My Home Is Where My Heart Is
my home is where my heart is.
the white furniture are the veranda
the black umbrella at the side of the door
the green grass the lush trees
the pathway filled with pebbles
the ceiling with a fan
the stairs without dust
the railings with shellac
mahogany smell of walls
the well at the backyard
the smell of bacon at the kitchen
scrambled eggs and fresh milk
every morning
the smoke rising to the roof
of white steam rice
mother calling us all
and father waiting
praying for grace
and then this hearty meal
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Mother's Steamed Rice
the sweetest song from the kitchen
that i hear
is mother's steamed rice
its smoke rising
to the ceiling
of our old wooden house
the smell so fresh
so sweetly scented with
pandan leaves
so heavenly
in broad daylight
i can see the moon and stars
beside the plate full of white steamed rice
are five pieces of salted fish
their skin charred with the cinders
their eyes staring
poisoned with so much envy
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I Like Smells
i like smells...
woodsmoke, and food,
black coffee in the morning.
the smell of rain,
of mud, of wetness.
the smell of the walls
of the cave, of the stone,
of the moss...
the smell of sex, of arousal,
of a woman's neck.
the smell of pine needles,
of an old house,
of fresh turned earth...
the smell of old books,
of old dogs, of shadows
without form...
i've even become accustomed
to the smell of death!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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I Have To Walk Away Again Looking For The Fresh Air
one finds a hard time nowadays
looking for fresh air
i step over a good view of the rice fields
from an Asian perspective
the rice fields are flowering
dews still sticking on the blades of grass
the sun is slowly rising from the mountains
a lot of fog hang on the sides
coconut trees are towering
not much winds today from the sea
a middle aged farmer stands under a tree
with his sweater on and his long bolo on his side
smoking his cigar
the woman in the house is cooking mud fish for breakfast
meanwhile she goes out and
starts a fire under the mango tree
burning a rubber tire
to drive some insects away
which she thinks are destroying
the tiny white flowers of
the tree
i smell the smoke coming from the cigar
it is floating in the air
the smoke from the rubber tire burning
is choking me
somehow that is what is being done to this world
brought about by ignorance and superstition and bad habits
i have to walk away again
looking for the fresh air
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Heart May Be A Lonely Hunter
thick grass
a forest of trees
a man lives there
and his heart is the lonely hunter
maybe
and may be for a time
when the grass is thick and the forest of trees lush
there is a time
for opening
for going and going back home
where mother and father keep the waiting
and your one and only
smiling
waiting for the warm embrace
the sad one
thinking always for your coming
back home
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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One God shining in a miillion ways
they say god is one
and he is everywhere
he found him in his kitchen
and calls him his Kitchen God
praying to him night and day
for enough food on his table
some found him in the field
and call him their rice god
praying to him every season
to be blessed with food for the family
some women found him at the door
and call him their door god
praying to him each morning
for safety of the house
some found him in the mountain
and call him the mountain god
praying to him day and night
to bless their ancestors' spirits
they think dwell with Him there
another found him at sea
and call him the sea god
praying to him day and night
so that he could catch enough
of fishes to make his day
each of us looks and finds god
in some ways, calling him
our own god, in our own way
- the god that answers every
earnest call for his blessings
at the door, in the field, at sea
.....everywhere....
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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To My Surprise
to my surprise you have found my place
a house in the middle of two mountains
a green valley with ricefields and a line
of mahogany trees covering a pathway
towards the sea where the sand is as
white as your thighs and porcelain back
why are you here for? need i ask? i must
be foolish not to know. You look for the room
where you think i write my poetry, dimly lit,
warm and scented with musk and orange.
i have tequila, your favorite. I have this
candle shaped like a heart, i light it up.
I keep a jar of peanut butter, and some
marmalades from fresh guavas.
I have green tea if you like, but you
take a glass, put some ice and poured
your vodka. You like tonight to be chili hot.
It is dark, and you say you are not leaving.
I am cornered, and I still know what to do.
This not the place of a love disappointed.
