Routine...
it is the same over and over again,
no change, nothing unfamiliar,
the terrains we master,
the confrontations too boring,
all words, no images, nothing about
metaphors, trains and rails, sky and grass,
winds coming, and eddies leaving,
air filled with dust, leaves blown away,
women with straw hats,
hands of children, whistles of husbands,
what more can this world give us?
perhaps, a global erasure.
when we all perish, when no one blames
anybody anymore
when cockroaches begin their rule.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Mastery Of Familiarity
it is a matter of
familiarity
the caresses of the
hands of time always
give us the mastery of
what we take and give away
the windows let the winds
come and go
without so much
hassle
at first the stairs are
adamant about the steps that
come up and much often go down
and never make the footfalls
stay
it is a matter of use and disuse
you master the common art of abuse
the sense of coming and going
of arriving and leaving becomes
a way of life and so where is
sorrow? the sound of sighs?
at the train station
there are no more sad stories
about the coming of the train &
about its synchronized leaving
these are daily occurrences
anyway
and there is nothing
significant about them anymore
in the house where we live
we do not talk about these matters
as they have become so repetitive
and hence so boring....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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These Boring Radio Chat Shows
These boring radio chat shows where women discuss their boring lives
And their unhappy marriages angry hard done by housewives
Who suspect that their husbands are having sex elsewhere
But as you and I too well know that life's not always fair.
They married the wrong fellows though in that they had a choice
Their hearts they over rule their heads and for that they pay the price
The unfaithful fiancee doesn't become the faithful married man
And marriage will not change him though some women think it can.
She married him to change him her sort of thinking does seem strange
But the fellow that she married in marriage did not change
The leopard does not change his spots and that to some men apply
The Unfaithful boyfriend as a married man will also cheat and lie.
These boring radio chat shows where angry women about their wayward husbands complain
Tell their sob stories such as we heard before and that we will hear again
Of men that they thought they could change but thought had proved them wrong
And the morally weak man prior to marriage in marriage does not become the morally strong.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Power to the Women of the World
Power to the women of the world
Women with W for winners
Women with O for Order
Women with M for Movement and mothers of hope
Women with E for energy, everywhere, every time
Women with N for Necessity
Women of the world
Our struggle needs your attention
Our struggle needs your support
Your children in on earth have no future
Your children in in the wolrd will die, if you sit
Your children in in the world are dying
Your husbands are culturally polluted and they are dying
Your pots are blown by light air
Your fire have burned months ago
Your future is no more
But this is your time
Your time to rise Women of the world
Power to the women of the country
Power to women
Power
poem by Alex Lushaba
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When Women Will Rule The World
When women will rule the World sadly i won't be around
My bones will be resting forever in some quiet dead person's ground
But what a World 'twill be to live in the flower of peace will bloom again
And for as long as women do rule the World peace in the World will remain,
For as long as men rule the World terror and warring will live on
They have not learned from the mistakes of past male leaders with men as leaders all hope of peace gone
When women will rule the World the World will be a better place to live in
Mothers will not have to weep for their dead children there will not be wars for to win,
Women give birth to the soldiers mothers do not want their children to die
A dead hero is better than a living coward that is if you believe a lie,
Women do not want their children fighting in wars far away
There would be less wars in the World if women had a greater say
And when women will rule the World war will be a thing of the past
The flower of peace will be blooming and beautiful peace it will last.
poem by Francis Duggan
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September Stream
Fallen to the wash
Dead leaves in September
There only to float away
A sign of seasons change
Autumnal picture postcard
In the landscape which we walk
Pathways losing shade and shelter
Bare branches rise above
Flower heads falling away
Leaving bowed stems
Tall grass and broken sticks
Leaves blown to the water
To be washed away
The world in all its movement
The world amid its change
The cycle of everything
Now seen in the dying leaves
Falling and taken away
In a September stream
poem by Matthew Holloway
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About Being Extrasensitive The Places Around You...
