Something Descriptive Only For What Is In There
inside a wicker basket
are two red apples
beside three persimmons
on top of them
is a ripe mango
still
there is no sound
even a ripple of air
from the window
covered with
white lace curtains.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Related quotes
Noumenon
a thing-in-itself:
a wicker basket is a wicker basket
you cannot place love there, perhaps just plain fruits and
flowers
and perhaps even nothing
because a wicker basket is a wicker basket
nothing more nothing less
in the same manner, i am what i am
and you are what you are
what we feel for each other
or perhaps what i feel you alone
or only
is what i only feel
nothing more and nothing less
if i go somehow inventing that you shall love me
how absurd can this be!
for you are what you are and i am what i am
nothing more and nothing less
and so thanks, i am what i am and i will always be what i am
and you are you, and you do not know me,
and if i bleed, it is i who bleed only or
alone
and i have no right to let you know because you are what you are
and you shall never love me.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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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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Woman is like a mango
A girl is a mango infantile,
That tastes in pickles.
A lass is about ripe mango,
That tastes in curries.
A woman is a ripe mango,
That tastes with its flesh.
At forties as juice and at fifties
As jelly, she lingers to my taste.
Even in sixties, she is like mango-essence.
In seventies, as endosperm of its nut
She still taste though differently.
Woman to men is evergreen.
29.05.2001, Berhampur
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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There Is No Substitute For What Is Present...
to view an apple in the internet
or climb an apple tree with many ripe apples
in cyberspace
they are nothing
compared to the ripe mango in my hands
to a virtual love that is described as true
love making vicarious
that is nothing compared to a kiss
that i planted on your
cheek of
peach
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Contrasts
cemented pavements
green grass
sounds of motorized cabs
songs of birds on the trees
towering skyscrapers
tall old mahogany trees
neon lights on city escapes
stars on moonlit skies
watching the mountains half covered with
morning mists
busy on TV for the serial stories
strolling on the white sandy beach
observing the behavior of seagulls
window shopping at the malls
watching 3D movies
eating deep fried chicken wings
licking very sweet strawberry ice cream
peeling the ripe mango
savoring the yellow juice feeling the pulp
watching the sunset from a high mountain
reading a best seller novel inside your room.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Sound Of Children
it is their sound that makes
this world lovable still
under the mango tree
when the wind starts to blow
when the ripe mangoes fall
to the ground and the children
starts to scramble for their
share of the ripe ones.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Busheled Together
See those apples hanging ripe,
All yet to fall...
From that one tree.
Even though they appear,
To look the same...
If one should examine closer,
Each would have a unique and distinct...
Quality.
Although on that one tree,
One may declare...
Them to have similar identities.
Upon tasting from those apples picked,
One will come to a core...
With seeds inside of it.
And delicious is a sweetness,
When the juice is licked.
But when busheled together from that one tree,
Some may have blemishes.
While others upon inspection may be blemish free.
And all of them have been witnessed,
To be the product of the same tree.
See those apples hanging ripe,
All yet to fall...
From that one tree.
Even though they appear,
To look the same...
If one should examine closer,
Each would have a unique and distinct...
Quality.
And when busheled together,
They are all apples.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Happiness In A Platter
fruits in a platter,
pineapple wearing a crown
apples, green and red in shining gloss
of their glory,
alligator pear
sleepy,
ripe mango,
your hands carrying them
your breasts
helping to put them all
in one platter
of flesh.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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At Glan-y-Wern
White-robed against the threefold white
Of shutter, glass and curtains' lace,
She flashed into the evening light
The brilliance of her gipsy face:
I saw the evening in her light.
Clear, from the soft hair to the mouth,
Her ardent face made manifest
The sultry beauty of the South:
Below, a red rose, climbing, pressed
Against the roses of her mouth.
