The City
the city was once
a forest of trees
when the pioneers
arrive with their axes
and each tree fell
and the river swollen
mothers had to have
more children
and fathers had to
plow more fields
and plant the rows and
rows of corn
as monkeys on top
of the remaining trees
tease
the grasshoppers
find enough sleep
and the ants keep
on building their
empire on mounds
and mounds of
dry land
that was how
a city was formed
my father said
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Sound Images Of Innocence
bathing bare on the river
the kids of the neighborhood
they have never seen
the crocodile
and then the go home
together
spreading laughter
along the path of mud
beside the
wild flowers
they pass upon a forest
and climbs some trees
tease the monkeys
and gather the ripe berries
and imitate the wings
of black birds
the chase each other
without the numbers
never mind their shadows
until it gets dark
and then they are home again
their mothers singing songs
their fathers telling stories
about how the tigers roar
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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1951
Alone at night
in the wet city
the country's wit
is not memorable.
The wind has blown
all the trees down
but these anxieties
remain erect, being
the heart's deliberate
chambers of hurt
and fear whether
from a green apartment
seeming diamonds or
from an airliner
seeming fields. It's
not simple or tidy
though in rows of
rows and numbered;
the literal drifts
colorfully and
the hair is combed
with bridges, all
compromises leap
to stardom and lights.
If alone I am
able to love it,
the serious voices,
the panic of jobs,
it is sweet to me.
Far from burgeoning
verdure, the hard way
in this street.
poem by Frank O'Hara
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My little playful monkeys
My little monkeys in the forest are all funny
As usual they jump from vine to vine
And fall and rise, and fall from river to river,
My little monkeys with little tails with little
Mouths and tiny baby-like hands, they wink
And play and chase and run and almost like bats
Flying from top to top of treetops from branch
To branch to twigs to twigs, all these cute
Little monkeys so playfully playful in the forest,
In my mind, I play with all of them throughout
The day, till noon, till afternoon, till nights even,
But no, when darkness comes, these cute little
Monkeys all return to bigger higher trees where
Their big monkey-mothers and big-monkey-fathers
Wait and care for them and all hide them in their arms.
And I am all left alone, like little Tarzan boy in an empty cave
feeling so deserted and betrayed.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Sequoia Trees
Trees so long that it makes a city look small.
Yet they make the Empire state building look tall.
People can climb this massive trees in the winter or the fall.
I saw pictures of people climbing one Sequoia like a mountain.
One of these days I want to climb a Sequoia tree.
I think these trees will last until the end of time.
No one should ever cut them down in their prime.
The Sequoias bark is so thick that it protects itself against fire.
They can last long winters in the Sierra.
Thick bark serves both causes which makes it unwilling to expire.
The fact that they are continually growing is very profound.
Theses trees are so tall and round.
Most people cant see the sky from the ground.
None should chop it down because it will fall
to pieces on the forest floor.
Try to make wood from those trees and you will be poor.
These famous trees are disease resistant.
One Sequoia is called the President.
On earth this is the second greatest tree giant.
The Sequoias are Americas living monument.
I find the Sequoias so hard to describe,
because they are so magnificent.
Thanks God for creating trees that cause so much excitement.
Those bare forests
When I was young, I had gone to this forest,
It was dark, deep and wild,
Like my youth it was full of resources,
I had spent few days there and had learned how the forest life is?
Forest life means survival of the fittest,
I could not find difference between city and forest,
In city too only the fittest can survive else the human who have wore the leather of lethal animal will not let the herbivore animal like us to live.
After twenty years struggling in the city and being tortured by children,
I returned back to the same forest to see its growth,
I could see it was bare, cut by poacher, deforesters,
It had not followed its own rule and the trees which it holds were all ageing like me,
We both were thrown out of the society it was thrown by cutting and I by my own sons.
