Sweet Rumors
Deserted house
With thatched roof
Along the Dicayo River
Rumors are sweet
On a swarm of bees
Who now live there
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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223
sweet rumors
Deserted house
With thatched roof
Along the Dicayo River
Rumors are sweet
On a swarm of bees
Who now live there
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A farm house in Dicayo River
Slanting rays of the morning sun
Carabaos, goats, and pigs
Along the grassy lane
An old man with a staff
Sits by the door
Of his thatched hut
Waiting for his grandson,
Chickens, ducks, and pigeons
Scatter on the backyard
He feeds them
All he has now
Is this simple life
In a farm house in Dicayo River
Waiting for an angel
To sing his final song
He sighs soon he shall die
the river flows nearby
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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271
Slanting rays of the morning sun
Carabaos, goats, and pigs
Along the grassy lane
An old man with a staff
Sits by the door
Of his thatched hut
Waiting for his grandson,
Chickens, ducks, and pigeons
Scatter on the backyard
He feeds them
All he has now
Is this simple life
In a farm house in Dicayo River
Waiting for an angel
To sing his final song
He sighs soon he shall die
the river flows nearby
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Anxieties Of A Widow
May stretched its legs into the grave.
Thunder heralds the rains.
Hut on the bank of Kanoli canal
Is not re-thatched this year.
Her infant’s illness made the doctor gay
With all the wages she had kept.
Summer takes the last breath,
But the coconut leaf thatched roof
Is not re-thatched this year.
As the widow stands on the threshold,
The rain clouds gather over her sky
And the wind scatters terror in her corridor.
Will the tattered roof be flown away?
Will the rain drops make pores
On the roof of her life?
Where will her child crawl and smile?
Question waves are thus getting high;
Her canoe is ready to be tossed.
(Summer ends in the month of May and rainy season begins in the month of June in Kerala)
poem by Fabiyas M V
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Sail Boat On The River
at night we go boating
along the shallow part of the
Dicayo River
when the moon is full and when
the winds are gentle
i paddle our way to the place
where she lives
the river gives a silvery shimmer
on the silent banks of the river
and then i begin to hear her hum
our favorite love song.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The bee nest
In Primary school
we played in the field
above the school
in break time.
There we discovered
a hive of bees
under a overhanging
shelve of rock
and I told the other kids
to leave it alone
and went away
to play on my own.
One of the kids
(Peter Conn)
threw three broken bricks
into that bee nest
and that swarm of bees
came like lightning bolts
thundering in.
He ran like a flash
and passed me
with great speed
where I was playing
with some dinky toy cars
and when I looked up
I saw the sky
turning black with bees
and that fool escaped
the consequence of his deeds.
I hardly had time to get up,
never mind to run
when there were bees stinging
and targeting in
from everywhere.
Like a scapegoat the bees
took me for the enemy
and buzzed in
and they came
in great numbers
and that whole swarm stung me
all over my body.
I was swollen up
like a inflated doll,
couldn’t see through my eyes,
could hardly breathe
and got a terrible rash
and were almost unconscious
when we arrived at the nearest hospital
where my mother was in a great panic
and the doctor injected me
a couple of times
and put a drip in my arm
and after that for a while
bees were deadly to me.
poem by Gert Strydom
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The Leaking Roof
it is raining and here i am stuck
under the roof of a deserted house
the windows are open
nobody has come to close four windows
looking to the street like an insomniac,
the door is creaky like a sore throat
sounding like an incurable allergic sneeze
the crazy wind bangs it from time to time
and i do not mind the routine of noise
for a while a walk to and fro
like i am making a picket
observing the details of how a deserted house
can look like
or feel like: there seems to be a growling silence
abbreviating itself like a scream
cut short by my hands kept inside my pocket
i look up and see the leaking roof
making a rhythm of the dripping beat
of this poem.
i have nothing in mind, i am empty
and emptying still. I take in so much quantity
of silence, the weight of thoughts,
the silly purposeless probe
of what i am suppose to be and where i must be going
after this temporariness of loafing.
The rain stops. I am leaving.
The rhythm ceases.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Our Thatched House
Our thatched house perched where the sea meets,
Our love mends as the sea melts and scalds the heated skin.
Dew gathers clarity, then it thaws, like the sea of tranquillity,
Cliffs are our sanctuary, melting the rocks into the sea.
Waves wield as pines hurt, sea waves smother the rain,
Our thatched house is delighted in its Way,
The path of discovery and enlightenment,
Tossed boats work with anchors here, chained to the sea and land.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Chasing The Shadow
Drowned in unclogged arteries:
thoughts.
I am going to release a swarm
of bees. It was your dark hour.
A father sits outside your body to collect the stings.
A restive finger
on a blue gun invites the ghosts
to witness a burial of a fractured faith.
Thieves were waiting in wings.
A silent intimacy becomes invisible.
Sit back and comb the house
before it catches fire.
The earth spins in your eyes when you
pay the debt of a river;
when we were kneading the mountain.
poem by Satish Verma
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The Desperate Woman
She stands there, dripping saliva
She is sick and going wirry
She reampts slowly like a tortoise
Leading down to the loo
And back into the thatched house
She was, and has anew born
On the mat, striped palm leaves mat
But why is she
not in the medicine house
She has delivered yesterday
On the river of life,
she counts her life
and desperate she is of knife
So life is dying in her eyes
With a need of help
Coming from the new home
poem by Paul Mwenelupembe
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Just as bees will swarm about to protect their nest, so will I 'swarm about' to protect my nest of chocolate eggs.
