En.Citatepedia^®.ro

The Agrarian Tenant

eddie is the guy
he used to be a lover of women in the town
when his father Toldo died
he inherits

tenancy, and so he married early
got six kids, wife ligated, and lived a
simple life beside a
ricefield, on the empty

fields he can see the black crows
and the sparrows
and the scarecrows, for year and years
he

tilled the land left by my forefathers
as we finish our courses
this time i come back to see him
how

old has he become, emaciated, deep brown skin
dry long hair, cracking lips,
gnarled fingers,

i though he too would not recognize me
we had a talk about the farm and the rice
produce, the cost of fertilizers and pesticides
and the chinese cartel
and the massive importation from vietnam
killing all of their dreams

i have not done my duty, but here he is
surviving on few grains left
on salted fish

all his children gone
domesticated in other homes of the rich
few in Hongkong
one in Dubai the other one opens her parlor
in Vigan

at the end, there is only the two of them
his ligated wife and himself
unbending.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Non Swimming Man Of The Sea

He had his own fishing boat for many years though he never ventured far out to sea
And from fishing he made a good living enough to upkeep his family
He was born and he still lives near the ocean and the ocean holds no fears for him
But to many it may seem a bit strange that he's never learned how to swim.

Though he left school young for to fish with his father he's a bright man and nobody's fool
And his son and daughter live in the big city their children in Primary school
Two years ago his wife she died suddenly they had been married for thirty five years
And though for her his grieving is over thoughts of her still move him to tears.

A year younger than him she felt quite well till a massive heart attack struck her down
And one day he too will go to join her in the grave yard in the sea side Town
He had a wish to be cremated and his ashes spread on the sea shore
But to his wife he must remain true and with her he will lay forever more.

He sold his fishing boat when his wife died his great zest for life with her died
He now lives on the old age pension and from his cottage he can hear the tide
Rage against the rocks on the fore shore the huge waves they rumble and roll
The immortal voice of the ocean is ever soothing to his soul.

Last February he turned seventy and the years have left him gray and slow
Still he finds comfort in his good memories of his better days decades ago
Of his beautiful wife and their children but life part of mortality
And the Reaper is now quietly waiting for the non swimming man of the sea.

poem by Francis Duggan
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A Lonely Bird On The Electric Wire

this afternoon i take a walk leading to the farm
it is harvest time
and i see the harvesters cutting the rice stalks filled with golden grains
they would group what they gather at a certain place
mounds and mounds of rice grains this time of a bumper year

on the other side are carabaos grazing
lots of grass to graze adding the recently cut rice stalks

i look at the clouds white and blue and shades of both
my attention is however caught by a single bird perched on the electrical wire connecting two poles about 30 meters apart

it is alone there
and i move closely to see whether it is really a bird

indeed it is one of the sparrows in the ricefield
but so unlike the rest it
it is sitting there alone.

our eyes met.

and i tell my wife about this lonely bird.

she says i am just making a metaphor

i sit alone in my garden now after dining

and i wonder if the bird flew back to its nest or to some territory of its own
where their species also live
and i wonder if the bird must be also telling the other birds that it saw
a man walking alone on that path leading to the farm
and unlike other men he prefers to walk alone
and i also think that perhaps the bird would also take issue about the fact that indeed

our eyes met

and i know the other birds would say
that it is nothing but also a sort of metaphor and to the least that

it is nothing but a kind of fable.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Poverty And Wealth

The stork flew over a town one day,
And back of each wing an infant lay;
One to a rich man’s home he brought,
And one he left at a labourer’s cot.
The rich man said, ‘My son shall be
A lordly ruler o’er land and sea.’
The labourer sighed, ‘’Tis the good God’s will
That I have another mouth to fill.’
The rich man’s son grew strong and fair,
And proud with the pride of a millionaire.
His motto in life was, ‘Live while you may, ’
And he crowded years in a single day.
He bought position and name and place,
And he bought him a wife with a handsome face.
He journeyed over the whole wide world,
But discontent his heart lay curled
Like a serpent hidden in leaves and moss,
And life seemed hollow and gold was dross.
He scoffed at woman, and doubted God,
And died like a beast and went back to the sod.
The son of the labourer tilled the soil,
And thanked God daily for health and toil.
He wedded for love in his youthful prime,
And two lives chorded in tune and time.
His wants were simple, and simple his creed,
To trust God fully: it served his need,
And lightened his labour, and helped him to die
With a smile on his lips and a hope in his eye.
When all is over and all is done,
Now which of these men was the richer one?

poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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My friend you talk about my people and me

My friend you talk
about my people and me
being equal
to Hitler and the Germans
of the Second World War,

but do not know
that I and most of us Afrikaners
treated black people
like human beings,

never lifted a hand
against one,
that I knew from being
a toddler that they were
Christians as well

when my mother
gave the money that was left
from my father’s funeral fund
for a church to be constructed
in their own community.