I SEE sparrows gathering
little pieces of leaves and
light husks
for the building of
their nests
it is time for laying eggs
this summer
when the winds are a little bit
colder
i see leaves falling
the trees getting bald
becoming like new fingers
under the sky
i see grass spreading
slowly turning brown
like muscovado sugar
i see mountains
where clouds hang like
smoke from pipes
of old men waiting
still on there
veranda
i see roads where old cars pass
leaving an eddy
of dusts
slowly settling down again
like a light brown mantle
of the breakfast
table
you should have seen me
how foolishly have i waited for you
in this old house
where we first met
many years ago
you should have felt how a poem like this
can be written
because waiting can be an agony
and without being extra sensitive to all that i see beyond all these longings
the horizon over there
the mountains and grass and roads running without ending
and eddies of dust of old cars that conk and honk
and winds that manipulate the helplessness of leaves
as cold as feelings of being
ruthlessly abandoned
without all these
life could have long surrendered
could have long ceased
like a calendar
on the last day of Christmas
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Master Spoke.
Why is the world here today?
The Master Spoke.
Why are we sinners, like sheep gone astray?
The Master Spoke.
Why all this toil, no comfort of Eden,
Since man didn't obey?
The Master Spoke.
Why work the dust of the ground, from whence we came,
And eat 'By the sweat of our brow? '
The Master Spoke.
Why do we, naturally,
Posess the desire to before,
God, want to worship and adore?
The Master Spoke.
Why is Jesus glorified,
And why, for sinners, did he die?
The Master Spoke.
Why shall God return again,
To take away Isreal, His bride?
Why me, a sinner, justified?
The Master Spoke.
Why will there be Revelations, wars,
And roomers of wars,
Nearing the End Times?
The Master Spoke.
Why is God an eternal Being,
But the world shall be no more?
The Master Spoke.
Why is it, that when a man speaks,
His words blow away
As kernals of grain,
And yet, when God speaks, his Word is as rock,
Forever to remain?
The Master Spoke -
'Heaven and Earth shall pass away,
But my words shall never pass away.'
Why do these things occur,
And as it were,
The penalty of sin man did not have to pay?
The Master Spoke -
'For God so loved the world,
That he gave his only Son,
That whoever believes in him
Shall not perish,
But have the gift of eternal life.
Why?
The Master Spoke.
'Go now! Help the needy,
And the weak!
Save hearts that are broken! '
Hurry, now!
The Master has Spoken.
poem by Macy Dvirnak
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Changing Seasons
Trees begin to shed
their clothing,
leaves change colors
turning brown then
gold,
falling from their
homes,
to be blown away.
they stand alone
bare in distress
for all to see.
the wind whistles
through the pines,
there's a chill in
the air.
close the door
gently,
days become bitter
cold,
winter has arrived.
poem by Heather Burns
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Right, Wrong....
i may tell you
that this is all a matter of
story telling
the one that you invent because the nights
are too long
and slow
and they all drag you to your bed
and the linens
do not make you sleep
meanwhile the ceiling plays with
the lapses of the lizards
as mosquitoes kept being fooled by
light and
shadows of the hands of the the
restless arms
i think i am wrong
most of the times
and i give always the impression that
i master what is
right and
adorable
i give you respect
through the signs of my fingers
and the unspoken words of
my mouth
and i beget respect
like leaves upon leaves of the crowning
glory of the
living tree
i am wrong this time
this is not about the world or
the stars
not even about you but this is all about myself
it is boring
it wearing the eyes that are disinterested
there is this routine
the break is unseen
i guess, i am right this time
when i tell you that
you must go...
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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12 Midnight
Now the master sleeps
Leaving you some of his poems
Now it is midnight
Now the master has to sleep
Take care yourselves
Take care of his poems
They are now yours,
All his disciples
The master sleeps.
