Survival Kit
the grass accepts death
of all it has, leaves and roots
its color blends with
the dust and parched mud
cracking surfaces
it also knows to preserve
its species
burying resilient seeds on
the cracks
and when it rains it begins
to grow buds
roots and all and the whole
ground is green again
meanwhile on cracked grounds
where once the pond was
the whiskers of the catfish begin
to wriggle
shedding off mud around its skin
the fish begins to swim
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Swallowing The Seed
swallowing the seed
fear begins to grow
the seed sprouts inside
his belly and roots begin
to travel inside his prostate
down to his bottom
unto his feet
immobilizing him
the seed begins to have
buds and leaves
and twigs and
huge trunks
his eyes shrink on the barks
his nose all gone
there are no signs of the original man
he swallowed the seed of life
that no one dared.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Your Catfish Friend
If I were to live my life
in catfish forms
in scaffolds of skin and whiskers
at the bottom of a pond
and you were to come by
one evening
when the moon was shining
down into my dark home
and stand there at the edge
of my affection
and think, "It's beautiful
here by this pond.I wish
somebody loved me,"
I'd love you and be your catfish
friend and drive such lonely
thoughts from your mind
and suddenly you would be
at peace,
and ask yourself, "I wonder
if there are any catfish
in this pond?It seems like
a perfect place for them."
poem by Richard Brautigan
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The Hands Of The Clock
when we were young
we do not mind the clock
we are not so sure about
pendulums
we can even mistake the
long for the short hand
or if we mind time
for sometime
it is because we are late
for the dance or the
drinking spree
and then time has a way of
calling our attention
when our hairs starts to
look like seaweeds drying
under the summer
sun
now we are old like tree
shedding off most of its leaves
our twigs are infested with
fungus
and some of the tips of our roots
are rotten
then time begins to have fingernails
scratching our bellies
we begin to grow the seeds of
fear in our palms
our foreheads have furrows
like the pathways of the plow
at night we know how the long hand
runs with speed
it is 2: 30 a.m. and then we switch the
light again
and too confused how
the clocks strikes 4 a.m.
we cannot go back to sleep
as we fall on the chasms of the past
we try to drink a cold glass of
the future
and it begins to have the bitter taste
of the love
unrequited.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Little Prince
Gave him a planet
All for his own
Everything is natural
So everything he owns
With the right train of thought
He gets anything he needs
Ground to stand on and
Plenty of seeds
As the Baobab grow
You cut them at the roots
When the volcanoes start to flow
clean the chimney shoots
everything is good
At the place called home
The stars dwindle
As the sun comes and goes
But its dark out here
Because he's there all alone
Give him a flower one to behold
This is where it begins A story will be told
The Baobabs grow cut them at the roots
A flower shows up early in her youth
Let her grow until her petals show
Smile back
And say hello
She loves you
Because you adore her
If she dies she knows you'll morn her
she knows this now she can enslave you
Give you purpose
Give you something to do
You can't have it all
Call the rest greed.
poem by ryan Cravatta
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Dead Leaves
dead leaves are scattered everywhere
under the trees
surrounding this old house where we live
unswept and piling up like some layers
of our memories
some rotten some cracking some turning to dust
the snakes learn to hide there
making their home
and some worms and some rats and some seeds
begin to sprout
when it begins to rain again
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Redmption Of The Self
when i stand there
there was a dark cloud of shame
above my head
the cloud is heavy
and it poured
dismay
i am drenched with
humiliation
i fell like i am a tree with
wilted leaves
that keep on falling to
the ground
until i become nothing
but twigs
mere fingers of the hands
skeletal to the sky
i do not have those roots
that keep me strong
but then there is always that
redemption
ally to the sun
shall i be when tomorrow comes
i grow my leaves again
spread my roots
deeper than the
hands of the rivers
to the cracks of the earth
where gold resides
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Brown Grass: Doom
brown grass, no signs of rain,
ripe grains of rice spreading on the ground
the dust reigns like triumphant ant
soldiers, the sun is up, the earth is heated,
the leaves are shedding, the rocks are cracking,
drought comes and stays for months,
under a cave, a dog rests,
smelling death.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Roots Bloody Roots
Roots Bloody Roots
Roots Bloody Roots
Roots Bloody Roots
Roots Bloody Roooaaaaaahh
I believe
In Our Fate
We Don't Need To Fake
It's All We Wanna Be
Watch Me Freeeaaak !!