So, in the window's threefold white,
O'ertrailed with foliage like a bower,
She seemed, against the evening light,
Amongst the flowers herself a flower,
A tiger-lily sheathed in white.
poem by Arthur Symons
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Roses On White Lace
I saw you in your wedding gown
The prettiest dress
I came into the room that night
And made such a mess
In my own way, I lovingly kiss the bride
With your ring in your hand
Your eyes and your mouth open wide
In my eyes
Blood drops look like roses on white lace
They won't wash away
In my mind they're roses on white lace
Straight from the heart
So dead upon the bed
You hurt me in the deepest way
I'm crippled inside
I took your evil skin away
It's all cut and dried
I saw you tonight and carefully took your hand
With some smears on my cheeks
I knew that you would understand
In my eyes
Blood drops look like roses on white lace
They won't wash away
In my mind they're roses on white lace
Straight from the heart
So dead upon the bed, still searching for your head
They're never gonna find your face
It's hidden away
I found a very special place where you used to play
In my own way, I lovingly kiss the bride
With your ring in your hand
Your eyes and your mouth open wide
In my eyes
Blood drops look like roses on white lace
They won't wash away
In my mind they're roses on white lace
Straight from the heart
Blood drops look like roses on white lace
Crimson and sweet, stained on the sheet
Roses on white lace, pretty in red, dripping and wet
Roses on white lace, spilled on the walls, dark in the hall
song performed by by Alice Cooper
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Switches, Pop, And Persimmon Rockets
I remember, well, that tall old persimmon
That stood in the yard, when I was a lad
The soft fruit that fell from that tall old persimmon
When picked up and eaten, what sweetness, it had
It didn’t take long to eat up all the ripe ones
And then what was left laying under the tree
Was firm, shiny fruit that resembled green apples
And it seemed it should also be tasty, to me
I picked up a big one and brushed off the dirt
Then sunk my teeth in its flesh, firm and green
My mouth puckered up like a prune in the sun
I found that persimmons aren’t tasty when green
My brothers and I and the neighbors as well
Would play in its shade most all the day long
Softball or horseshoes or cowboys and Indians
It didn’t much matter ‘cause life was a song
Since no one could eat those hard green persimmons
We wondered if use for such fruit could be found
While playing one day, through a sheer stroke of genius
A discovery was made of gargantuan bounds
Right there on the ground we made our discovery
A single use switch that my pop made me cut
And once he had finished the job it was cut for
He dropped it right there where I, then picked it up
It seemed, such a waste, to get only one use
From such a fine switch as this one I had cut
So, onto its tip I pushed one green persimmon
And reared back and flung it as hard as I could
We couldn’t believe how smoothly it flew
Up through the trees and over the fence
It bounced off the roof of the house on the next street
We all were astounded, how far that it went
A new sport was born that glorious day
Contests were held and a champion was named
We bounced more’n a dozen hard green persimmons
Off of that rooftop the very first day
One day when that neighbor should’ve been working
He found green persimmons all over his lot
He studied awhile on the puzzle before him
Then, as fate would have it, he called up my pop
It didn’t take pop long to figure it out
When he found all our ordnance piled in the ditch
Since I was the oldest, he called me in first
And told me, “young man, go cut me a switch”
I cut you a good one, I said to my pop
But, I feel I must say, as I give it to you
For a switch of this nature, it seems a disgrace
To be wantonly put to such vulgar a use
© C R Clark-6/15/2008
poem by C.R. Clark
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The Point That You Are Driving At
of all inanimate
you say you want to be a fruit
a mango
luscious, sweet, and
ripe
i know, your point is that
you are ready,
ripe for everything, an end
for itself,
and of all animate,
you say you simply want to be this
mosquito
of the female variety, one that sings
one that tells you
that life sucks
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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At First I Did Not Believe Her
unless you hear the sound
of the footsteps of the ant
pulling a grain of rice
below your feet
as you swallow the
chunk of tuna in
your mouth
unless you feel the corpuscles
of white blood bumping with
the red blood cells inside
the veins in your
heart
unless you know how to
wait for the turtle
to finish its trip from
one river to another
unless you have the time
counting the needles of rain
falling on your rooftop
unless you know how to wait
for another rainbow to appear
between the mango and
coconut tree
unless you know how to embrace
and hug sweetly another
insomniac night
you will never reach the place where
your secret dreams are buried
covered by the diamond sands
and guarded by angels with hair
made of gold. There you shall have
your final rest.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Maybe Its Dawn
(hymas / brown)
Out of the sky the rain comes driving down
Washing away the hills of darkest brown
Heading out through another country town
White lace curtains
Something certainly gets into me
Call it jealousy
And when Im so far away
Somewhere the light shines bright along the highway
Somewhere inside me
Somewhere above the night
And maybe youve gone your way
And Ill go my way
Somewhere inside me
Somewhere inside the night
Maybe its dawn
Out of my heart my love comes falling free
Healing the pain that burns you and me
Heading towards another warm country
Smiles are dancing shades entrancingly
Gets into me
Call it fantasy
And when Im so far away
Somewhere the light shines bright along the highway
Somewhere inside me
Somewhere above the night
And maybe youve gone your way
And Ive gone my way
Somewhere inside me
Somewhere inside the night
Somewhere the light shines bright along the highway
Somewhere inside me
Somewhere above the night
And maybe youve gone your way
And Ive gone my way
Somewhere inside me
Somewhere inside the night
And maybe its dawn
In the city where Ill be
Maybe its dawn
When youre near me
song performed by by Hollies
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Even the simplest wicker basket can become priceless when it is loved and cared for through the generations of a family.
