Mutuality In Kindness...
the chickens
so many of them
make a music for him
who sleeps
on the haystack
he gathers the grains
to feed them
early morning
to the chickens
they found a master
at last
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Early Morning Happiness....
this morning
i wake up early
i see this hen
and her sixteen chicks
roosting
upon a strong branch
of the narra tree
i get a handful of
rice grains
and scatter them on
the ground
the chickens fly down
from the tree
and feed on
the scattered grains
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Last Night I Dreamed of Chickens
Last night I dreamed of chickens,
there were chickens everywhere,
they were standing on my stomach,
they were nesting in my hair,
they were pecking at my pillow,
they were hopping on my head,
they were ruffling up their feathers
as they raced about my bed.
They were on the chairs and tables,
they were on the chandeliers,
they were roosting in the corners,
they were clucking in my ears,
there were chickens, chickens, chickens
for as far as I could see...
when I woke today, I noticed
there were eggs on top of me.
poem by Jack Prelutsky
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What Is Natural Is Best
i built a chicken house
but the chickens still prefer
to roost
on the branches of the
kamuning tree
last night it rained so hard
the chickens are silent
all wet they
peck on grains scattered
on muddy ground
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Eggxample
What came first chickens or eggs?
Chickens of course!
Chickens have legs!
Chickens have feathers,
Eggs have a shell,
How would you like your eggs, done well?
This may be a 'yolk',
But consider it folk!
poem by Ernestine Northover
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Much More Work to Do
Why are those chickens running around,
And their heads have been cut off?
'They've been conditioned that they are not chickens.
They've been programmed to believe they are constituents.
And that's the name they prefer.
It has stuck with them!
Like feathers attached to birds.'
You are what you believe, you know?
'I know!
And those heads?
They've never used them anyway.
So the running around,
With their heads cut off the way they do?
They've been told only 'chickens' do that!
And as luck would have it...
They can't see themselves that way!
No heads?
No eyes!
What about all those pots you've got?
'Well...
We've been promising to get one in each pot!
And that's the dilemma.
Like I said...
They can't 'see' themselves as chickens.
Nor do they believe,
We can get one in each pot!
So they are running around...
As if a lottery to be played,
Will be stopped.
And...
I don't have to tell you,
There's a lot of convincing.
With much more work to do.
None of this was planned too well.'
Or at all!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The World Of Either Or
you cannot have the best of
both worlds
when you have all those chickens
you have to sacrifice your flowers
these chickens eat flowers for breakfast
on the other hand
when you keep those flowers
you must first kill all the chickens
as i once told you, this is the world
of
either or
not both
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Poetry, Poesy, Ars Poetica, Erotica,
i am hooked to you.
i need rehabilitation
in China, the bamboo rafts there
can help, i will sail
on the Yangtze river
together with you
my rudder on the shallow
jade green waters,
i shall hear robins making
love calls,
i am stuck on this trip
lots of rainbow illusions
colors in my mind
i am jailed in your arms
my heart enthralled to
this injunction
everyday i set aside other
works, the plants are wilting
and the trees are dying,
my dogs are hungry
unfed
my chickens cross the
fence
to feed on other grains
i am stuck in here
because i like it here
China can wait
the chickens may die
even my dogs
let them be impounded.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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What's Going On With The Chickens?
What's going on with the chickens?
'No one really knows exactly how all of this started.
Or wish to connect any of this,
To the making of common sense.
They are baffled.
We are baffled.
And since it was reported,
Those chickens were going home to roost...
Well,
The abundance of eggs they once had laid...
Has been limited to quite a few.
And 'now'...
Someone has decided to use them,
In some foolish sexual preference dispute.'
And...
Who is that guy tied up to the chair?
'He was the one who first declared,
A suspicion he had that chickens everywhere...
Were preparing to come home to roost.'
Oh yes...
I remember.
He was the one daring to tell the truth about the chickens.
And he was labelled a racist too.
'What are they calling the people,
Choosing to protect their rights...
Not to cater to those with same sex appetites? '
Conveniently they have called them conservatives.
'Has everyone lost their minds? '
I have no idea.
But grateful I am to be a vegetarian.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Aint Nobody Here But Us Chickens
(j. cramer/j. whitney)
One night farmer brown was taken the air
Locked up the barnyard with the greatest of care
Down in the henhouse somethin stirred
When he shouted,whos there? , this is what he heard
There aint nobody here but us chickens, there aint nobody here at all
So calm yourself, stop that fuss, aint nobody here but us
Were chickens trying to sleep and you butt in
And hobble, hobble, hobble, hobble with your chin
There aint nobody here but us chickens, there aint nobody here at all
Youre stompin around, shakin the ground, kickin up an aweful dust
Were chickens trying to sleep and you butt in
And hobble, hobble, hobble, hobble, its a sin
(bridge)
Tomorrow is a busy day, weve got things to do, weve got eggs to lay
We got ground to dig and worms to scratch
Takes a lot of sittin gettin chicks to hatch
There aint nobody here but us chickens, there aint nobody here at all
So quiet yourself, stop that fuss, aint nobody here but us
Kindly point that gun the other way
And hobble, hobble, hobble off and hit the hay
(repeat bridge)
Its easy pickin, aint nobody here but us chickens
song performed by by Lisa Stansfield
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Feeding The Chickens
the grains in your hands
you spread them on the ground
chickens come near you
making you feel like you are the
United States of America
and they are the countries that depend on you
those third world bastards
those colonies, those developing ones
the grains become your bombs
under your keeping
you think you are the only one who has that sole
divine right to keep these grains (yes the bombs)
inside your hands
Holy cow! Who are you? Who are YOU!
