The Brown Out And The Brown Barking Dog
yes, the last poem was saved
from a sudden brownout and yes the brown dog did not stop barking
on the road lined with pruned indian trees where a stack of leaves
are left to dry
on a very hot noon day in my poor country
until the knock on the door is heard and finally the maid opens
the door to the stranger: your brother gone abroad
for work to save money for his six children
to feed and send to school and he brings you some gifts
toblerone chocolates
and californian red wine
hugs and hugs and warmth
and some stories to tell about the united states of america
chicago in particular
and las vegas at the end where one of your cousins made a good fortune
where some invitations are extended
where you may stay for three days and enjoy the casino and the
moving lights and some parties
the brown barking dog now lays peacefully by the door with big ears
listening to a conversation between brothers: one who likes to stay
forever in one place
and one who seeks his destiny somewhere else
some snacks no smoke no lies now just stories and
missing and a promise to be good
to offer prayers for our dead parents
mass tomorrow morning and a coming party for the relatives
little joys, bitter memories, some expectations and hopes for a better future
slice the cake and sip the soup
some thoughts that better be left inside our minds
silence and in between words that like to lurk
inside the walls of our mouths
what do you really expect from me? from what i write, well,
well, sometimes, there is nothing to say, except to tell you
the brown-out is still here, and i am working on a standby power
rushing with my lines
keeping with my word
to save my last poem, and it may not be the last after all
just finishing it
for you, trying to tell you that sometimes in our lives we say nothing on
purpose but just to be descriptive about what is happening
between us
no judgments, no choosing and telling which is wrong which is right
just watching and savoring ourselves and not commenting anymore
just living together sometimes even better with each other on some distance
so when we meet
we say we miss each other: just describing and watching and telling and
yes writing
using some other powers: the standby power till it is finally exhausted and gone
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Contrast
outside there is this old brown short dog barking
to a stranger
three motorbikes are making a lot of noise
on the city street
some children, one bigger than the other two small children
look like they are quarelling over some toys
the trees ligning the road are pruned and some stacks
of leaves are left to dry
on this hot noonday
then a brownout: the computer shuts down
blipping and blipping for a warning to save
your last poem
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Whisper
there is a whisper that arrived in our
little place
it's name is loneliness and it is looking
for someone that it has known years ago
in the place where it is living
it is knocking every door of the house
and someone opens it
it mentions my name and it asks whether
i still live here
someone takes the courage of telling it
that my house is about two hills away
from here
finally we meet. It stares at me. Closely.
Then it hugs me. It cries. It kissess my ears.
I am silent. I am still thinking of you for all
these years. Time cannot heal.And then the
whisper stays inside my ears. Silenced.
It is not saying any word anymore.
The neighbors know that its name
is loneliness.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Afternoon Musings 6
(the time is 6: 02 pm
Philippine time)
imagine myself situate yourself
in my own place
i am writing a poem on the ground floor of this house
the brown curtain is laced and tied to a window
that opens beyond this red painted wrought iron fence
outside the mango trees are full of leaves
and the grasses are running wild
on mud where the earthworms are thriving
the sky is turning gray and the horizon turns
pale orange as the sun finally descends to
hand this total darkness on this land of mine
you hear the sound of the strong wind from the
sea moving towards the big mountains that i
see from where i am sitting and writing
i am telling you again, the sound is howling
and i am telling you again, i am just alone staring
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Spectator....
everyday the fathers escort their kids to school in this place where i live
fronting my house where the kindergarten school is built
the fathers talk a lot while waiting and i am listening as the distance is
just near the window where i sit and observe where i keep on writing a lot of
stories and whatever is coming inside my brain...
the talk travels on their orbits in circular fashion without a specific direction
just passing the hours consuming every minute while waiting
then the bell rings and the kids go out from their rooms rushing to the arms of
their fathers who pick them up and put them on their seats on the motorcycle
it is 12 noon
the motorcycles one by one leaves the place and proceeds to their houses
this happens every day except during Saturdays and Sundays where the place
is so silent and empty except for the rustle of some leaves that fall from
the mahogany trees on windy days
which is not always
i am faithful to this scenery.
i am the spectator watching the fullness and emptiness of some days
figuring out
relevance.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Do You Know Who's Livin' Next Door
So many windows
So many walls
Double lock-doors
Down carpeted halls
Somebody's crying
Somebody calls
Do you know who's
Livin' next door?
