Relaxed Feet On The Table Surface
we do not wish to explore more
what life is
we are here we must live it
in daily celebration
i like the sunrise with my feet
comforted by the surface of the table
my shoes are dirty
but i never mind the weeping of the table cloth
i got lemonade on my hand
pancake glazed with pure honey from the farm
the world is standing still
i shy away from silly talk this time
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Modest Table
A Modest Table
The table is like a flag wrapped little coffin
only it is not a flag of hubris and nationality,
but a cloth with roses, sewed by a woman
with time at hand and love in her heart.
The table is rough hewn but solid it will not
suffer illnesses of old age, but perhaps get
wood-worms.
It will last longer than I will, till new owners
will throw it on the dump or break it up and
use it as firewood a cold winter night.
In the meantime, as we wait, I rest my feet on
it when watching TV.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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A Breakfast That We Cannot Eat Together
this is the breakfast that we cannot eat together a fish fried in an oil
with so much heat, like ' who cares? ' a rice not well cooked which says ' it is the maid again! ' a coffee which has gone cold which says ' you come late again! ' a egg which is not sunny side up a ham that does not roll a dirty table with an unwashed table cloth which says 'change it yourself! '
how can i eat all these?
i am late for the office and i have to go.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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My Christmas Celebration
With Christmas soon to be here
No shoes no new clothes are mine to wear
No food for my table to prepare
My home and surroundings are simply bare
Yet my faith grows strong everyday
While kneeling bowing down to pray
The Lord prepares for me a most awaited day
Erasing all my worries and fears away
No matter what’s to be my situation
A Christmas will always be mine to begin
Celebrating Jesus whose life I live in
With joyful thanks my lasting celebration
He is the reason for the celebration...
poem by Meggie Gultiano
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Juniors Farm
You should have seen me with the pocker man,
I had a honey and I bet a grand,
Just in the nick of time I looked at his hand.
I was talking to an eskimo,
Said he was hopping for a fall of snow,
When up popped a sea lion ready to go.
Lets go, lets go, lets go, lets go
Down to juniors farm where I want to lay low,
Low life, high life, oh, lets go,
Take me down to juniors farm.
At te houses of parliament
Evrybodys talking bout the president,
We all chip in for a bag of cement.
Olly hardy should have had more sense,
He bought a gee-gee and he jumped the fence,
All for the sake of a couple of pence.
I took my bag into a grocers store,
The price is higher than the time before,
Old mand asked me why is it more.
I said you should have seen me with the poker man,
I had a honey and I bet a grand,
Just in the nick of time I looked at his hand.
Lets go, lets go, lets go, lets go
Down to juniors farm where I want to lay low,
Low life, high life, oh, lets go,
Take me down to juniors farm,
Lets go, lets go, down to juniors farm where I want to lay low.
Low life, high life, oh, lets go,
Take me down to juniors farm
Evrybody tag along.
Take me down to juniors farm
song performed by by Paul McCartney
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Things Do Not Seem To Be Them After A Careful Seeing
a spoon
and a fork and they seem to appear
with food on a silver platter
when we talk we talk like poets now
after years
a spoon is no longer just a spoon
and neither is the fork
and neither is the food the food that we
eat on the table
and neither is the silver platter a mere
silver platter as it seems to be
for a spoon may be me and i may also be
a tongue and i could be a tongue to your
fork, a protrusion that stabs me like a knife
and the silver platter could be our mind
a garden where we put every seed
and the table and the cloth that covers it
with leaves and flowers
myabe our worlds, covered and uncovered
with some intricate designs
this could be our world now. a world of poems
where everything is a roll of sensitive skin
a mind so fertile with its array of metaphors
and similes and
exaggerations, and these make us so happy
we tiptoe, we choose the word, we equate
every object to a meaning, we dance to a lot
of its nuances, and then we touch and then
we are so silent. we choose not to hurt.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Table And The Chair
Said the Table to the Chair,
'You can hardly be aware
How I suffer from the heat,
And from chilblains on my feet!
If we took a little walk,
We might have a little talk!
Pray let us take the air!'
Said the Table to the Chair.
Said the Chair unto the Table,
'Now you know we are not able!