Now, see, how the master breathes
Listen to the rhythm of his sighs
Some poems are coming out from
His nostrils some poems are coming out
From his mouth and ears
The master poet is asleep
Even in dreams he weaves some images
Dreamy, surreal, ephemeral, his sleep
Has rhyme & rhythm, he is a soul breathing
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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It Is Strange
i find the coming days strange
filled with your silence and i am here feeling so abandoned
pampered once by your words of concern
like i am always showered by your rain
when i was once a vast dryland
with grasses all wilting and animals moving away
searching for water,
it is indeed strange when a day goes away without any word from you
when the night comes as black as tar
and as lonely as a house without its children
moving out to another place carrying with them their
conversations and laughter
and oh even the usual noise
those senseless ones that i begin to miss
because of their absence
i miss you and i will be missing you more for the coming empty days
of my life
i am like a window now always open as
the strong winds come and scatter everything that i have written
the night comes like an empty space of darkness where i surrender
without any word
i sleep and then wake up for another day
when the light stabs my face
piercing my heart
this time every change that comes
is pain
because you are not here anymore and without you
i will be always alone
feeling so abandoned like the shell without its flesh
like the skull without a face
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Walk The Dust
I find youre on my back again
Cause your husbands weighing you down
And you say you find it hard to cope
Feel like leaving and not going home
Sister I thought you were stronger than me
But I guess youve lost the way
And I see your confusion oh so clear
Yet you love him more each day
I want you to find a reason
To walk the dust
I want you to find a reason
To walk the dust
Nothing has changed
Youre still the same
Are you willing to walk the dust
I guess that its too soon to tell
But I wish that youd wake up
Cause somehow you still believe in him
And you give him all your love
Seven months already gone
Do you feel youve let yourself down
And all I can do is sit and watch
Watch him change your mind
I want you to find a reason
To walk the dust
I want you to find a reason
To walk the dust
Nothing has changed
Youre still the same
Are you willing to walk the dust
Take my hand theres still time
Take my hand theres still time
My head is filled with words to say
But I only find them slip away
I know its hard to let it go
Take my hand
Take my hand theres still time
Sister take my hand theres still time
I know its hard to let it go
I know its hard to let it go
Take my hand
song performed by by Texas
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Poem Is A Vent
now you must
learn what poetry is
alright, you must
agree that it gives
sometimes a sense
of pleasure
where emotions begin
to play in the dark
in the park
it becomes the hallmark
of your freedom
you must have noticed
how the words chosen
are tilted in your favor
because now you are
the master of this
game of truth
and purity
you must know by now
that poetry somehow
is a escape
there are exits in
its structure where
you design your
freedom
your tunnel from that
prison wall of
closed structures
without windows without
light
this is the sense of
selfishness away
from the crowd
away from those
that humiliate you
from those that
knows nothing of you
except your madness
your introversion into the
silent (yet colorful world)
of metaphors
the frogs there sing
the rain does not stop
falling
the rainbows come
bridging that gap
between your
illusion and your
reality
you must know
by now
what all these means
in the most simple term
this is your
kit for survival
a box of words
the most private room
of your
sexy metaphors
your women and your
dreams
your treasures and
your island
your house without
a roof
because all night long
you always want
to see the stars
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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She Is Rising
Those pretty feet are stuck deep in the ground
And all that junk just keeps coming
Must be the time to rearrange it all
Another place another time has called
She is rising above this world
She is heading for an open door
She is rising above this world
She is heading for an open door
Give it up let her in
All she wants is to begin
Give it up let her in
All she wants is to begin
One day he wakes up to a different drum
Rhythm coming from so far away
He had no time to tell anyone
His hips were moving to a perfect sway
He is rising above this world
He is heading for an open door
He is rising above this world
He is heading for an open door
Give it up let him in
All he wants is to begin
Give it up let him in
All he wants is to begin
Give it up let her in
All she wants is to begin
She is rising above this world
She is heading for an open door
Give it up let her in
All she wants is to begin
Give it up let her in
All she wants is to begin
Give it up (she is rising)
Let him in (he is rising)
All he wants is to begin (all I want is to begin)
Give it up (she is rising)
Let him in (he is rising)
All he wants is to begin (all he wants is to begin)
She is rising
He is rising
All I want
All I want is to begin
She is rising
He is rising
Give it up
We are rising
She is rising
She is rising
song performed by by INXS
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sitting, Waiting
sitting, as simple as sitting on a stair
you look around through dragonfly eyes
from higher places
like a cliff overlooking a village
closer to cotton clouds
patches of hissing
winds up here,
alone,
you sit, sitting is simple, it is not complicated
as waiting which is heavier sometimes with a person who is not
showing some shadows for the coming,
sit,
i sit,
i am sitting viewing a wide horizon, a vast expanse of a field,
some white herons heaving leaves blown from dead trees this summer,
they fly away
from you, they fly away from where you are seated, from your country,
you remain sitting,
sit, like a dog to his master telling him to sit,
sit,
it is simple as being yourself alone, not even waiting
things end in darkness
dust settles finally on the ground after a truck fully loaded with almost
everything leaves
the road heading far away from you,
you are not waiting for anything
you have no time
left for waiting, everything leaves and goes away, always everybody
utters the word goodbye
except these, the rain, the rain, there are many of them,
these hordes of rains
they are coming and you sit and do the last thing possible
listen
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Sonnet: God’s Love and Scriptures- Will Not Change
The world of men, women and children, change;
Their food-habits and dressing styles may change;
Their ways of talking, walking, laughing, change;
But Bible’s words are true and never change!