quote by Sister Parish
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Of Things Not Meant For Me
i have not eaten
the mangoes that you
left in the wicker
basket
you may admire me
for that
but sorry
i have thrown those things
which were not
meant for me
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Boasting About Trees
There you stood among other trees
In a garden of legendary emeralds
Your luxuriant leaves waving to the heavens
You arresting branches kissing the sky
Honey cannot be compared to thee
You are my mango tree
My enraptured eyes are still swimming in bliss
From the first time they saw you
Untouched, unspoiled and unsurpassed
Flora of such sublime character
Honey cannot be compared to thee
You are my mango tree
My heart swims in the deluge of desire
Sweet songs of attraction, passion and fire
It is you that awakens my appetite
My dulcet cynosure
Honey cannot be compared to thee
You are my mango tree
Others may boast of oranges and apples
Grapes and pears and pomegranates too
I will be silent until I talk of you
And from my lips will dropp the words
Honey cannot be compared to thee
You are my mango tree
poem by Howard Simon
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Lucky Bride
White lace
Silver jewelry
Diamond tiarra
And a smile that melts all hearts
Her face covered in a veil
Her dress flowing like a cloud
A lovely day
A happy day
A day of love
It spreads to all
Like the crimson stain
That seeps through
That snowy white lace
Silver rusted
Tiarra smashed
Smile gone
Crimson everywhere
Spilling, flowing, wrapping
Around everything
In its path
This is the day
Such a joyous day
As Fallen Angels
Greet the lucky bride
And welcome her
To their world
Which is now hers
poem by Janelle Morehart
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An Apple-Gathering
I plucked pink blossoms from mine apple tree
And wore them all that evening in my hair:
Then in due season when I went to see
I found no apples there.
With dangling basket all along the grass
As I had come I went the selfsame track:
My neighbours mocked me while they saw me pass
So empty-handed back.
Lilian and Lilias smiled in trudging by,
Their heaped-up basket teazed me like a jeer;
Sweet-voiced they sang beneath the sunset sky,
Their mother's home was near.
Plump Gertrude passed me with her basket full,
A stronger hand than hers helped it along;
A voice talked with her thro' the shadows cool
More sweet to me than song.
Ah Willie, Willie, was my love less worth
Than apples with their green leaves piled above?
I counted rosiest apples on the earth
Of far less worth than love.
So once it was with me you stooped to talk
Laughing and listening in this very lane:
To think that by this way we used to walk
We shall not walk again!
I let my neighbours pass me, ones and twos
And groups; the latest said the night grew chill,
And hastened: but I loitered, while the dews
Fell fast I loitered still.
poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti
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In Margate
The curtains in the bedroom
are drawn close
and you lie
in semi-darkness.
Through the open window
I can smell the sea
and hear waves breaking
beyond the road.
The wind pulls at the curtains
and every now and then
the white beach
and the blue ocean peeps in.
We came to Margate
for a holiday at the sea
to bathe is shallow waters
to swim with the surf,
to have some fun
and tan in the hot sun,
but darkness hangs
like a shroud over you
while the white beach,
the bright blue sky
and the dark blue ocean waits
on us to come.
poem by Gert Strydom
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