How I saw the effect
of the Church Street bomb
killing innocent civilians
on the street
men, women and children
from any race.

How I was forced
to go to the army
and to war
and patriotic did my duty there

to stop communists killing,
raping and robbing the future
like they did in East Germany,
Hungary in sixty-eight
and with the Portuguese
still living in Mozambique
and in Angola
when that countries
got their independence.

How in Soweto with the army
I had to stop black people
killing black people,
burning their fellow man alive
while their women were
cheering them on

and I saw man more being animals
than human beings
without having any mercy
for each other
having lost all conscience
for their cruel deeds.

You do not know
that I will not quarter
for a country
full of pirates

and not the Orlando
soccer playing type
but people who rob,
kill, maim and rape

that there’s no other escape
for Afrikaner people like me
and nowhere else to go

that I love this land
maybe more than
my forefathers did
who sacrificed
their lives for it

that my great grandfather Japie Strydom
lost his farm in the Cape colony
when as a Cape rebel
he joined the war
against the British,

was almost executed
when the war ended
was imprisoned on St. Helena,

that his wife
died in a British concentration camp
where she was fed finely grinded glass
in the flour given to her

that I want to get rid
of oppression against me
and my fellow Afrikaners
and want to have a life
like any one else.

poem by Gert Strydom
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Louis

He speaks with a very strong accent though his English seems quite good to me
The man from the fishing Village in Malta by the Mediterranean sea
He likes to go rod and line fishing and cast his line from rocks on the shore
In the low tide in the early evening he fishes for two hours or more.

Louis is a likeable old fellow he looks quite well for eighty two
Though his life has never been easy and his sorrows he has been through
He does his best for to keep active he tends his garden every day
And nothing in life to him has come easy his gray hair he has earned one might say.

His wife Rina died in her mid sixties going back some fifteen years ago
She was suffering from stomach cancer her end it was painful and slow
For four decades they were together and he loved her his devoted wife
The final parting for him was heartbreaking though he still got on with his life.

Their only child Paul died in Vietnam in the sixties their cross of grief heavy to bear
A handsome young man in his early twenties with brown eyes and wavy brown hair
His comrades tell of how he died bravely but that of little comfort to them
Their son's loss to them was heartbreaking and for many years they grieved for him.

Louis lives in his seaside cottage with Blue his dog a Kelpie x Heeler cross
And though the death of his son and then his wife to him was a heartbreaking loss
He still gets on with life and with living and he goes fishing every second day
And it can be truly said of him that he has earned his hair of gray.

poem by Francis Duggan
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Simple As That

You go to work, work hard all day
At the end of the week, you collect your pay
Thats just where its at
Its as simple as that
You pay your bills the best that you can
But the rising cost sure hurts a family man
While the rich man gets fat
Its as simple as that
And the money goes so fast it aint funny
Your minds made up to get that house on the hill
But you just dont know if you ever will
Because you cant get the cash
Its as simple as that
Cause the man from the bank, he wont give you a loan
Without putting a morgage on all that you own
A tit for a tat
Its a simple as that
And the money goes so fast it aint funny
Before you know it the kids are all grown
And married off with kids of their own
And its all in the past
Its as simple as that
Youve reached the autumn of your life
And all thats left is you and your wife
And a dog and a cat
Its as simple as that
And the money goes so fast it aint funny

song performed by by Huey Lewis And The News
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The prisoner of his conscience (Story Poem)

He was very poor and he married a rich woman
So he got money but he became a very sad man
She couldn't have children, even it wasn't his game plan

One day he saw a widow walking down the street ''It's later'
He told her calmly and begun to discuss about life with her
He didn't know why he suddenly felt to touch her so tender

He understood her when she confessed her cried coeur
Saying that she had three grown children and she was very poor
And she had to work as housemaid at a loudmouthed boor

She was in pain and he felt that and to help her was his concern
He wanted to take care of her family asking nothing in return
He thought never to dishonor her acting as a father to her children