How foolishly you talk,
When you know we cannot walk!'
Said the Table with a sigh,
'It can do no harm to try;
I've as many legs as you;
Why can't we walk on two?'
So they both went slowly down,
And walked about the town
With a cheerful bumpy sound,
As they toddled round and round.
And everybody cried,
As they hastened to their side,
'See! the Table and the Chair
Have come out to take the air!'
But, in going down an alley
To a castle in the valley,
They completely lost their way,
And wandered all the day
Till, to see them safely back,
They paid a Ducky-quack,
And a Beetle, and a Mouse,
Who took them to their house.
Then they whispered to each other,
'O delightful little brother!
What a lovely walk we've taken!
Let us dine on Beans and Bacon!'
So the Ducky and the leetle
Browny-Mousy and the Beetle
Dined, and danced upon their heads
Till they toddled to their beds.
poem by Edward Lear
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A Little Sunshine
a grain of rice
on a table cloth
beside
a cup of hot
coffee
imperceptible
but when a connection is found
soon
the spoon and fork
shall understand
some pieces
no matter what
do not fit
on a reasonable landscape
what is the grain of rice
doing on a breakfast table?
your mind is furious
i think it is cool
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Round Table
we have this round table
and we put all our hands
on it when we eat and
drink and just talk for
hours and hours and
listen. And we ask what
is happening: Karding
broke a leg and Delia
is looking for the money.
Always it is the money.
Always she is short of
the money. And there
were jewelries hanging
on her neck and arms
and fingers, and we all
ask at this round table:
what is happening?
Nothing, don't mind at
all, this is just a part of
the round table, some
wine glass that broke
and must be swept at
once. We keep away the
sound of a crying pig.
We eat pigs here at this
round table. Then we shifted
the talk about our dead
parents. We pray. We
remember we keep on
saying this. We finish eating
the pig. We drink a very
cold water. Our throats
are irritated and we step
out of the room wanting
to pull away our tongues.
when we come back the
round table is empty.
and we laugh about a
joke that we remember.
our childhood games
the river, and the boat
that father made for us.
we turn off the tv and we
begin to talk about the
beautiful flowers in mother's
old garden, the secret one.
we agree. we miss it.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Many people do not realize that the snowshoe can be used for a great many things besides walking on snow. For instance, it can be used to carry pancakes from the stove to the breakfast table. Also, it can be used to carry uneaten pancakes from the table to the garbage. Finally, it can be used as a kind of stainer, where you force pancakes through the strings to see if a piece of gold got in a pancake somehow.
Jack Handey in Deep Thoughts
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Day And Date
Nests to birds and holes to foxes,
Of the olive oil and honey on my table;
But in the obscurity of darkness,
The harvest time is very great.
Unmarked graves,
The choicest wine at the beginning of love;
There is a day and a date for everyone.
Of the rich man's table and the poor man's table,
Like homes without numbers to compare with these graves;
But you need ten silver coins to reach my home.
A fig tree with leaves and the horse-walk of things,
You need a 'pencilcure' act to note my mind;
And from 'dreamontology' to 'dondoorlogy'to what is prepared.