Here at the mayflower
Here at the mayflower
At the corner of main
And the road out of town
The mayflower rises
All battered and brown
A city-block deep
And a city-block wide
How many stories inside?
So many curtains
So many locks
Eyes at the spy hole
Somebody knocks
Measuring morning
On so many clocks
Do you know who's
Livin next door?
Right here at the mayflower
Right here at the mayflower
You see there's aways a change
All at once someone goes
Always new faces
That nobody knows
A panel left blank
On the board by the door
Old lovers that meet like before
So many voices
So many names
So many photos
In so many frames
Mister I know
You'll be glad that you came
Do you know who's livin'
Next door
Right here at the mayflower
Right here at the mayflower
Right here
Goin up
Welcome to the mayflower
Welcome to the mayflower
song performed by by Barry Manilow
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Let Me Write You A Happy Poem
after ten years
you are inside a bus
going back home
bringing the bacon
your mother hugs you
your father kisses you
surrounded by brothers
you take the pictures
dinner time is joyful
your favorite lasagna
and red wine and
roasted chicken and
jasmine rice
at night you all sit
on the grass
telling more stories
watching the stars
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Poem For Antony From Johanna
I’m sitting at my window
Staring at the world that never changes
Gray skies, with no birds
blank streets down below with faces full of hopes lost
Dreams forgotten
Ambitions that got away
At least they look better than the sky line
Black smoke from old houses and flats
This is my only scenery
My room is filled with light but no pictures or paintings
Only lamps, a bed, and a locked door
That door
The one of my three escapes that will never happen
Besides the 17 foot dropp or death
I remain hopeful that my life will change
Wait...who’s that?
The man with brown hair looking at me through my window
Most men do this
But this is different
He must stop
Stop looking before he sees
How can I get him to stop
I can’t tempt him; I must get out of sight
Is he still there?
He must’ve left
Please have him leave
No he’s still there
Stop calling my name
He will hear
Stop, Please!
Where are you going?
No don’t come inside?
Run!
How can I warn you without him knowing?
Did you escape?
Are you alright?
He beat you
I hear you in the alleyway
What’s that?
He wants to be with me
He speaks of something that cannot be
He can never have
Not without...
The Key!
Please come back tomorrow
Sneak past quietly and I’ll give you the key
Don’t Forget
Remember me in your thoughts
Remember you must save Johanna
Please
Save me
Written: February 24,2010
poem by Ryan Collins
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This Fun
it's fun
in fact it's more fun
being here
i am thinking
a lot
about people that
i've met
that i barely know
there are only
glimpses
outlines of their lives
in such
a short conversation
it makes me feel
so elated
comforting me that
i am not alone
in this...
say,
sorrow joy
sweet-sour memories
like fish and sauce
on a platter
this fun thing
it's more fun really
on these islands
i am taking more
hours of my life
on the plane
hopping from one island
to another
threshing out stories
of real people
that i met
and talk with
in such a short
witting hours
i do not care
anymore
if what they are
telling are true
does not really matter
sort of
short stories themselves
that they are
weaving
like spiders
in the far corners
of the cities
it's more fun
to be frank with you
merely listening
somehow
the words that travel in my ears
make my senses full
i am not alone
all of them
are telling me
this world is a place
of stories
sounds and colors
it is real
they are all telling me
how come
that i did not really know that?
must i be dumb?
or was i just sleeping for all those years
or simply pretending
to know a lot
from books and pages of the newspapers
?
i am seeing a big river
i put myself inside a wooden boat
take the paddle
and start my way
in the water
i stop a while
to touch the ripples
and then
we are going
into something that we have
never know
under the moon
my shadow speaks
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Okaerinasai
this is the stranger
dusty face and muddy
feet
caulked
he still holds the key
to the old room
his room
opens it
he was away for months
his dog is dead
inside the bathroom
the whole house
stinks
all lines are cut off
it is dark
he arrives at night
dogs are howling
the trees have no leaves
the winds are cold
the path is
grassy and wild
the squirrels left
when he arrives
nuts
the rats stand at
the door watching
his every move
there is a mirror
at the veranda
at the side of the
door
it is hazy
it could be me
in this
horrible
thought
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Look At Me
look at me, you sit next to the fire place
looking at the reflection of your tired face...
through the window, and you know
i will be home soon because its almost noon
so you sit in the living room
watching the rain poor.