I and it had the same fate bare with few more ageing hair and trees to be removed.
poem by Sambidhan Acharya
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The Plow Of My Papa
today is the last day to sell the plow of my papa
it is a necessary part of his lifetime
in fact
his lifetime is the plow itself that made the lines
of his own poetry in the fields
of rice and corn
today another man shall have it
at the price we all wanted
we have sold all that he had
the land, the house, the trees he planted
when he was still alive
when he was still strong and cruel and so imposing
this is his only plow
and we have dedided to dispose it finally
to any man
we are now at the stage of reconstructing our lives
and the plow of papa must go
we shall have our own fields now of rice and corn
on a white canvass we draw
the new sun, its color shall be warm, something new really
to the feel of our skins
the darker ones shall be replaced by the flowing color
of the clouds like feathers of birds always ready to fly away
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Torture
When they torture your mother
plant a tree
When they torture your father
plant a tree
When they torture your brother
and your sister
plant a tree
When they assassinate
your leaders
and lovers
plant a tree
Whey they torture you
too bad
to talk
plant a tree.
When they begin to torture
the trees
and cut down the forest
they have made
start another.
poem by Alice Walker
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Day The World Turned Day-Glo
I clambered over mounds and mounds
Of polystyrene foam
Then fell into a swimming pool
Filled with fairy snow
And watched the world turn
Day-glo you know you know
The world turned day-glo you know
I wrenched the nylon curtains back
As far as they would go
Then peered through perspex window panes
At the acrylic road
I drove my polypropolene car
On wheels of sponge
Then pulled into a wimpy bar
To have a rubber bun
The x-rays were penetrating
Through the latex breeze
Synthetic fibre see-thru leaves
Fell from the rayon trees
song performed by by X-Ray Spex
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Women's song of the corn
How beautiful are the corn rows,
Stretching to the morning sun,
Stretching to the evening sun.
Very beautiful, the long rows of corn.
How beautiful is the white corn,
I husk it,
I grind it.
Very beautiful, my white corn.
How beautiful is the red corn,
I gather it and make fine meal,
I am glad doing this.
Very beautiful, my red corn.
How beautiful is the black corn,
I give it to my father,
To my mother,
I give it to my child.
Very beautiful, the black corn.
How beautiful is the mottled corn,
Like the sky with little clouds,
I eat it looking at the sky.
Very beautiful, my mottled corn.
poem by Amy Lowell
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Tombstones!
rows and rows of tombstones,
glaring white in the morning sun...
with open graves before them,
and the smell of fresh turned earth.
cars speed by going nowhere;
people walking, as if lost....
the phone rings, no one answers,
the book, unread, stares from the shelf.
trees almost bare softly whisper,
dollar bills blown by the wind...
the old man sits by the station,
counting by number,
and not by name....
rows and rows of tombstones,
waiting for gifts unwrapped
by time!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Bedtime Story
The moon lies on the river
like a drop of oil.
The children come to the banks to be healed
of their wounds and bruises.
The fathers who gave them their wounds and bruises
come to be healed of their rage.
The mothers grow lovely; their faces soften,
the birds in their throats awake.
They all stand hand in hand
and the trees around them,
forever on the verge
of becoming one of them,
stop shuddering and speak their first word.
But that is not the beginning.
It is the end of the story,
and before we come to the end,
the mothers and fathers and children
must find their way to the river,
separately, with no one to guide them.
That is the long, pitiless part,
and it will scare you.
poem by Lisel Mueller
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Cities
(david byrne)think of london - small city
Dark - dark in the daytime
People sleep - sleep in the daytime
If they want to - if they want to
Im checkin em out
Im checkin em out
Ive got it figured out
Ive got it figured out
Theres some good points - some bad points
But it all works out - Im just a little freaked out
Find your city -
Find yourself a city to live in
I will find a city -
Find yourself a city to live in
A lot of bridges in birmingham
A lot of ghosts - and a lot of houses
Look over there - dry ice factory
Good place to get some thinking done
Im checkin em out
Im checkin em out
Ive got it figured out
Im the one who got it figured out
Theres some good points - some bad points
Find your city -
Find yourself a city to live in
I will find a city -
Find yourself a city to live in
Did I forget to mention -
Forget to mention memphish
Home of elvis and the ancient greeks
Do I smell - I smell home cooking
Its only the river - its only the river
Im checkin em out
Im checkin em out
Ive got it figured out
Ive got it figured out
Theres some good points - some bad points
Are those things real? denied!
Find your city -
Find yourself a city to live in
I will find a city -
Find yourself a city to live in
I will find a city -
Find yourself a city to live in
I will find a city
Find yourself a city to live in
song performed by by Phish
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Words Of A Dying Farmer
For W.C.F.