(repeat the question 10x)
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Man's Pride For Safety
while it maybe true
that the red wheelbarrow
does not allow the rain
to drench it in inferiority
but it is the master farmer
that finally decides
whether it should rust
under the rain or not
on the other hand the
wheelbarrow knows that the
master farmer loves
whatever redness it has
even the accumulating rust
the white chickens though
preoccupied with the grains
knew all these glazes
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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All Night Long (feat. Merle Hagggard)
Every Saturday long about now
I feed my chickens and my milking cows
Air's fillin' up with music ands ong
Gonna have a party all night long
Chorus:
All night long, listen to the fiddle
Music's goin' strong
Heart's alive it's Saturday night
Gonna have a party all night long
I got a gal lives across the creek
Every time I look at her my knees get weak
First time I tried to take her on my knee
She took after me with a singletree
Chorus
Sun's up high the Fourth of July
Chickens won't lay and the cow's gone dry
Creek's dried up, I can't go fishin'
Should be workin' 'stead of sittin' here wishin'
Big watermelon hangin' on the vine
Said
song performed by by Randy Travis
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Interior
THE little moths are creeping
Across the cottage pane;
On the floor the chickens gather,
And they make talk and complain.
And she sits by the fire
Who has reared so many men;
Her voice is low like the chickens'
With the things she says again:
'The sons that come back do be restless,
They search for the thing to say;
Then they take thought like the swallows,
And the morrow brings them away.
In the old, old days upon Innish,
The fields were lucky and bright,
And if you lay down you'd be covered
By the grass of one soft night.
And doves flew with every burial
That went to Innishore
Two white doves with the coffened,
But the doves fly no more.'
She speaks and the chickens gather,
And they make talk and complain,
While the little moths are creeping
Across the cottage pane.
poem by Padraic Colum
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People who count their chickens before they are hatched, act very wisely, because chickens run about so absurdly that it is impossible to count them accurately.
Oscar Wilde in Letter from Paris (May 1900)
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Morning's Commotion
outside the house
the commotion starts
with the chickens
pecking each others'
feathers for
the lesser number
of grains.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Decapitated Chickens
The decapitated chickens have died.
Their feathers are plucked, their skin has been fried
In the fatty animal oils too much,
In the boiling batter scalding to touch,
In the savory glazes now applied.
Their souls are preserved in formaldehyde,
Disinfected in a jar alongside
Forgotten flavors, seasonings and such.
The decapitated chickens have died.
They're prepared for gnashing teeth, to collide
With the grinding chew, the tongue's licking glide
And sour saliva's slippery clutch,
The contraction of the muscular crutch
To lacerate swiftly, to chop and divide.
The decapitated chickens have died.
poem by Tim Stensloff
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Social Chickens
i wonder why the
white and red chickens
escape from their
house
tonight they roost upon
the branch of an old
tree
so high that they can
see
above our fence
the road
the red and white chickens
too of my other
neighbor's yard
roosting on the other tree
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Civet
At night a civet
sneaks around in the chicken pen,
biting Bantam-fowls, big white Leghorns
and every chicken
that it finds dead.
At sunrise it is gone,
with dead chickens lying in a row
while those that it could not find
are cackling frightened
as if a snake is in their nests.
In the mornings mom is way past angry,
buys a spring trap
to catch the chicken thief red handed
and to me the teeth
that springs shut
looks strange and deadly.
The spring trap is set
but the wild cat is far too clever
for that thing and sneaks past
night after night,
until mom gets wolves poison
that she mixes with the guts
of one of the dead chickens.
The next morning
the grey civet
(just a little bigger than the housecat)
with its black stripes covering its body,
lies rigid and stretched out
and around it
the chickens are pecking in peace.
poem by Gert Strydom
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What To Say To The Early Day...
four in the morning is usual
it is still dark in fact
and what surprises is that usual darkness has to offer?
the chickens are not making sounds
the pavements are empty of strangers
the road is wet with the whole night raining
there is this newness
of what to do for another day
and i say to myself, with all courtesy: good morning.
have i said it before? i must, but always to someone other than myself.
it is unjustified.
at this early hour i have no one to talk to.
darkness is always silent. Twilight is still far.
the morning is not saying anything.
but always time moves, darkness fades away
and so
we always welcome the light
it happens.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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After Thoughts About William
did i tell you that in this life what we see is what we get?
like william's
red wheel
barrow
words are things
and things are words
interchangeable
you see what i see
but what i see need not be what you know
and what you know
need not be seen by me
just like a red
wheel
barrow beside the
white
chickens
it is great
behind the lines is this child's death
eyes closing
forever
you stand by the side of the window
helplessly looking somewhere where you become nothing
but
this speck of dust
falling on that red
wheel
barrow glazed by rain
water beside the white chickens
a thought falling
endlessly on a chasm that sinks deep within you
helplessly, you,
just stand there for in truth we are here just to see how things come and go
and then we go too, like the white chickens
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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