Watching the rain poor
all of a sudden I walk through door
I stand there. Then I say.
I cant do this anymore.
Please. Don't even speak.
Just listen to me. look at me.
I'm lost. I wish I could make the time stop.
So I could find my way and do whats right
I wish I had Barnard's watch. But I don't.
You see I want a life. I do.
I wanna make everything alright.
But how can i fly?
When all you see is paper planes
this morning we argued again
every morning is the just the same.
I know you hate the way we are living.
But can't you see what I am giving?
For you and for me. You want me to give in?
When you look at me, what do you see?
Look at me! You cant even look at me.
that's why you just look at yourself.
Thinking I've failed
your just the same as everyone else
just leave me alone, in my home,
where my heart, is cold.
I don't want no one to hold, just go!
just get out of my chair
get out of my house
and stop pretending you care.
Yes... that's it...
You walk out of my life,
watch me from outside
as I figure, my falling tear
is telling me, I am still here.
You look at me.
poem by Daniel McCann
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There Are Days No Poem Can Be Written
THERE ARE DAYS NO POEM CAN BE WRITTEN
There are days no poem can be written
Grief and worry frighten the poem away
Yet the poem lives hidden
For our darkest moments our loneliest fears
Too need their poetry.
Poetry is a way of saying all we need to say
It is our deepest feeling most deeply expressed
It is all we are
The whole of our being
In words.
When a poet dies
Words die
When I will die
All I am will no longer be able to write
One more poem.
How afraid I am in the night
And how dark in the early morning before I rise
But now that I am here
Writing this
A bit of hope begins in me
And I can dream that
When I walk out the door
a few minutes from now
A new day will begin.
How many days I have left
How many poems to write
I do not know.
It is not light yet
And the darkness is still here
But I will feel the morning again
This morning
Thank G-d
You have given me so many poems.
A few small words
help me believe
I truly am alive.
.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Reading Bukowski's Poem.
You ran your finger
along the spine
of books on your bookshelf
and took down
Betting on the Muse
by Charles Bukowski
and opened it
at random
reading the stories
and poem after poem
then having
nothing better to do
you got to page 292
and a poem titled
the good soul
and laughed out loud
like a dog barking
in dead of night
and your shoulders shook
and your wife said
What's so funny?
and you said
Oh just words
and she turned over
and back to sleep
and you put down
the book
beside the bed
and turned out
the light
laughing at the poem
inside your head.
poem by Terry Collett
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Goodnight Adria
sleep tight
it is morning in your place
time to sleep
my night is still to come
it is darker than ever
no stars
no fireflies
no moon
just the brown dog barking and barking outside the gate
of my home
i guess, i still have more words more lines to make
and i am not stopping
tracing our trail
i may stop until
it is morning
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Remembering You From That Abandoned Place
the building is abandoned
no one likes to live there forever
where
recorded deaths are
unexplained
till the years
the door is open
it cannot close
the door is taken away in fact
and there is no
window anymore
neither the sea where it looks into
the fields are brown
for the grasses are burned by the drought
that regularly comes
the rains have promised not to visit this place again
and so
there are no butterflies or bees
of flowers
no dew
the place is very
unpoetical
but just the same because of you
because we once made love here
before that
unexplained suffering
that death of our innocence
i am
having the courage to remember it
and devote
this poem for it.
i never ask
neither wish that we see each other again
because i still want to live
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I will write a poem that will say the truth
This poem I will write and it will tell the truth
The candid truth, the whole candid truth and nothing
But the miserable truth
And this will hurt you and all of you who consider me a friend
The words are carefully chosen and the
Lines screened with so much introspection
This poem will tell you who you really are
No holds bar, no second thoughts
No consideration at all that you may hate me
I, who want, always to be loved and be popular
I am tired of lying and telling what is not in my mind,
I will now write the truth about you and the whole world,
This poem will hurt you and this world
And the whole world will be angry about me writing this poem,
This poem will bring you into harsh awakenings
And this will surely shake you and hurt you and you will never
Talk to me again and you will wish me ill and you will curse the day that I was born.