He begun to understand how unhappy was the woman he loved
When he left her for another one and she became so grieved
He asked her to talk about his feelings for her and she approved

He wanted to divorce to marry her and take care of her needs
Certainly he wanted to become an adoptive father of her kids
To make her the mother of his future children he made a bid

His wife didn't agree to divorce but he left her on her demand
He took the widow and went to find their soul in a far away land
His wife got crazy and she killed herself they found her on the sand

He went to her funeral to see her last time without annoyance
He begun to scream releasing something deeper and fierce
Without his wish releasing the prisoner of his conscience.

poem by Marieta Maglas
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In The Fields By The Sullane

In the fields by the Sullane that flows through Macroom
The wildflowers of Nature are now in full bloom
And the ageing migrant remembers today
The place where he lived in as a boy near a town far away.

His soul mate and the best friend he ever did know
His Aussie wife passed on a few years ago
Their grandchildren teenagers and time ticking on
And his best Seasons to the forever long gone.

To the young mind the far off hills always look green
And he left friends and family when he turned nineteen
The wanderlust in him for the big World out there
From the fields by the Sullane he would live elsewhere

Forty eight years out of Macroom in time quite a span
In this Southern Country a gray haired ageing man
The years telling on him the years never lie
Far from the Sullane he is destined to die.

To this Southern Land his best years he did give
And on his retirement pension he now has to live
The passing of time has left him walking slow
The one from the fields where Sullane waters flow.

poem by Francis Duggan
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Patience, Patience

the child with a black coat
on this cold day
sits there beside a brick
church of spanish
architecture

the yard is quiet except
for the sound of the flapping
of doves feedind on some
rice grains

the boy has a black hair
and his feet are stained with
mud his fingers dirty with
some sticky sauce

he spreads the rice grains
from his palm to the
muddy grounds

the doves hover and land
on the spot where the grains
are freely spread

he sits with them
surrounded

the doves are watching him
and he watches carefully each
dove that eyes on his grains

he likes to snatch just one
to bring home to mother

the doves are too careful
it is just the rice grains nothing more

eye to eye
both wait for what shall happen next

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Back To Childhood

i pay a visit to Apolonio today
now on his 60th year as tenant of my grandfather's farm

on my 50th year i begin to see the strangeness of the place
where i spent my childhood

the field of plain grass opens a view of a chase
of memories

coconut trees tower to the heights of my dreams
and the winding paths been converted as a wide street leading to the city
of progress and change

Apolonio's teeth are black and broken like a knife with jagged edge
his body emaciated his speech choppy

beside his wife who is already too forgetful about faces
he heaves a sigh and then tries to remember my mischief

hiding his hat and pushing him into the river
as he pastures the carabao that i let loose on the green fields

father was always angry
and mother was too defensive

the wind begins to blow and the clouds turn darker
yellow leaves fall from a very high makopa tree

and then it starts to rain
the rice ponds make the dripping sound of water

we take shelter in the old house where he now lives
his children have long been gone starting their own lives
in some other landlord's lands

he has regrets since not anyone has finished school
he tells that like a mirror to his past

the rain stops and then i bid goodbye
it is late and have no words to say anymore.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Wedding Band

Joey Wedding Band

JoAnn was the birth name of my wife
To me Joey was her name for a lot of our married life
One of the best things anyone could ask for in life
Is to have a good and loving wife

When it comes time for me to pass no matter day or night
I hope and pray that my wife will be my guiding light
I did not complement my wife as much as I could of
But with all my heart I gave her my love

My wife is in heaven watching over our family
Hoping we could be the best we could be
I am now living by myself and on my own
I have my dogs and my family but I feel alone

I never thought I knew how bad pain could ever be
Until my wife died and left me
At times my wife lets me know she is near
She turns off the picture frame to let me know she is here

On a chain around my neck I wear my wife’s wedding band
I also still wear mine on the finger of my left hand
To anyone who reads this poem do not let the time with your family go
Everything is gone before you know

poem by Michael Gelb
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Whose Wife

‘HARRY! what, that yourself, back to old Vic., man,
Down from the Never Land? Now, what’s your game?
Ugly as ever. Not dropped the old trick, man?
Say, what’ll you take with me? Give it a name.

‘Here long? Well, rather, lad; five years and over,
Settled for good, and supporting a wife.
Slipped from the saddle, and living in clover,
Swore off a heap, and I’ve slung the old life.

