Responsibility From The Words Of Grandpa
we all eat together
partake the white rice and the
fried fish
and home made coffee
every breakfast
as he tells stories
about his exploits during
World War II
and then when everyone is
finished listening to
every word
from his mouth placed
on his square jaws
he makes the last remark
that the last one to leave
shall wash all
the plates
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Related quotes
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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Always Remember My Friend Poet
new to this site? new to this art?
this scribbling and nibbling
and quibbling and clicking
of metaphors from air
and other figures of speech
from out of nowhere
this is not the outer space
but it makes you feel just the same
the usual floating and fleeting
and painting and fainting and
gloating and bloating and sinking
and shrinking and yes sometimes
blunder and surrender and plunder
welcome to this world
to our world your world
a world of imagination
imaginary bowls and plates and spoons and forks
but with real rice and fish in there
where the coffee is hot forever
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Breakfast In Malaysian Stalls
Listening to the radio DJs,
Driving through the traffic
This match is quite all right,
When these guys poke fun,
At one another and with public,
The sun is just awake,
Chasing the darkened thoughts,
Bright yellow spike, so soft,
The arrival of another morning,
As the windows start to open,
To allow the fresh air in,
The smell of freshly brewed coffee,
Fragrant coconut rice with fried anchovies,
Sliced cucumber, sambal and egg,
That is served under the cool trees.
The early birds drive to these haunt,
To have their breakfast,
Under the pleasant sun,
The breeze move around them,
To bring the heaven to earth,
Young and old, rich and poor,
Everyone wants to sit in the open air,
To have their breakfast and dinner,
On this land, where my mother was born,
poem by Veeraiyah Subbulakshmi
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Simplicity
before a table
a cup of rice and
few pieces of fish
you put your knee
near your mouth
as you mold
sticky white rice
with your bare hands
you open your mouth
and swallow what
you have inorder
to live.
(shall i say
poverty?)
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Do not expect too much
This is it, this is poetry
Written by this man
He is looking by his window
To the world like a little boy
Still wondering, scribbling
Some figures of man and
Superman, putting them wings
Imagining that soon they will fly,
Do not expect too much
I myself do not have wings
I do not promise you any
I am simply writing the view
The green ricefields I do not
Have rice for you to cook I do
Not have water for you to drink
I have these words, only you
Can convert them to steamed
Rice to cakes to bacons to ham
To fish to sea to clouds to sun
Or simply coffee for you to sip
When you still hunger for breakfast.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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122
simplicity
before a table
a cup of rice and
few pieces of fish
you put your knee
near your mouth
as you mold
sticky white rice
with your bare hands
you open your mouth
and swallow what
you have in order
to live.
(shall i say
poverty?)
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Caring Less For The Loquacious
seated, formal, behaved,
and stopping to read the
morning paper,
the tv is on for the
usual morning news,
the cup of coffee is on
the breakfast table,
the usual rice and sunny
side up fried egg
and dried fish to
with your wish for
the wholesome thing,
salt and sugar and
something sour
like a piece of
lemon to accentuate
your need for a variety,
in front is a woman with
curly hair, big earrings like
a mystic,
she speaks in crystal ball
reminding you
of your inevitable
pain in the future,
you are her slave and
you listen,
though you are not
interested,
(shit, shit, you have these
words hammering in
your mind)
finally, you take a glimpse
of her mouth,
they look like scissors,
her nose looks like
a wrench,
she looks older
than you think,
cranky like an old
rice mill,
you like to get rid
of her,
you know this woman,
her name,
and her being a
part of you
even for life,
you create a certain distance
like Mars and Pluto,
farther away, you settle on
the orbit of earth,
this marble planet, known
for its coolness
and tolerance for
evil.
you're not quitting,
you love that dragon inside
your hot, creamy coffee,
and then you smile, and tell yourself,
after she had spoken
her piece,
it is a beautiful day
it is a real beautiful life out there.
you step inside your car, drive for work,
and let life manage your life somehow.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Every Face Tells A Story
Look at the man in the corner, hes sitting all alone
His blankets are made out of cardboard,
His pillows are made out of stone
Every face tells a story it never tells a lie
Every face tells a story it never tells a lie
See the man walking on the water, see the light in his eyes
He came into the world with a message to tell,
He came into the world to die
Every face tells a story it never tells a lie
Every face tells a story it never tells a lie
Youre always telling stories, youre always telling me lies
Youre always telling stories, why?