This is your place now and you shall not regret it.
I am stacking all my clothes and underwears
along the stairs. You know that i am hot and naked.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I Think I Smell A Rat
Oh I think I smell a rat
I think I smell a rat
all you little kids
seem to think you know
just where it's at
I think I smell a rat
walking down the street
carrying a baseball bat
I think I smell a rat
Oh I think I smell a rat
I think I smell a rat
all you little kids
seem to think you know
just where is at
I think I smell a rat
treating your mother and father
like a welcome mat
I think I smell a rat
song performed by by White Stripes
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Early Morning Poetry
a gray cat so gentle
sleeping beside my easy chair
soft wind enters the window
from the far mountain
the white silky curtains
by the window
sway to the direction of the wind
a red rose blooms on the side
of the limestone wall
horse grazing on the grassy plain
a white dog runs toward a wooden gate
a car stops on the yard near the veranda of this old house
a brother from far announces his arrival
hot coffee and pancakes on the table
fumes of white rice and smoke from the grilled fish
faint classical Mozart music plays on the cassette
light from the sun penetrating the screen of the dining window
a black and white family picture on top of the family piano
grandpa on his military uniform as mother carries father on her arms
memories flood the room and words keep creeping like worms
i want to say that there are no termites on this house but that would be a lie.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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6 o'clock in the morning at KNAS gym
i sit on the tenth stair of this public gym
of this university overlooking an oval
a field of green grass
circled by this road of sand and gravel
and muddy on some occasional rains
three men all covered, head and body and feet
from a distance carry the sprayers
on their backs, the usual pesticide
to kill the army worms that attack the rice plants
the air has turned poisonous, i can see the killer mist
around them as they keep on pumping the tubes at their backs
i ponder on the significance of men
poisoning its atmosphere, adulterating the freshest air in the morning
that nature has freely given
some white herons come flying on some green spots of the field
perhaps eating the worms and bugs killed by the poisoned droplets
i guess with the poisoned worms for their diet
i have read sometime
their eggs will turn off-white, and the shells are weakened
and the chicks feed by their poisoned blood
may not even grow to be stronger birds
some eggs will not experience hatching and the white herons
cannot do a thing about their misery
some dogs too come by perhaps curious about the smell of the
morning air,
a black dog runs around the oval, a white dog stays lying
on one of the manmade dikes
the poisoning takes about an hour and when it is over
the men take of their clothes and wipe their bodies
on the same clothes
some of them i heard have suffered diseases
like bloated livers and soft bones and they die without having
seen the right doctors,
they are poor hired workers of this college
i look around me, the sun finally comes out
it is still a very fine day i suppose, the mist is gone, the rice plants
are greener than ever,
and then i take my usual walk, thinking again,
for all that men do, poisoning and destroying nature,
will there be revenge? retaliation? repercussion?
i am crazy. How can nature ever speak?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I am empty, old, poor, but smell good
got a fresh one... everytime we look for food,
vegetable, milk, fish, and even our eyes want
to see fresh beautiful women and handsome
gentlemen... a part of us is something that
tells that we came from fresh origin
remember when the first time we meet our
husband and wife... they were so sweet and
tender.... like a first morning dew, waiting the
early morning to come, beneath the horizon
dawn of the earth and sky
it is the present that tells the past, for today
is the present and it tells that iam fresh until
you lost your appetite of what is today
today is what you saw, in the yesteryear's, for
it does not close my dear, it is only your eyes
that closed, ages... is moment to live....a state
of wisdom to share...a grit.... to hold on too..
with you
as you steer at me...iam old....rotten...broken...
yet so sweet to smell... like as years gone-by,
the smell remind you the fragrance you want...
is yourself that lives in me......it is in me that.....