‘What’s come of Taffy, and Brum, and the rest of them?
Long since you broke with the Poverty push?’
‘Bill, you’re on top, you’ve the best of the best of them.
Poor Brum’s a dummy, Taff died in the bush;

‘Bob’s cook for Chows on an absentee’s station,
Sam’s tout for spielers, Pete’s lumbered for life;
I’m on a tramp through the whole of creation,
Tracking a woman, my runaway wife.

Left me six years ago—sloped! I was shearing
Up on the Thomson. She left not a word;
Last year was seen by a Barcoo man, steering
Round about here, and that’s all that I’ve heard.

Heard of her, know her, Bill?—tallish and clever,
Blue eyes, dark hair, and she’s branded here, so;
Not one to liquor, or go on the never,
But skittish and queer in her tantrums, you know.

This is her picture, Bill; just have a look at her.
Like any female you chance to have seen?
Hallo! here, hold up! Say, man, what’s the matter?
Your Wife! By the Lord, Morton, what do you mean?’

poem by Edward George Dyson
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Hiram Helsel

Air -- "Three Grains of Corn"

Once was a boy, age fifteen years,
Hiram Helsel was his name,
And he was sick two years or so;
He has left this world of pain;
His friends they miss this lovely boy,
That was patient, kind and brave.
He left them all for him to mourn --
He is sleeping in his grave.

He was a small boy of his age,
When he was five years or so
Was shocked by lightning while to play
And it caused him not to grow,
He was called little Hi. Helsel
By all friends that knew him well --
His life was sad, as you shall hear,
And the truth to you I'll tell.

His parents parted when he was small,
And both are married again.
How sad it was for them to meet
And view his last remains.
He was living with his father then,
As many a friend can tell;
'Tis said his father's second wife
That she did not use him well.

Just before little Hiram died --
His uncle and aunt were there --
He kissed them both -- bid them farewell,
They left him with a prayer.
Now he is gone, Oh! let him rest;
His soul has found a haven,
For grief and woe ne'er enters there,
In that place called heaven.

poem by Julia A Moore
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Poverty

he is arrested today on a charge of grave threats
against his very own aunt who owns a store selling rice and salted fish
and sugar and coffee and eggs and mongo beans

he has nothing to eat and hurt his back and cannot really walk straight
like an ordinary man
yesterday he asksed a little help from his aunt for he was so hungry and had not eaten his breakfast as last night it rained so hard and his lamp went out andcould not catch the american frogs on the pond that taste like chickens for his supper with his mother and two other siblings who are very hungry too and there are no more bananas and potatoes in their farm which did not yield a good harvest of rice as the cost of fertilizer has gone more than twice their price last month and they have nothing to spray to kill the army worms

and the clerk asks if they have no chickens and there is none as all died
because of bird flu that came too early this year

and he was too angry because his aunt would not give them a little rice
or at least let them borrow for the meantime that they have no work
because the municipality is laying off all the casual employees that dig
the ditch along the muddy road

and so he threatened his aunt as he was so hungry and he took the chupa of
rice and a cup of mongo beans and a piece of salted fish for home

and so he is arrested today not just for grave threats but also for theft

he is the thief
that hunger and anger have successfully molded before our very eyes
that know no pity no compassion, and we shall now ask:

what is the verdict your honor? is he guilty as charged?

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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It takes three to make a family

(The Mistress or mother)
My son was a gift,
But his father didn't think so,
He left me alone,
With his son I mind you,
I was just a girl,
And he a man,
He did not care,
He left me bowed eyes and broken,
A Lord was he and I Mistress was I,
We were in two different worlds,
Seperated by our familes,
But our son not like us,
A son forced to see his parents like this,
I can still do te best for him,
His father is a monster not a man,
I am scared for my son,
What of his life?
No, I must do my best for him,
If I don't I'll let both of us down,
Years have past and now my son is a man,
I'm dying slowly,
I don't want my son to worry,
I know that I'm on my deathbed,
And I'm as king forJesus.
(Lord or father)
I did not leave her,
She left me,
I couldn't find her,
I wanted my son,
She didn't give him,
Now she's gone and my son with me,
My son's mother was my late wife,
I wanted them both,
But she sought me to be a demon,
Lies upon lies,
I was persuaded from my mother,
My wife listened to our converesation,
Many years later my son is married,
Now I'm going to meet my wife,
Together in heaven,
We have all eternity,
Jesus please keep our son.
(Son)
I am a man who loves,
Mom and dad didn't know,
I am the birth of their future,
They died without knowing me,
I am their son,
But all their time was fighting,
Mentally and emotional,
I spent my childhood afraid of them,
On a nevering chase against time,
My family will teach and give me love,
Years, many, many, years later,
I am a great grandfather,
Now and finally I am on my deathbed,
And I'm happy,
A tear has fallen out my eye,
I am now ready to reunite with,
Both my mother and father,
Jesus thank you for bringing,
The family together at last.

