The City And The Town
this is what the city has to offer
neon lights, ambulance screams,
loud music, beer and ale,
a small room, a busy life,
a little sleep,
exquisite dinners,
late shows, gags, gigs.
but i have enough of all these,
i went to the little town
and have this wooden house,
beside a river, there are flowers
blooming and vegetable gardens,
and tranquil horizons,
a beautiful sunset
a brighter sunrise,
crustal clear rivers,
home fishing, and mountain treks,
and fresh smell of green grass,
and cool shades of trees,
mountain shadows,
full moons and singing birds
love calls, and fresh fruits
direct from the trees,
wild chickens, and
horses to ride and carabaos
to pasture, goats to feed
and turkey chases,
a very peaceful sleep at night
under the moon
lamp-lit room and some cicadas
in concert with the frogs
and crickets and worms
and then the rain
starts to fall
you hear the sweet hum
of the nearby river
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Call of the Bush
Three roads there are that climb and wind
Amongst the hills, and leave behind
The patterned orchards, sloping down
To meet a little country town.
And of these roads I'll take the one
That tops the ridges, where the sun
Is tempered by the mountain-breeze
And dancing shadows of the trees.
The road is rough - but to my feet
Softer than is the city street;
And then the trees! - how beautiful
She-oak and gum - how fresh and cool!
No walls there are to hamper me;
Only in blue infinity
The distant mountain-ramparts rise
Beneath the broad arch of the skies.
And in that high place I shall hear
The wild birds' singing, soft and clear;
And horse-bells tinkling as of old
In amongst the wattles' gold
Far-off is the ocean tide;
But there across the country-side
Roll waves of bush that rise and fall
To break against the mountain-wall.
And every little farm is seen
An island in a sea of green;
And every little farm at night
Flings through the dark its beacon-light -
There in the silence of the hills,
I shall find peace that soothes and stills
The throbbing of the weary brain, -
For I am going home again.
poem by Dora Wilcox
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Right Across The River Bend
Right across the river bend there’s a warm gentle breeze.
Right across the river-bend are trees with yellow leaves.
Right across the river bend the water reflects the sun.
Right across the river bend is a smell of innocence.
Right across the river bend a robin’s egg is broken.
Right across the river-bend are peaceful mountain valleys.
Right across the river bend a dandelion is carried.
Right across the river bend are fields of shiny green grass.
Right across the riverbend are memories made to last.
poem by Alicia Page
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Flowers - Giving It All Away B-side
Renegades and shifting shades
And the lights in your face
And you friends talk lying
But some of them got flowers in their room
When its on and youre falling on every floor
That youre hoping to score
And youre every night ? ? ?
But some of them got flowers in their room
But some of them got flowers in their room
But some of them got flowers in their room
Hear the word that the man on the stairs
Knows your every affair and is holding your hand
And he says some of them got flowers in their room
And he screams in a face
But the smile on the face is cool and its cold
And it reads vacated
And some of them got flowers in their room
And some of them got flowers in their room
And some of them got flowers in their room
And I take someone home and I cant be alone
And theres faces to please and I walk on the knees
Oh you see, I got no flowers in my room
And I laugh with my mouth and I laugh with you
But the joke was a joke that I never really knew
Some of them got flowers in their room
Some of them got flowers in their room
Some of them got flowers in their room
song performed by by Ocean Colour Scene
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Misty River
This morning
Me in this Misty River
All the happiness
I am feeling inside myself
Misty River
The mist is coming
From this Misty River
There are clouds
In the sky
And the mist
Is caused by the condensation
Of the heat mixed in the cold water
Misty River
I am in a fishing boat
That boat is moving slowly in this
Misty river
It is early in the morning
I am eating my breakfast in the fishing boat in the middle of this
Misty River
I hear the birds singing early in the morning
In this Misty River
There must be trees because the sound of the birds is coming from the Branches
Misty River
So peaceful
It looks so different with the mist
No one is around but me
With my fishing boat
And the beautiful sound of the birds
It is so nice
To have a place to come to
Where I can
Hear the sound of the birds
And be left alone
With no one disturbing me
Misty River
This is my special place
And by afternoon
No clouds I will see
The birds are beautiful
Their song is just beautiful like mother nature intended it to be
If nobody else appreciates this Misty River
I do
Misty River
I will die for you
Misty River
I will shed my tears for you
I have been coming here for so long now
Misty River
poem by Aldo Kraas
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The Deserted Fields
seldom do you find this place
tall grasses on the fields
white herons feeding
upon the green frogs gallivanting
on the muddy pools
bluer skies fresh air
trees nested by sparrows
trails of men
there are no houses here
flowers on the pavement bloom
nobody comes here anymore
most of them have left for good for the city
where work is available
where money can be harvested
like fruits from concrete trees
from cemented fields
under the flicker of neon lights
from unfriendly people
i am here, at home, with all my silence.
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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When We Meet Again Sometime This Summer
i tell you, i do not like winters, and i do not wish
to go where winter lies. I am intolerant of anything
that freezes me, that thaws, that gives me frost,
that bites like an ant, that solidifies me like
refrigerator ice.
i like summers. Flowers blooming. Green grass
spreading. Butterflies in different colors in the garden.