is in you.... we smell
poem by Antonio Liao
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That Smell
Whiskey bottles, and brand new cars
Oak tree you're in my way
There's too much coke and too much smoke
Look what's going on inside you
Ooooh that smell
Can't you smell that smell
Ooooh that smell
The smell of death surrounds you
Angel of darkness is upon you
Stuck a needle in your arm
So take another toke, have a blow for your nose
One more drink fool, will drown you
Ooooh that smell
Can't you smell that smell
Ooooh that smell
The smell of death surrounds you
Now they call you Prince Charming
Can't speak a word when you're full of 'ludes
Say you'll be all right come tomorrow
But tomorrow might not be here for you
Ooooh that smell
Can't you smell that smell
Ooooh that smell
The smell of death surrounds you
Hey, you're a fool you
Stick them needles in your arm
I know I been there before
One little problem that confronts you
Got a monkey on your back
Just one more fix, Lord might do the trick
One hell of a price for you to get your kicks
Ooooh that smell
Can't you smell that smell
Ooooh that smell
The smell of death surrounds you
Ooooh that smell
Can't you smell that smell
Ooooh that smell
The smell of death surrounds you
song performed by by 3 Doors Down
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Lime Tree
That lime tree on the distant rising ground
(If it was a lime tree) showed her yellow leaves
Above the renewed green of wet August grass--
First Autumn yellow that on first Autumn eves
Too soon was found.
Comfortless lime tree! Scarce an aspen leaf
Like a green butterfly flitted to the ground;
There was no sign of Autumn in the grass.
Even the long garden beds their beauty brief--
Their mignonette,
Nasturtium and sweet-william and red stocks,
And clover crouching in the border grass,
And blood-like fuschia, eve's primrose and white phlox
And honeysuckle--waved all their smell and hue
Morn and eve anew.
But that far lime tree yellowing by the oak,
Warning oak, elm and poplar and each fresh tree
Shaking in the south wind delightedly,
And clover in the closeness of the grass,
Warns also me.
And now when all the trees are standing still
Beneath the purple and white of the west sky,
And time is standing still--as stand it will--
That early yellowing lime with palsied fingers
Cannot be still.
poem by John Freeman
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Into White
I built my house from barley rice
Green pepper walls and water ice
Tables of paper wood, windows of light
And everything emptying into white.
A simple garden, with acres of sky
A brown-haired dogmouse
If one dropped by
Yellow delanie would sleep well at night
With everything emptying into white.
A sad blue eyed drummer rehearses outside
A black spider dancing on top of his eye
Red legged chicken stands ready to strike
And everything emptying into white.
I built my house from barley rice
Green pepper walls and water ice...
And everything emptying into white
song performed by by Cat Stevens
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Utilitarian Point Of View
as the gray hen cackles looking for a place to lay her eggs
the red rooster looks for another white hen to shuffle on the ground,
we who see this does not condemn, nay we never think of morality
or codes of ethical conduct, as the rooster is just doing the work that nature and man have assigned to it
no hen ever complains that the rooster has copulated with the other
six hens around the poultry in the backyard and in the garden
neither shall we reprimand the rooster for being so restless and
cocky and prolific or as we call it engages in promiscuous sex
all that we are thinking on that moment are the eggs that each hen can lay, our minds looking forward to every morning's breakfast, when we shall choose, the usual delights: either scrambled or sunny side up or perhaps a hard-boiled egg for our personal consumption.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Lovely, Lovely, Lovely Memories Too
Lovely 6
On Sundays papa buys some kilos of big crabs
He cooks them and puts shredded coconuts inside them
Cooked in pure white coconut oil
All the family prays for this sumptuous dinner
No one is late & everyone is present.
Lovely 7
The white ducks all gather in the backyard during the black night
After eating brown snails in the green ricefield the whole day
Early morning you gather all their white eggs
Scattered everywhere like white stones
Your big brown basket is full as they look at you without any quack.
Lovely 8
It is midnight and everyone is asleep
You hear the slow rain dripping by the window pane
On a nipa roof
As you write your 8th love poem
Her face is still beautiful even when completely asleep
Lovely 9
25 years you have not heard of her
Tomorrow is Valentine’s Day
In your email a valentine’s greeting pops up
It is from her and you save it
Tomorrow morning you will open it again
Looking for the right words to read.