This poem will make you hate me forever but for one thing
I still have no courage to show it to you, perhaps later when I am
All ready to be despised, hated and finally discarded from your minds.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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an Ode to Loneliness....
Loneliness need not be feared.
IT is one of the most common guests in your house.
If you fear it, it will tease you and prolong your
agony.
If you, however, meet it at the gate, and welcome it to your house,
give it some drinks, feed it well, and offer it your room, ask it to sleep with you
for ten days,
Then it will look at you from the tip of your hair to the tip of your toe and say, ' This man knows me, and has a deep thinking, he knows how to nurture me,
and take good care of a bleeding heart'
And then it will have second thoughts in deciding to stay in your house
and sleep with you in bed
It has lost its use and finally arrive at the conclusion ' You are a strong man,
you know how to live. You talk to God, and compassionate about
the pain of silence'
And then without saying goodbye
sans the note or words of departure, it leaves you and your house
looking for those who are still living on their closed houses,
on shallow waters
For indeed, Loneliness also chooses those who deserve it
Now you smile, you close the door because it is already dark,
close the windows because there is no moon,
and somehow you think about it,
honestly, you miss
what you have become so familiar about
it has become dear to you
and clearer now
it has become a part of you
like a key inside your
pocket.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Barking Dog Inside Your Mind
it must be noisy
inside your mind
as you complain
about the barking
dog barking all
day long in your
lifetime,
and it must be
also unfair if
as you feel it,
you are always
the wrong tree
being barked
at,
so you are the
tree wronged
and i, this human
being writing
some lines for
a conversation,
shall always be
that barking dog
inside your
mind.
let us talk
let us exchange
places, or let us
settle for a little
compromise,
there is no dog,
and there is no
wrong tree,
onthe very first day
next year
at the very first hour,
let us talk,
as new friends,
let us begin again
as strangers
in a new place
wanting to know
what each street
is named after.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Mother And Daughter
tonight i have a good image
when mom and daughter finally meet at the airport
somewhere in Chicago
she brings her favorite goodies
from the Philippines islands
once a year, once again
the bonding begins
she teaches her what happiness brings
she tells her stories about what missing is all about
she is taken back to all those years of her youth
she edifies her goddess of love
inside the house the talking of their own language
can be heard as a chatter of two strange birds
outside it is snowing
inside the fire begins to burn
and the young children watch them
awed, amazed, delighted, so delighted.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I Lost The Poem I Wrote In My Mind
I LOST THE POEM I WROTE IN MIND
I lost the poem I wrote in my mind
When walking to Shul this morning-
I can only try to recall its thoughts;
‘Walk too fast and the mind cannot hear itself
Walk slowly and listen to the poem inside yourself.
The road ahead the trees the sky
Has a beauty too great for you to write
Thank God for your sight.”
The best lines are forever gone-
A poem to replace a poem
Is not as good as the original-
I wish I had the words for all the beauty God gives me in my life
How wonderful it is to be alive- sometimes
And to be able to write poems – even if somewhat poorly.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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The Old Door Of Ancestry
it is an old door,
the jams are eaten by termites
the lock is not working
the hinges are rusty
and without the frame of my hands
it will just fall
as pieces
i imagine the house back
to restore
our ancestry, and i travel to places
to gather
what memories are left
the old men in those far places
are telling me stories
my notebook is swelling like
a river of tears
about to flood the banks of my
heart
many have abandoned
what the house of ancestry has to offer
there is nothing to eat
there and no one is cooking
some
noble concoctions
i am the son of Gregorio and my
grandfather is Domingo
who is one of the five children
of Juan who was married
to Rosa
they sailed away from
Maribujoc
and it was Modesto's rebellion
that carried them
away
to the island of Mindanao
and they cut the trees of the forest
built their homes
and cared for
their families
now i am moving places
into some other places of
no interest
the hours are fading
and the heirlooms are forgotten
i am looking for my roots
for i do not have what i call my own
i knock at the old broken door
of my ancestry
asking for pity.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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