Bees just enough for the buzz. I love trees. I love
rivers, and springs and creeks.
Bamboo trees beside the rocks beside the pebbles
beside the river. I like the songs of the rivers. Lots of rivers.
Gentle rains. Hush winds. Cool shades. Shadows of mountains.
When we meet again, i like it to be this summer.
Lots of sun. Warmth., Sweat. Perspirations. Palpitations
of the hearts of the young on summer time.
Under the cool shades of the trees on summer nights.
I always remember summer nights.Strong summer winds.
Flown hair. Drying pants and underwears. My legs exposed
Beside the brook. I like being naked. I like being on top of
everything.
With you, on you, by you, within you, in your mouth all over your face.
Oh summer breeze. See you. Feel you. Love you.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Mountain Tops
sunrise in the moutain tops
green grass all over the place
and the trees are not just green
but they glitter under the rays
wind blows and coldness in the skin
there is joy
there is pain
in the eyes, but
it is thy happiness still that shows
for a moment
forgetting the world
which is more real
that is not a question
no rain or snow
weather may change
but not withered leaf
can stop flowers from blooming
sunrise in the mountain tops
green grass all over the place
poem by Princess Kathleene Gabunales
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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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On A Wooden Sailboat
now we shall try riding on a wooden sailboat
to cross this river
it will just be the two of us
with me paddling
and you simply sitting there
the river is still
as my paddle creates the ripples
the sky is reddish
this afternoon and soon it will be dark
you will light our way
as i paddle towards the other end
where they are all waiting
we do not talk much now
we love this silence that wraps us
this silence in another place
this newness
that blooms again
i look at you with anticipation
tonight the room shall only be lighted
with an oil lamp
we shall hear the crickets
and the frogs near the pond
and some birds with strange sounds
some love calls
the mating season has just begun
we have no time to watch
what the other creatures of this far place are doing
we have ourselves now
i will blow the lamp's flickers out
goodnight
we are starting all over again
dreaming
as you take me in your arms
i will remember some quivers
of long time ago
as though i do not know what to do
this is magical
love still exists so well in this darkness faraway from everyone
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A September Night In The Countryside
Out there in the quiet countryside in the still of the night
The unmistakeable cry of a hunting fox in the moonlight
And perhaps at the threat of a predator to their ground nest nearby
The wary spur wing plovers are calling as they fly
Like the fox the predatory night birds have young to feed this time of year
And the loud screech of a barn owl not a pleasant sound to hear
And to the boobook calls of mopoke on the nearby trees
The brooding small bird in her nest does listen with a sense of unease
On the quiet rural roadway few cars pass up and down
On a September night in the countryside miles from the nearest town
And the calls of the male ringtail possum one never could mistake
He will be back in his leafy nest before sunrise at daybreak
The predatory birds and animals who hide from the lamp of day
In the still of a September night are out hunting for prey.
poem by Francis Duggan
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The Simple life I live
An afternoon walk
Seeing the white birds again
On these green ricefields
And the carabaos wallowing
Refreshing their skins in mud holes
It is the beginning of the
Planting season again
The weeds are uprooted
The plows run again
To make this land arable
The rain comes and too
The sun and the wind
The hills are greener
The trees are blooming
And so are the flowers
Along the footpaths
My dog walks with me
And his friend dog too walks with us
The wind so cool touches my face
The man nearby pastures his carabao
The woman washes some clothes in the river
The waters are still clear reflecting bluer skies
There are no sounds of buses in here
Far from the city in this little village
Where people are still innocent about greed
And grief and self-made confusions
The complications, the sophistications
I can live on a cup of rice, this mudfish,
This glass of water from the rock’s spring
This big banana leaf on my head
And the moon above everything else
And some stars lighting this lovely darkness
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Wild Mountain Thyme
1. oh, the summer time is coming,
And the trees are sweetly blooming,
And the wild mountain thyme
Grows around the blooming heather.
Chorus:
Will you go, lassie, go?
And well all go together
To pull wild mountain thyme
All around the blooming heather,
Will you go lassie, go?
2. I will build my love a bower
By yon clear and crystal fountain,
And on it I will pile
All the flowers of the mountain.
3. if my true love, she wont have me,
I will surely find another
To pull wild mountain thyme
All around the blooming heather.
4. oh, the summer time is coming
And the trees are sweetly blooming
And the wild mountain thyme
Grows around the blooming heather
song performed by by James Taylor
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My Deep
You're more lovely than all the shades
of greens and purples of any precious garden.
You're my most dreamless sleep,
my green, my cool and dark and deep.
Your smile's worth more than all the jewels
within the earth, begging at your feet.
Hot and humid, overtired. I beg for sleep!
My fresh, my green, my dark and deep.
My purple! Oh, for a dreamless sleep!
My green, my cool, my dark and deep.
You are sweeter than summer night's jasmine
and brighter than the sun's morning laughter.