So think of yourself in the water, seeing your days flashing by
Its too late to see what you wanted to be,
Youve spent all your time, you must die
Every face tells a story it never tells a lie
Every face tells a story it never tells a lie
Step down
And make it work out right
Im trying to get to you with my warning
Been there
For nearly half the night
Look its nearly four in the morning
song performed by by Cliff Richard
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sunrise's Entrance
sunrise is such a lady
with a fashion sense
clad in rays of light
slim between the
shadows of the trees
jeweled with diamond
warm like a lover's hand
sunrise dramatically
arrives full of hope for
another brand new day
there is a fruit tray by the
window
five shiny red apples
there is a base of white
magnolias inside a
golden vase by
the window
there is breakfast on the
table: smiling fried egg
tasty hot dogs, pearl white
rice, brewed coffee and
a slice of ripe yellow mango.
poetry in bliss
music from the breeze
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Cross Purposes Fried Rice
Poet spoke of forty poems
plus written in a month
a moment
of reflection
amazement
Fried Rice
That’s Fried Rice
Very Nice
Cucumber And Egg
From Aceh
i would like
to try it again
she said
we are at
cross purposes
Cross Purposes
Fried Rice
Cucumber And Egg
still life images
even these share place
together in life’s poem
Simple Revelation
Curry Seasoning
Makes It Famous
Also Curry Noodles
Famous Also In Aceh
Seasoning Is The Spice Of Life!
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Making Breakfast - a study in consciousness
Breakfast. Slick operation. You could
make it in your sleep..
you’ve refined the quantities,
the cooking and the timing
like a pro..
and eating it – you’re even more
brilliant at that – you can
eat breakfast, read the paper,
listen to the radio or tv,
half listen to the wife and kids,
make and take those cellphone calls;
then bestow a salty bacon,
sweet marmaladey kiss on several lips
or cheeks – and off..
But today something gotten to you:
the sun is shining; all’s well with the world;
this isn’t Monday breakfast, this is
Saturday breakfast…
You find yourself making breakfast
as if you’d never made it in your life before;
you hear the cereal on its way
from the packet to the bowl;
smell the coffee before drinking it;
never has the toast been browner, crisper,
eggs more eggy, tomatoes so.. well, tomatoey;
sweet meeting salt in tasting mouth..
the world’s made new today; and
somehow, you feel as if
you know that much more about yourself;
some sure sense of direction
seems to fill your heart and mind;
you’re on good terms with
the Creation as of now.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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The Breakfast Of The Old Farts
the old farts
did meet for breakfast
of coffee and cookies
and fish and rice
and a pomelo and camote chunks
and they all fart
and part and meet again
only to fart some more
this lunchtime.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Home Sweet Home
sunday on a home sweet home
from the city
to this little nipa hut
on top of a hill
that father built
where the guava trees are filled
with ripe fruits
where i climb and gather and taste
the sweetness of its pink flesh
where the carabaos rest
in the coolness of mudholes
where i take my ride on them
in the river nearby
on crystal clear waters
where some fish swim on shallow waters
inviting me to fish and catch them
for lunch of pearl white glutenous rice
and with banana leaves as plates
and some wild chicken's barbecued breast
and with my bare hands and
some childhood friends
we shall take this simple feast
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Pieces Of Self....
everyday i see myself
first as the wholeness of the egg
its whiteness ignored
cracked by the fork and
scrambled and fried
those pearls of white rice
cooked and handed over
on white porcelain plates
breakfast is not strange
otherwise if i ask, i will be
strange to all that is expected
to be familiar
in the bathroom i turn on the light
and see the miniature of sun
after the pee and the poo i feel
the softness of tissue and the
cleansing of water
flushing is such a relieving sound
and everything is in order now
the brushing begins and the
mirroring and the parting of hair
the shower gives some songs
life is cool after all and then one
gets used to the usual grooming
putting on socks fitting on belts and
shoes and buttoning shirts and
zippering
one gets outside finally and see the
real world feel the real air and hear
the real sounds of the traffic
one who reads this finds nothing
spectacular
after all
what is spectacular about routine?