Lovely 10
Your music teacher now at 76 drops by
Your house this morning
You are invited for tea in his flower garden
Then he plays some pieces of Mozart
A little white dog wags its tail at you
As your heart jumps with joy.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Is it Tea or Coffee?
Is it Tea or Coffee?
Tell me!
My instant early morning dream
I like it black, white with sugar or cream!
The choice is free
Yet the mind cannot agree
With Tea is a Yippee!
With Coffee it is a Whoopee!
The thought of a little caffeine
The smell of fresh roasted beans
Will once again set off my adrenalin
While my exhausted brain is waiting
That stirring cup of sizzling black
Put on the kettle; spill the beans out of the sack
I will pay the fee; I will pay the levee
I will beg on one knee for a little bit of Coffee
Take a sip of the early morning coffee
Close your eyes and try to see
As you smell the airy aroma like a bee
Tea or Coffee! Perhaps you now understand me
Those swarms of dark brown seeds
They feed my vicious needs indeed
I don’t care how much I pee or how much I wee
For that sparking liquid of hot black called coffee
Copyright 2008 - Sylvia Chidi
poem by Sylvia Chidi
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Visit to the Train Station.
You and Fay got off the bus
and walked towards Waterloo train station
and you said
I often come here
just to see and smell
and hear the steam trains
and she looked about her
at the sights and sounds
and smell of steam off the trains
at the platforms
and she said
I haven't been here
since my parents took us
to the seaside once
and my father was in a cross mood
all day because we wanted to play
on the beach and he wanted to go
to the pubs and my mother sat there
most of the day watching us
in a solemn silence
and she jump back a little
when a stream engine
blew out loudly nearby
and she laughed
and so did you
and as you stood there
in your faded jeans
and off white tee shirt
and she in her pink
summery dress
she took your hand
in her small hand
and you watched her
out of the corner of your eye
and she seemed to be so alive
and happy and all the dark times
of her father and his moods
and stern punishments
seemed momentarily
to have fled
and a glint of sunshine
and happiness came
and rested there
instead.
poem by Terry Collett
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This Is The House
This is the house
This is the hill
This is the story - it's a little thing
A lock of hair
An invisible smoke trail
Nothing there but the dust and the rust
Oh/oh/oh everything changes
This is your picture (it's in black and white)
This is the family having a party
There's a crack in the ceiling
And there's an open door
Nothing there but the dust and the rust
Oh/oh/oh everything changes
song performed by by Eurythmics
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Procession of All Souls
Gnarled and blessed
be the hour of autumn
when spotted pears sink
into wet sod, and blessed be
the songs of virgins rising
into the hunchbacked trees.
November dawn.
Down damp stone stairs
we followed the priest,
past leaf-choked wells
and jagged trees,
past the red rage of dogwood
ringing a black lake.
Dies Irae, he intoned,
Dies Illae, day of wrath.
We followed his swinging
censer, trail of smoke:
schoolgirls in gray, novices
in white veils, nuns in ragged black
tapping tortoise canes.
What joy to bear the fear,
to smell orbs of incense
perfuming the rot of leaves,
to cross the stubbled field
as crows rushed and whirled,
pecking at windfall seeds.
We arrived, rainsoaked, awed
to watch young nun-brides
kneel, and spread their thin bodies
across green doors of graves.
poem by Geraldine Connolly
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Evanescent
who likes to vanish and turn to air?
even moistures don't
they keep on clinging to leaves
like morning dews
but there is this evanescence
of all things
ugly or beautiful
fading feelings fleeting fainting
ecstacies and pains
after love, after love is gone
we all tend also to be imperceptible
scarcely words turn to syllables
commas and period
and then
nothing
who tries to hold my whisper?
your lips? oh they close after
a moment of a little kiss
an opening
who knows what menthol is? what camphor is?
do you still remember how
an old perfume on the side of your ears
smell?
white smoke rising to the ceiling from
a candle light that you have just blown off
you thought there was nothing
there was something and it is still lingering.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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