Jack Handey in Deep Thoughts
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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303
be silent now, do not ever mention my name
the connotations of my name
the one i talk about me about you
and us,
the rumors are always sweet
and you like them and you cannot hold yourself
from spreading them
to everyone who knows the power of my name
its magic spell
its sweetness like a coconut dessert
with you now
my name shall have its stains and i will be in ruin
sssssssssssshhh, stop
do not talk about my name now,
the rumors may be sweet to the ears of my enemies
and false friends
they will have the dose now, of their own medicines,
thinking that i am down, depressed, or even dead
to the last detail of my own perdition,
i will rise to save myself and tell them all
that the rumors are not true,
i will show them a happy face and some dancing steps
some pictures of my big smile
no, they will not believe me
they will believe you, as expected, i have anticipated all these
today, i will die
laughing....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Sssssssssh, Please Do Not Talk About It
sssssssssssshhhh
be silent now, do not ever mention my name
the connotations of my name
the one i talk about me about you
and us,
the rumors are always sweet
and you like them and you cannot hold yourself
from spreading them
to everyone who knows the power of my name
its magic spell
its sweetness like a coconut dessert
with you now
my name shall have its stains and i will be in ruin
sssssssssssshhh, stop
do not talk about my name now,
the rumors may be sweet to the ears of my enemies
and false friends
they will have the dose now, of their own medicines,
thinking that i am down, depressed, or even dead
to the last detail of my own perdition,
i will rise to save myself and tell them all
that the rumors are not true,
i will show them a happy face and some dancing steps
some pictures of my big smile
no, they will not believe me
they will believe you, as expected, i have anticipated all these
today, i will die
laughing....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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River
Here is the river
And I am searching it
In the map that is
On the wall of my house
That is not there.
I do not know
The mountain is in between
The river and my house
That dressedup geography
And taking me from
Place to place.
I am on my own journey
While the sky is breaking
And I with the night dream
Passing passing and passing
The hard days with
Fire of the mountain
And water of the river.
Where is the river
That I am searching
To driveout troubles
Where I am
Here is the river
Wash your face eyes
Somebody is kind enough
To tell in my house.
I am not in my house
See.
And Where am I
And the sea is here
No river no mountain
Here is the river
If you find again
Inform me please
I am grateful then.
poem by Gajanan Mishra
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A House Without Stairs
do not say
that without the stairs
the house is not a house anymore
without the ceiling
the more the house becomes to me
take the roof
if you want
or the beams
or even the floor and window frames
my house will still be a house
the sky its roof
the stretching grassy plain its floor
all the stars become
my magnificent ceiling
whatever is taken
we must imagine that all things are still there
lest we only have a house
that crashes on the floor
with all of us
dead
crushed to the death of
our imaginations
a door without an exit
because you have not seen hope coming
the lock and key
are all in the mind and heart
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Waiting For The Rain
dead grass
cracking face of the earth
cinder stones
parched paths
thatched roof of the house
at the foot of
the tired body of the hills
dried creeks
rivers that run dry
wells without
drops of water left
hands in prayed
angel without wings
all these chant in prayer
waiting for
the first rain after a long drought
of summer
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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African Bee
The African Bee.
Yellow flowers in a ring protected by olive trees
no one knows their name I have to ask a botanist
for their Latin name. The dale side here has many
stone walls, tiny if seen from the moon overgrown
now those small plots of land yielding nothing but
poverty and deep seated resentment. The flowers
are not lilies, I can see that, it will soon be Easter
and the little church will be full of women, while
most men will hang about outside, near the bar,
white and yellow butterfly flies unsteadily around
in the wind and, and bumblebees drink from deep
red poppies. A swarm of killer bees fly by, I do not
speak or move till they are gone. My brother in law
Nené who live in Kinshasa, Congo, tells me that
the bees there live, exclusively, on orchid dew and
they are big as sparrows and can sting an elephant
till it dreams of yesterday, maybe it isn’t true but
I would not like to b stung by them. Now that the ice
on the poles melts will we see a fauna of rare flowers?
if so there must be bees there too and the friendly
bumblebee,
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Three Make a Crowd
If you nod
To my rose,
How easy it is for me
To plough the earth
And dot it all over
With a multitude...
If you consent
To live with me,
How happy
I shall be to build
A palace in mid-air
Above my thatched roof...
If only you wish
To listen to my sonnet,
How easy it is for me
To compose an epic
Of million couplets
And recite it for you
Under a moon-lit sky,
When me and you
Make a company
And the moon a crowd.
At School
The bees are in the meadow
And the swallows in the sky;
The cattle in the shadow
Watch the river running by.
The wheat is hardly stirring;
The heavy ox-team lags;
The dragon-fly is whirring
Through the yellow-blossomed flag.
And down beside the river,
Where the trees lean o'er the pool,
Where the shadows reach the quiver
A boy has come to school.
His teachers are the swallow
And the river and the trees;
His lessons are the shallows
And the flowers and the bees.
poem by John Boyle O'Reilly
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Rumors and Lies
Rumors and Lies
Rumors and Lies
Humor no longer there
Wondering how you can bare
Going through the day like you just dont care
Rumors and Lies
Rumors and Lies
You hide in the bathroom
So no one sees you cry
Tears streaming down your face
Wondering how you got to this place...
poem by Kaleigh Greenfield
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