Man’s outlook and his sense of values change;
The weather, climate, seasons also change;
The water of rivers and seas may change,
But Scripture’s words are true and never change!
Man’s needs in life and ambitions may change
Man’s occupations, moral values, change
Man’s goals and approaches also may change,
But Holy Scripture’s words will never change.
The devils too, their tempting tactics, change;
God’s love for man is same and will not change.
poem by John Celes
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95
sitting, waiting
sitting, as simple as sitting on a stair
you look around through dragonfly eyes
from higher places
like a cliff overlooking a village
closer to cotton clouds
patches of hissing
winds up here,
alone,
you sit, sitting is simple, it is not complicated
as waiting which is heavier sometimes with a person who is not
showing some shadows for the coming,
sit,
i sit,
i am sitting viewing a wide horizon, a vast expanse of a field,
some white herons heaving leaves blown from dead trees this summer,
they fly away
from you, they fly away from where you are seated, from your country,
you remain sitting,
sit, like a dog to his master telling him to sit,
sit,
it is simple as being yourself alone, not even waiting
things end in darkness
dust settles finally on the ground after a truck fully loaded with almost
everything leaves
the road heading far away from you,
you are not waiting for anything
you have no time
left for waiting, everything leaves and goes away, always everybody
utters the word goodbye
except these, the rain, the rain, there are many of them,
these hordes of rains
they are coming and you sit and do the last thing possible
listen
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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3 O'clock In The Morning
the rain stopped
and i have just awakened from a deep sleep
it was earlier than usual
and what i heard are the raindrops leaving the last words of their lives
a tapping of the roof
a heave of a sigh
some monotonous sounds of the waves of the shore
not far from where i am writing
the last whispers of the winds from the trees about to shed their last leaves
the sounds of wild ducks leaving knowing that another storm is coming
i think of you
i think of your search of yourself
i think of myself
how i was once broken and destroyed by the changes of the winds
how i picked up the pieces like some leaves scattered in the forest
beyond repair, i write some memories.
weary, i imagine some moments that i may have been at rest with myself.
i think of you. I think about when the rain shall stop forever.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Motor Sounds At The Streets....
waking up from a nightmare
there was this woman in black
leaving the house
and
blown by the ill wind
towards the
rugged terrains of the
mountains
gone.
as i rub my eyes
from the dusts of sleep
i am met by the crazy sounds
of the motorcycles
down the street
at rizal avenue
this is a cruel world
so unforgiving
this is the world that that black woman
is shaping
from her rough hands
from those unpredictable movements
of the lines of her palms
imagining doom
always looking at the end of her world
stars shutting their own lights
planets turning into
powder
meteors hitting one another
like kids without
their mothers.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Winds Of Change
i throw my sigh
and then it came back as
part of the
the winds of change
with some brown leaves
and wings of birds
and butterflies
the winds of change
has come
with the rays of the sun
with the songs of the day
with the hair of my woman
the winds of change
has come
with the yellow sunflower
with the humming bees
and soft rains
and rainbow
the winds of change has
finally come
take me to the magic
of this moment
my winds of change
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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