The king and the Queen do seek for me,
But i am always missing out of their sites;
Since i do have a day and a date on my lovers heart.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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untitled ONE
early morning
it will be the same sound
of cocks
crowing,
harbingers of
a new day
up on the tree
their only guide whether to
take the jump
to the ground is the
sun,
she is safe in sleep
as i take the usual journey
again
with all the cocks
crowing
the trees have black leaves
roads and fences are bold strokes
of the Chinese brush
from a painter in Vietnam
i remember
his feet are cut
one wonders if we can be whole
again
when the fragile glasses of our arms
are all broken
early mornings when
the hens are silent
when the ref murmur
a nameless song
when i sound like an empty
gong
love emaciated
like a malnourished
African child
one exhibits the boredom
of his words like
one malling without anything
in mind to buy
nothing specific except
the will to kill time
that does not serve
any use
at the pasta room
where the tea people are not around
on one table the two lesbians are drinking beer
while the two queers on the
other table near the rest room
are exchanging some pleasantries
of notes
they are not singing
but giggling
a man that they call as dark and handsome
passes by
it is strange because he is not wearing anything
his face is covered with black cloth
as though he is bound
for the gallows
there is yet no food on my table
the waitress is busy biting her nails
the mother beside a kid is slapping herself
it is strange here and i put some money on the table
and leave
i need some air to breathe
this world is suffocating.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Sketches Of Life
early morning
it will be the same sound
of cocks
crowing,
harbingers of
a new day
up on the tree
their only guide whether to
take the jump
to the ground is the
sun,
she is safe in sleep
as i take the usual journey
again
with all the cocks
crowing
the trees have black leaves
roads and fences are bold strokes
of the Chinese brush
from a painter in Vietnam
i remember
his feet are cut
one wonders if we can be whole
again
when the fragile glasses of our arms
are all broken
early mornings when
the hens are silent
when the ref murmur
a nameless song
when i sound like an empty
gong
love emaciated
like a malnourished
African child
one exhibits the boredom
of his words like
one malling without anything
in mind to buy
nothing specific except
the will to kill time
that does not serve
any use
at the pasta room
where the tea people are not around
on one table the two lesbians are drinking beer
while the two queers on the
other table near the rest room
are exchanging some pleasantries
of notes
they are not singing
but giggling
a man that they call as dark and handsome
passes by
it is strange because he is not wearing anything
his face is covered with black cloth
as though he is bound
for the gallows
there is yet no food on my table
the waitress is busy biting her nails
the mother beside a kid is slapping herself
it is strange here and i put some money on the table
and leave
i need some air to breathe
this world is suffocating.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Learning To Love All The Mess
three plates remain unwashed
last night the cockroaches feast on the remains
of pork oil and morsels of rice
and bread
the dining chairs are not in place
looking like twigs in the park
after a storm
the table is littered with spilled sauce
the table cloth is stained
alcoholic
and the spoons and forks are still
having catchup on their tongues
and tails
the floor is foul with your dog's urine
and socks and shoes are roaming on the
living room
you guess it right
the universe is a big chaos
and so is this house
which is out of order
like a sink with leaking faucets
you want all your life to be in order
you wish a smooth and tidy place
vested with its own system
name-tagged and cabinetized
pieces
but it simply is not just
the way things work out
your dreams are silly
chaos and pandemonium are the orders of the
days of our lives
and so here i am with this firm resolve
to the flexibility of adaptability
for my survival
since disorder is the law
so must i obey it
to perfect my life and to put order
to my dreams and
properly accept this world's disposition
so must i
love chaos as well
go with the random flow of pandemonium
enjoy the errors
love the mistakes
and i swear to myself
beginning this ruinous day
that i,
wholeheartedly
must love all these mess
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A View In Town Square
four blue chairs surround
a center table
at the center table
lies the red cloth
there are no diners
this time of the day
on the blue frames of
the glass window
where the white curtains
hang & flow like silky water
the lush of the red
bougainvillea is a wreath
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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You Must Know The Fences Of My World
my world revolves around a fence
of 'nots'
not this, not that,
think, think a while, no compromises
do not stain a white cloth
do not display a dirty linen of the house
a dropp of ink can make your world dirty
a white sky, pure white sky, why should a black crow fly in there?
don't you make a waste of this clean life you have
this is the world i live in, a planet revolving to the mandate
of its orbits, no deviation, no running away, no escaping
not this, not that
don't do this don't do that
and now i have travelled that far and all wanting to see you
and look at you and hold you
despite the odds despite the rules and the prohibitions
and i ask for a kiss, just a kiss and tell me if you remember
i ask you why?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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How We Were Introduced
—for perfidious protectors
I was playing in the street
no one paid attention to me
as I made forms out of sand
mumbling Rimbaud under my breath
once an elderly gentleman overheard it
—little boy you are a poet
just now we are organizing
a grass-roots literary movement
he stroked my dirty head
gave me a large lollypop
and even bought clothes
in the protective coloring of youth
I didn’t have such a splendid suit
since first communion
short trousers and a wide
sailor’s collar
black patent leather shoes with a buckle
white knee-high socks
the elderly gentleman took me by the hand
and led the way to the ball
other boys were there
also in short trousers
carefully shaven
shuffling their feet
—well boys now it’s time to play
why are you standing in the corners
asked the elderly gentleman
—make a circle holding hands
but we didn’t want tag
or blindman’s buff
we had enough of the elderly gentleman
we were very hungry
so we were seated promptly
around a large table
given lemonade
and pieces of cake
now disguised as adults
with deep voices
the boys got up they praised us
or slapped us on our hands
we didn’t hear anything
didn’t feel anything
staring with great eyes
at the piece of cake
that kept melting
in our hot hands
and this sweet taste the first in our lives
disappeared inside our dark sleeves
poem by Zbigniew Herbert
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rose Peddle
'rose peddle'
as the rose flower is left on the table.