I Say
We're Growing Every Day
Getting Stronger In Every Way
I'll Take You To A Place
Where We Shall Find Our
Roots Bloody Roots
Roots Bloody Roots
Roots Bloody Roots
Roots Bloody Roots
Rain
Bring Me The Strength
Is Breeding Me This Way
To Get To Another Day
And All I Want To See
Set Us Free
Why
Can't You See
Can't You Feel
This Is Real
Ahhh
I Pray
We Don't Need To Change
Our Ways To Be Saved
That All We Wanna Be
Watch Us Freak
song performed by by Sepultura
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Brothers And Sisters
now that the roots are dead
and the buds cannot anymore
turn into flowers of their own
we turn back to the seeds
hidden under the ground
we look for the moist patches
and begin to sprout
we give the leaves and then
we become trees ourselves
apart from each other
now, not even knowing what
are our names
we rationalize these separations
the cycle of life
the pathways of survival
the genetic tendrils looking for the light of the sun
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Kindness
Things are destined to be lost
To be broken
The leaves fall and rot
At the foot of the tree
The roots soon shrink
And become part
Of the indifference of the
Rocks and the soil
Things move out
And up
Like vapor and then
Change their forms to air
But there are those that weep
And keep
Whatever was lost and destroyed
The leaves they take with their hands
And the roots
They stroke with the toes of their feet
Caress and
Kindness their virtues
That humanity has soon discarded
They grow the seeds in their hearts
They keep the fire of love
Burning
And the earth and the sun and stars
All smile at them
They too grow and scatter and travel
To all the places of this earth
Their forms too many
The gods know
They too must grow and get the world
Of the grass of sorrow
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I Need Your Kind Of Loving
Well my babys gone, sos summer
And it brings on a cool night breeze
And I wish we could go walking
By the river, by the shady trees
By the river with the shady trees
Well I love you in the wintertime
Baby when the snow is on the ground
Well I love you in the autumn most of all
When the leaves come tumbling down
When the leaves come tumbling down
Baby I need your kind of loving
For to last my whole life through
Baby I need your kind of loving
You know nobody else will do
You know that nobody else will do
Well I love you in the springtime
When the rippling streams begin to flow
And the weather start to get a bit warmer
And the grass begins to grow
And the green, green, grass, begins to grow
Baby I need your kind of loving
For to last my whole life through
Baby I need your kind of loving
You know that nobody else will do
You know that nobody else will do
Baby I need your kind of loving
For to last my whole life through
Baby I need your kind of loving
You know nobody else will do
You know nobody else will do
Need your kind of loving
Operator, operator
Put me through to my baby now
Operator, put me through to my baby now
To my baby now, to my baby now.