My Prince, my man, my green lovely, my sleep!
my best, my fresh, my cool, my dark and deep.
poem by Guy Peppin
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Following No Rules
...is like going towards a house
on a mountaintop
the trees there have
ripe fruits for the picking
lots of jack
fruits spreading a map
of smell
and you focus your gaze
and you do not know
which way
you follow a scent
a view
and you bow down
to a thick grass
finding your way in there
you are not lost
you are tired
the house is still there
the fruits are about to fall
no one has gone there yet
in your wild
imagination
a native tells you frankly
sir, it is only the top of the mountain
nothing more
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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He Does Not Sleep That Well At Night
He does not sleep that well at night though his troubles are small
The possums walking on his roof the rats squeak in the wall,
The boobook owl is crying mopoke on the trees across the way
He used to sleep without once waking till after break of day.
He does not sleep that well at night his wife beside him snore
He lay beside her wide awake for three hours sometimes more
The moon shines through the window pane he hear the plover cry
And the hunting fox is barking in the old paddock nearby.
He does not sleep that well at night he lay in bed awake
And the voices of the nocturnal creatures he cannot mistake
The frogs are singing in the ponds to tell that rain is near
And occasionally the barking of the neighbourhood dogs he hear.
He goes to bed at ten o clock but he doesn't get to sleep till around two
Although he must get up to go to work at seven still his worries seem so few
Compared to some who do sleep well with him it used not to be this way
He often slept for ten hours straight till after break of day.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Your Dance My Love
you are so beautiful when you start to dance
when all the leaves fall off from your arms
naked, i have seen everything that your earth has to offer:
your hills and trees and forest, your creeks and rivers,
your clouds and seas, your grass and flowers
i have seen them all and touched them
your hills i have climbed
your trees with sweet fruits
i have gathered them all
and bit and sucked and savored each sap and juice
its flesh and fiber
i have slept on your grass
i have smelled your flowers
i have gazed on your clouds and have taken the dive
on your seas
i have sailed on your rivers
i have bathed on your creeks
i have done everything for you to please you my love
yet why are your eyes so sad tonight?
you are like a moon fading in the dark
you are like the song of a bird dissolving in distance.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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My Old Hometown
Long before it became a city-like,
The chirps of the crickets at night,
And the crows of the roosters at dawn,
Sunrise, mid-sun, sunset,
Is how we told time
In this place now I call it
My old hometown
So before sunrise melts the morning mists,
‘Till it sets across the mountains,
We farmed as hard as we could,
But no matter how poor life is,
This place was my paradise.
Like the crowns of acacia and tamarind trees
And the arcs of bamboo poles
That looks like a tunnel to the south
Made this place enchanting to my memories,
Down by the valley onward to the northwest,
Along the cradle of its crystal lake,
With choir of birds and scents of ilang-ilang,
There! It remained the life of my childhood.
Banog Norte is a small barrio of Bani in the province of Pangasinan, Philippines. Now, I also call it ‘the corner-end part of the world’ simply because it lies onto the very western tip of Central Luzon.
Amid the rice field, where our small house made of cogon roof, bamboo walls, and bamboo floors, I was born [here] not knowing how mother looked like. Thereby, the chirps of the crickets at night were my lullabies.
During my childhood, there was nothing more I enjoyed than getting soaked in the carabaos’ puddle or ride on their back elsewhere. Swimming was beyond my playful interest; thus, the choir of birds, who sang to the river, and the scents of rice straws in me have all captured in my solitude.
poem by Efren Petalver Carranza
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Minnesota Woodlands
The Minnesota Woodlands are sounding out]
Tranquil creeks and questions have perfect features
Then when you are listening very intensely
You can hear sounds of woodland creatures.
The crispness of leaves crunch beneath feet.
The fresh air has the birds winging.
This keeps one alert and with interest
Hearing the woodlands alive with their singing.
The smell of fresh pine is in the air
And a blue cloudless sky peaks above.
When walking to the banks of a flowing creek
With Minnesota Woodlands, it's a case of love.
Fishing is a great relaxing sport
All you need is a rod and reel.
In the case of clear creek fishing
You can bring home enough fish for a hearty meal.
I love Minnesota Woodland's freshness
Away from the City's busy flare.
It means I have found a special calming peace
Because I have adventured there.
poem by Gladys I. Swanson
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My Blue Ridge Mountain Boy
From a shack by a mountain stream
To a room in new orleans
So far from my blue ridge mountain home
The men I meet aint warm and friendly
Like the one in old virginie
Oh they aint real like my blue ridge mountain boy
I was just a little past eighteen
When I came to new orleans
Id never been beyond my home state line
There was a boy who loved me dearly
But I broke his heart severely
When I left my blue ridge mountain boy
Life was dull in my hometown
Lights were out when the sun went down
And I thought that city life was more my style
But nights get lonely away from home
And its easy to go wrong
The men aint kind like my blue ridge mountain boy
New orleans held things in store
Things Id never bargained for
And every night a different man knocks on my door
But late at night when all is still
I can hear a whippoorwill
As I cry for my blue ridge mountain boy
Oh but I can never go back home
Since the boy I love is gone
He grew tired of waiting for me to return
They say he married last october
But I never will get over
Oh the sweet love of my blue ridge mountain boy
Blue ridge mountain boy
song performed by by Dolly Parton
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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