and is left in a vace of pure water.
as Jesus Christ was whiped, the rose would slowely shrivel up.
as they spat on Him the wrose peddles would fall one-by-one.
as the nails went inot Jesus hands and feet the sten broke and the thorns fell.
and when Jesus said 'it is finished'
the vace shatted and the pure water leacked into a small river.
and the rose was thrown away,
when Jesus rose again the rose was re-healed and the wace.
sitting back on the table where it died on.
this rose i speak of was touched by the Lords hand,
as Jesus was ressurected.
poem by Jordan Scown
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Her Own Shoes
She spoke in a tongue
left over from yesterday
her memories
slowly fading.
Shouting to be heard
if by chance
someone would hear her.
Her tears
left in silence
by a heart
abandoned by life.
Her shoes
barely covered her feet
so aged a brittle cloth.
She laughed at herself
her mind felt with bareness
fell out into the street
as rain fell against
her pain.
No-one near
to cradle her fears
she spoke to herself.
A bus ride
her excursion
to the world
brought more pain.
So she laughed to herself.
Her mind worn out
just like her shoes
in waiting solemn moments
she still felt human.
But the world
no longer reading
her uniqueness
she found an empty bench
The birds
did not judge
her physical obscenity
they came freely
If only to take bread
from her hand.
Everything was worn
her stained dress
her opened shoes
her need for sanity.
All put together
by a world
who had forgotten
she too was only human.
So she laughed
out loud
to all those
whom she remembered
did once care.
Because she knew
one day
they too
would become
a worn out pair of shoes
craving
to be new.
poem by Jodde Taylor
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The Daily Act of Presence
Eight hours at work, commuting sometimes two,
the daily act of presence is assigned
its p[l]ace, weak celebration paid in kind,
traced race to waste bereft, much left to do.
Eight hours abed, at table almost two,
the daily act of presence, daily grind,
few dare opt out of as life's clocks unwind, -
such haste to conquer Time, whose ride’s askew.
Three hours of leisure, then, without ado,
day's drive departs, leaves most deprived of breath.
Who'd buck luck's trend bends in the end to Death
whose lock mocks motto 'to thyself be true! '
Three hours for chat, sex, net or television,
no wonder Man’s case-study for derision.
16 May 2001 revised 18 December 2008
robi03_0936_robi03_0000 SXX_EJZ
for previous version see below
The Daily Act of Presence
Eight hours at work, in travel up to two,
the daily act of presence is assigned
and celebrated weakly, paid in kind, -
so much to waste, so little left to do.
Eight hours abed, at table almost two,
the daily act of presence, daily grind,
few dare opt out as life's clocks unwind, -
such haste to conquer Time, whose ride’s askew.
Three hours leisure, then, without ado,
the day departs, leaves most deprived of breath.
Who'd buck the trend bends in the end to Death -
what sense retains 'unto thyself be true'?
Three hours for music, films or television –
no wonder Man’s case-study for derision!
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Is Mine!
lover, dont lie...
the stench of silence overwhelms.
the stray cat sleeps in a cardboard box,
the old oak tree groans with morning.
table set for three,
you, me, and the guest...
too long on the road,
he's forgotten the turn,
and love's address is unlisted.
the feather drawn lines of arch and thrust,
define your eyes with headstones.
your hand slips between the bread,
tastes better without mayonnaise.
the cup of whispers grows cold,
deer stand at the edge of the clearing.
the rusted old truck sputters and starts,
crows fly in slow mournful lines.
the feet beneath the table are dirty,
the heart on the plate is mine!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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