Beat the fields in furrows home.
Hoe a row of young shoots of corn.
To be born anew push three fingers
into the ground. Drop, every other step,
three seeds, then five from the hand.
The earth's alive still with tender things.
Please god and sun the sky will not
harry boys home from school,
will not rule them as cruel fathers do,
their boiling fever for work till weary knees bow,
fingernails tearing on rocks lifted from
red rows behind a redder plow.
Now is the time to say I hated the work of fields,
and I am old. No more to fold the earth.
No more to pull stalks from frost
but to lift this last rock and hurry home.
poem by Warren Falcon
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Song of the woods
For a time the birds
and the trees
and animals dwelt in me,
but then came man.
Axes and saws
started to chop and bite
and as trees fell,
there wasn’t a place
safe for animals to be.
Time swept past
and man’s machines
started to carve
right trough trees.
Trees fell faster
than any could grow
and the climate was altered
by man and his machines.
Lost was the air
that had risen from me
and the forest rain dwindled
and a scorching sun
started to batter me.
The world of old is lost
and most of the trees are gone
and clouds of pollution
blankets the world.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Where The Green Grass Grows
Six lanes, tail lights
Red ants marchin into the night
They disappear to the left and right again
Another supper
From a sack
A 99 cent heart attak
I got a poundin head and an achin back
And the camels standin in a big straw stack
Chorus:
Im gonna live where the green grass grows
Watch my corn pop up in rows
Every night be tucked in close to you
Raise our kids where the good lords blessed
Point our rockin chairs towards the west
And plant our dreams where the peaceful river cools
Where the green grass grows
Well Im from
A map dot
A stop sign on a blacktop
I caught the first bus that I could hop from there
But all o this glitter is gettin dark
Theres concreate glowin in the city park
I dont know who my neighbors are
And theres bars on the corner and bars on my heart
(repeat chorus 2x)
song performed by by Tim McGraw
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Monkeys
and after he cut the grasses
plowed the farm and planted
it all with corn
the monkeys simply watch
and keep on playing
on the branches of the trees,
and when
the corn grew and showed
their big ears and
golden hair,
there and then the monkeys
came and made their claim.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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On A Much Keener Awareness....
the poetess on the grass
offers her set of eyes to the cats
so they may begin to see
the beauty of her lines
when blinded she sees more
of those clouds and flowers
she feels more the waters of the rivers
the songs of the trees
the silence of the nights
those busy days
the ants stepping upon the softness
of the mounds
of sands
beside her feet....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Plant More Trees
Plant more trees
As it looks green
And save the homes of the animals please.
Plant more trees
As it looks green
To keep the humans safe
From pollution and disease.
Plant more trees
As it looks green
To keep the cities beautiful and clean.
And throw the garbage into a dustbin.
Stop cutting trees
And plant more trees
For a long live of you and me!
poem by Srijita Das
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Plants Feel
When a tree is cut down
in the forest all the other
trees feel it’s chop,
All the trees are connected
and feels it when this tree drops.
Now even your plant
even knows when you are gone,
it misses you and
needs more than water to live on.
Plants are sentient
which is true as the wind,
give the plant Kingdom kindness
for they were here in the beginning,
and help us to breathe and to live.
Written by Christina Sunrise on April 12,2011
www.christinasunrise.com
poem by Christina Sunrise
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where are your powers Babylon?
Illustrious Babylon
where are your powers now?
city of fame
city of gold and silver
city of a famous name
where are your powers now?
city of wonders
empire of sin
Babylon
city of ruins
mighty Babylon
city of prowess
empire of old
empire of supremacy
rich with stolen gold
where are you now?
city of the hanging gardens
city holding the righteous captive
where are your powers Babylon?
city of desolate wastes
ferocious Babylon
look out over the valley
Cyrus the great of Persia
with his army of men
and Darius the Mede
with his army of men
diverting the great river Euphrates
and sneaking under your walls
your 'impenetrible walls
Babylon
city of ruins
Where are your powers
King Nebuchadnezzar?
your colossal gate is open
your subjects are drunk
drunk with wine and blood
unaware of approaching destruction
living their normal course of life
where are you now Babylon?
heaped in ruin and desolation
...forever
now just a dry desert plain
and the wind goes...hush...
poem by Allen Steble
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