and life is just one of those
routines in all your pieces of self
that you scatter all over the office,
the streets, the house
the room
and in all places of the heart and
spleen.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Breakfast
A dinner party, coffee, tea,
Sandwich, or supper, all may be
In their way pleasant. But to me
Not one of these deserves the praise
That welcomer of new-born days,
A breakfast, merits; ever giving
Cheerful notice we are living
Another day refreshed by sleep,
When its festival we keep.
Now although I would not slight
Those kindly words we use, 'Good night,'
Yet parting words are words of sorrow,
And may not vie with sweet 'Good morrow,'
With which again our friends we greet,
When in the breakfast-room we meet,
At the social table round,
Listening to the lively sound
Of those notes which never tire,
Of urn, or kettle on the fire.
Sleepy Robert never hears
Or urn or kettle; he appears
When all have finished, one by one
Dropping off, and breakfast done.
Yet has he too his own pleasure,
His breakfast hour's his hour of leisure;
And, left alone, he reads or muses,
Or else in idle mood he uses
To sit and watch the venturous fly,
Where the sugar's pilëd high,
Clambering o'er the lumps so white,
Rocky cliffs of sweet delight.
poem by Charles Lamb
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Varied Menu
Chicken and rice.
Fish and rice.
Rice and chicken.
Rice and fish.
Varied menu - 'ish!
Nice jungle place.
There's plenty of space.
Fresh clean air
But that dietary pair,
Fish or chicken
.....Not again!
So more trekking with a frown
Back to Georgetown.....
poem by George BernardBloodyShaw
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Preparing Dinner
I watch the pot on the stove
Water is overspilling
The rice is cooking
With bubbles galore
I smother chicken in sauce
Sauce that is made up of green pepper, black pepper and onions
Accompanied with that is the All in one spice.
Watch out for the toilet paper
The spices start talking
The chicken gets fried
The smell of breyani echoes through the house
I chop the potatoes as well as the carrots
I open up McCain veggies
And distribute it with the food
I put more spices in and the McCain veggies
Gets assimilated into the food
The pot is filled with colours
The steam fills the house
The brown chicken starts talking to the yellow potatoes
So does the carrots
The rice is strained
It rises to the core
I use tastic rice
Because it is the best out of them all
I set the table with plates
And it is ready to be filled
One by one they get dished out
First the rice (centered) and then the potatoes and chicken
Ice cream is served as desert
Coca-Cola is poured into glasses
The sweet taste bubbles in my mouth
The hot food burns my mouth
While the cold drink soothes its pain
I smother tomatoes and onions with vinegar
And serve them next to the food
The sauce gives the tongue extra kick
And goes down with a good drink
poem by Lee John Siebritz
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At 7: 59 In The Morning
my coffee has gone cold
the grease on the fish has frozen again
the jasmine rice has lost its scent and gluten
and the lettuce gave away its crispiness
all because i am writing poems again
forgetting time forgetting the table
where breakfast has been served
losing and forgetting and finding myself
to the bosom of God
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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One Word
[Verse 1:]
One word breaks the code of silence
Silence tells me all I need to know
One Word
One Word, tells me everything I need to know
One word driven in to madness
Madness driven by the depths below
One Word
One Word, tells me everything I need to know
[Chorus:]
It's not the way that I want it
It's just the way that I need it
Day after day
It's not the way that I want it
It's just the way that I need it
Day after day
[Verse 2:]
One lie tells a thousand stories
The greatest stories that were ever told
One Lie
One Lie, tells the greatest stories ever told
One man can predict the future
a future journey in to outer space
One Man
One Man, a future journey in to outer space
[Chorus 2x:]
It's not the way that I want it
It's just the way that I need it
Day after day
It's not the way that I want it
It's just the way that I need it
Day after day
(French Talking)
[Chorus 2x:]
It's not the way that I want it
It's just the way that I need it
Day after day
It's not the way that I want it
It's just the way that I need it
Day after day
song performed by by Kelly Osbourne
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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