poem by Qeeony Luv
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The Mountain Of Poverty

this is what i can tell you:
the children are running in the hills
looking for their favorite butterflies to play
chasing dreams, i suppose, who knows
what they really know and
feel, i was once a child myself, perhaps i have the right to guess
what simple wants they have,

freedom, but i can tell you about something else,
their breakfast today is only brown sugar and rice,
and they have not taken their baths in the river because
the water is dirty, and there is no water system in the hills,
primitive, and still undeveloped, the grasses are not cut
tall and wild, and the coconut trees are not bearing much fruits,
there is drought, and the tenants do not have a good harvest
of their upland rice and there are rats infesting the rice fields,

it rains so hard, the road is slippery and we all have to walk slowly
to keep themselves warm, the men drink wine and smoke
the women do not weave mats anymore, they're sold cheap
and they are so disappointed with what they are getting

sugar is a precious commodity here, no coffee,
salt is expensive, salted fish is a luxury,
bread is like gold here and children do not know what is bread all about
cookies do not exist here

stone age, this is stone age in the midst of an expanding world
the children here are left out
i stare at them as they throw stones at play,
dirt and foul smell, but on the other hand i look at the pictures
that i took on that day

less the smell, less the dirt on their faces,
they are so beautiful, and the mountains are still hopeful.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Reunion

I dreamed that I reached home after a long voyage
And I searched for my kids.
Then my wife said; ' They have gone on a holiday.'
I grumbled her to bring my children back.
But I realized they are alredy belong to their lovers
Yes, they were married and living far away.
The same moon we see on different poles in this awful night.
Wife and myself we are at the edge of the world.
Our hearts cry for the reunion and we are scared
As the days are running and we left behind.

poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Rat 6

do you remember
rice fields? try imagining
the green rice fields,
put some hills
more hills, and put a gap
between two hills,
and put the sun
shining brightly
and then put some black
buffaloes grazing at the
foot of the hills,
and then on the left side
try putting a nipa hut
a window and a little girl
looking out for sparrows
and on the right side
put the running river and
a jumping fish

do you still think that this
could be your home?

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Better Part Of Life

We're all together once again
For the first time in i don't know when
We were so close once upon a time
There were five of us kids at home
Two girls, three boys and dad and mom
But that was in the better part
Of life we left behind
Remember that old swimming hole
Where we would swim so long ago
And all them possum grapes and muskedines
And do you recall the time
We all got drunk on homemade wine
That was in the better part
Of life we left behind
Life was simple for us then
If only it could be again
How i wish we could go back in time
But time moves on and nothin' lasts
Except the memories from the past
Memories from the better part
Of life we left behind
Remember how we talked as kids
Of what we'd be when we got big
And all the dreams that we held in our minds
I wanted to be a singin' star
And you all said that i'd go far
But that was in the better part
Of life we left behind
Remember all the fun we had
Back when they say times were bad
And life was good to us and things were fine
We had fun and we had love
And a mom and dad to care for us
But that was is the better part
Of life we left behind
Life was simple for us then
If only it could be again
How i wish we could go back in time
But time moves on and nothin' lasts
Except the memories from the past
Memories from the better part
Of life we left behind
Sweet memories from the better part
Of life we left behind

song performed by by Dolly Parton
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Christmas past

Christmas past

We always had a Christmas tree
My wife would decorate it without me

So many gifts by the tree
No empty space could you see

Our little ones would crawl all around
They would try climbing the gift mound

Year after year on Christmas morning
Kids tearing open gifts and I’m yawning

The kids woke early on Christmas day
We told the kids your older so go away

With the years going by
We could sleep longer my wife and I

Now since its just me
No more do I need a Christmas tree

My kids now grown and they see
What its like to do the Christmas tree

poem by Michael Gelb
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