are temporary
the ticking of the clocks shall soon fade away to the voices of your carefree days
once when you were a kid
playing under a heavy rain
with your best friend
on some games of
mud
a long, long time ago.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Picture Of Me
i can easily draw
myself
if i have a pencil and a paper
i could have easily given you a picture of me,
i have the eyes of a Chinese immigrant
my eyelids thicker than the bush that
you always trim along the fence
my lips are thin like the petals
of a rose
some men mistake them
for that of a woman's
but that will be so much of a misleading
fact like the direction of the road
that they changed days ago
some visitors have gone astray.
i am still in the middle of this journey
so my cheeks are smooth with only a few
scratches like the one that you see
when the cat scratches the wall
of the kitchen when it gets hungry
and shouts and yet you do not really mind at all.
my face is black and white
nothing gray
there is no color like a landscape of
fields and pathways.
you have seen me once but you never recognize
me because you relied more on the picture i had
on the poems that you read.
i like to see myself
less the distortions of the modern abstract art.
But i am more of the Gothic
Grecian-roman eclectic type.
You see you want to put me as a portrait in the canvass
like what everyone wants.
Look, look carefully, finally this is the portrait of me.
A river.You dip your finger in my eyes.
It is cold and it is passing like the ordinary wind
one boring day.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Sunset
The evening wind stirs
our high, green trees,
whispering down the westering sun,
as shadows scale our eastern fence.
The sun surrenders its May heat
to a cooling Suisun breeze,
while already looming
on the eastern horizon,
rising from the gentle green swell
of low delta hills,
the copper moon vaults
into the cobalt,
its ascendant mastery astonishing
even the wading, gazing egret,
as on the other side
of our slowly rolling planet,
the bleeding sun declines,
searching the sea for healing.
Thus, from conflict and transition,
come poise and redemption.
poem by Steven Federle
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An Afternoon Poem
it is all coffee without cream
no sugar, you say please, no sugar no cream
it is all about cold bread
nothing electrifying
unlike the softness of the arms of the beloved
it is about the coldness of bread
and the hotness of coffee
less the cream and the sugar
nothing sweet really
you guess it: there is something bitter
not from the water (for why should water be bitter?)
not from the cup (is there such a cup which has a bitter taste?)
guess further: you are wrong.
it is bitter, it is really bitter.
it comes from the heart. Not from the saucer
or the spoon.
it is the heart that is bitter. do not attempt
tasting it.
it can be toxic because it is mine.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Rising With The Morning
Colour me bright yellow, so I reflect the sun,
Let me sink down gently when the day is done,
Rising with the morning, summer's warmth inbue,
Shining with the happiness of always loving you.
Colour me bright amber, like the autumn's glow,
Let me sink down gently, onto falling leaves below,
Rising with the morning, misty with the dew,
Enveloped with the happiness of truly loving you.
Colour me bright silver, as in the sparkling snow,
Let me sink down gently when the cold winds blow,
Rising with the morning, winter's ice to strew,
Trembling with the happiness of warmly loving you.
Colour me bright emerald, now spring's on the way,
Let me sink down gently on our soft duvet,
Rising with the morning, seeing things brand new,
Sighing with the happiness of me just loving you.
poem by Ernestine Northover
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Sour Milk-cow Blues
You like coffee and you like tea
Much more than you like me
And everybody says watch out yeah
For the sour milk-cow blues
You like your coffee just a little too sweet
Without your sugar life is incomplete
And everybody says watch out yeah
For the sour milk-cow blues
I think about you everyday
Something about you is not the same
Something about the things you say
Sounds like a different woman with a different name
Sour milk-cow blues
You wear a different size and style of shoe
I think that someone must be poisoning you
To replace you with a living double
Get out of my life right now and save them all of the trouble
They changed your complexion and your personality
Somebodys putting ideas in your head
They took the girl of my dreams and left you here instead
Sour milk-cow blues
You take your place in this parade of pleas
You dial a number and they offer relief
All alone with just your own device
They give you something and it isnt advice
To break the hearts of a million listeners
Start out as lovers and you end up as prisoners
Somebodys suffering from the things that you do
Somebodys suffering but youre glad it isnt you
Put your fingertips up to the screen
Repeat after me, wake at the count of three
Now I dont know which is worse
What theyre doing to you or what youre doing to me
Sour milk-cow blues
song performed by by Elvis Costello
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Rainbow Spaghetti
One day mother said to me,
'What do you want to eat? '
I answered back to her,
'Rainbow spaghetti'
So my mother waited for the rain
And went outside with her boots
She grabbed the rainbow in a puddle
And walked back inside
She cooked some spaghetti
And told me to stir the rainbow
So I put the rainbow in a bowl
And stirred it with a spoon
Mother took the rainbow
And poured it over the spaghetti
She gave it to me to eat
With a fork and a spoon
I ate it
And chewed it
And slurped it
And swallowed it
'How does it taste? '
Mother asked me
I answered back to her
'It tastes like spaghetti'
poem by Tessa Marshall
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