song performed by by Van Morrison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Journey Back To Ourselves
as i stare at the
rain
i remember
trees
transparent and
cold
trees without
leaves
i imagine
twigs
or roots or
trunks
they are never
there
no matter how
trees are tears
without leaves
without roots
with so much
salt in each
and then you
touch the waves
of the imaginary
sea and then
your journey back
to you begins
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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We Trace Our Roots
there are ways of tracing our roots
where we come from
why we are here
how our forefathers braved
the seas and survived the big waves
of uncertainties
the cold, dark nights of their fears
how they all believed in dreams
how they trusted the direction given by the stars
how they solidified their hearts
with faith and hope
and love
as i listen to all of you talk about the stories
of our ancestors
my mind begins to to grow and travel
like roots
deep down the earth
tracing some humus
where i must live again
perhaps ever braver than the pioneers
they are our ancestors
and i think, they still believe that since we come from them
we must all be like them,
my dear cousin, now we have become the roots ourselves
and another child shall come
in the future
and listen some more, wanting to become branches and leaves and flowers
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Blonde Hair
America has become like your kitchen,
gone for a week
without notice, and back again on another
day, without so much fuss,
you walk back
trace the steps of your past on grounds
filled with dust and dry leaves
pebbles without dew, buds that wilt,
roots that stop to spread,
this is still
My Philippines, dusts or fresh air,
storms or drought, i keep walking its paths
without you.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Multiple Choice: Australia
The huge roots of the Daintree tree are known as:
1) fortress roots
2) buttress roots
3) art deco roots
4) neo-gothic roots
5) time-to-rinse roots
poem by Morgan Michaels
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An uncreative medicine
no hope
no friend
no family
no home
no nativity
no nationality
no fame
no name
no future
no points
no market
no identity
no possessions still a tree without roots
no relationship still a tree without roots
no anarchism still a tree without roots
no hiearchy still a tree without roots
no country still a tree without roots
no colours still a tree without roots
no degrees still a tree without roots
no certificates
no imaginations
no dream
no poetry
no fiction
no story
no news
no media
no happiness still a tree without roots
no genre still a tree without roots
no labels still a tree without roots
no names still a tree without roots
THE FOURTH EYE
of
A post-conceptual poet.
Moonlight Sonata
The cold winter can not destroy the miraculous invincible seeds.
The germination fundamentally changes them in the earth's maternity.
It is a new life running time when the cold snow irreversible recedes,
And a new spring embraces the deep mysteries of the magical fertility.
When the seeds germinate, they always throw out a few anchor roots.
Those splintered cracks of deep roots trying to hide inside the soils.
The tall trees need deep roots and branches to bloom and to bear fruits,
While the whole land receives and nurtures the life it essentially contains.
When the divine spark leaps from the divine hand to the human hand,
Making the human roots so deep as they can face the stormy time,
Moreover, taking an ultimate shape in the law of the very green land,
While life becomes a moonlight sonata, life which is always sublime.
© Marieta.Maglas 2010
poem by Marieta Maglas
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Fertile Ground
Some lives fall on fertile ground
and grow and grow and grow.
Some lives fall on stony ground
and fail to grow at all.
We are like the seeds of flowers
we need a base to grow,
to spread our roots
and watch our seedlings grow.
11 April 2009
poem by David Harris
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The Fish Year
Marico brought back a tank with salt water from Brazil,
Wnetta bought small stones and water plants from pet store,
The red fish and black fish were got from
Hua’s backyard pond,
After Chris checking the filter
and water temperature,
everything is set,
and the fish is ready to grow and bred.
Gundi feeds the fish everyday,
and watches them day and night.
The red fish swim up and down,
The black fish swim down and up,
The green water plants swing their long leaves
upside down.
We can hear the talk from the tank:
One lady, two ladies, three ladies…
One man, two men, three men…
American, German, Chinese, Brazilian,
Indian, Russian…
The fish is counting! ! !
Counting the people in the lab!
Maybe they learned the counting from Gundi,
Gundi is a great mathematician,
She always counts when she watches them:
One fish, two fish, three fish…
Red fish, black fish, red-black fish…
That’s our first fish year,
we expect to have the second, the third,
and then for ever.
poem by Dongming Zhou
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My Silence Shall Be
i find this in the forest of trees
long trees, shady, such that what you can see
are only shadows of leaves
and what you hear is only the sound of the wind
choked between tight walls,
this is my silence,
moist, and soft, between a growth of wild
ferns
rotten leaves heaps and heaps of
rotten leaves
layer after layer of rotten leaves
thick and pushed still to the roots
smashed to the ground
some seeds from the oaks
or maybe from the flowers of the orchids
or some sweet fruits and red berries fall
in there
and they begin to grow
rich as humus is this soil down
the darkness of this forest,
this is my silence
deep inside me
moist, rotten, but soon
lots shall grow
seeds turning into sprouts
to trees again
perhaps taller than ever
some fruits so sweet and colored and shiny
some flowers scented and so lovely,
this my silence
shall be, i am keeping it for years
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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