The Country
i let you drive
as i sit calmly on the rear side of the car,
i do not wish to speak to you
as i watch the countryside
on a very hot summer
rice fields newly harvested
cracking chunks of soil, brown grass, stacks of hay,
trees with yellow leaves, smoke from the house chimneys,
patches of fog hanging on mountains
behind us on this road towards home
dusts, dusts, dusts.....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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About Being Extrasensitive The Places Around You...
I SEE sparrows gathering
little pieces of leaves and
light husks
for the building of
their nests
it is time for laying eggs
this summer
when the winds are a little bit
colder
i see leaves falling
the trees getting bald
becoming like new fingers
under the sky
i see grass spreading
slowly turning brown
like muscovado sugar
i see mountains
where clouds hang like
smoke from pipes
of old men waiting
still on there
veranda
i see roads where old cars pass
leaving an eddy
of dusts
slowly settling down again
like a light brown mantle
of the breakfast
table
you should have seen me
how foolishly have i waited for you
in this old house
where we first met
many years ago
you should have felt how a poem like this
can be written
because waiting can be an agony
and without being extra sensitive to all that i see beyond all these longings
the horizon over there
the mountains and grass and roads running without ending
and eddies of dust of old cars that conk and honk
and winds that manipulate the helplessness of leaves
as cold as feelings of being
ruthlessly abandoned
without all these
life could have long surrendered
could have long ceased
like a calendar
on the last day of Christmas
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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We Are Still The World
amidst all these
collisions
when planets shatter
into
insignificant pieces
when space
eats all of us
dusts to dusts
we shall return
yet we are still
the world
just the two
of us
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Sometimes I am amazed of the magic that is done
It all started with something insignificant
Like dust,
Sticking on a window pane, and I want it
Dusted off, it is dirt, it is unwanted,
And I do not even know what to do next
About such
Insignificance and feelings of simply
Trying to get rid of dust immediately,
But then, I begin to think about this
Dust, this me, this dust in me,
Some dusts on my feet, some dusts on
My forehead, and some dusts in my ears,
Some dusts in my eyes so obstructive
Of what I really am, and I know what to do next,
The bulb lighting in my head in a sudden,
I touch the dust,
I feel the dust with my fingers, and I am crazy enough
I taste the dust on my window pane,
And I shiver,
I am shaking to its taste, the taste of nothingness
If was from dust that I really come,
I now remember,
It will be to dust that I shall return,
I am now reminded,
And the dust that I used to see
As dirt, as something so insignificant, is now,
A magical patch, glistening, so filled with meaning,
I am nothing but dust; I am biting the dust,
I am very insignificant, in that window pane, at first.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Stars In The Heavens....
i was the praying
mantis on the grass
when we first met
here in this
spot of mud and
water
we talked
and i made promises
like turning
dusts into butterflies
and stones into
birds
and birds into
stars
in that black sky above us
now i am watching
all those stars of you
once stones
without minds of their own
once dusts without
meaning
once birds flying without
directions
i like the way all of you glitter
as i sit upon this strip of grass
covered by
black skies
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Dusts
she is a woman fond of cleaning
dust and dirt and
almost everything that
makes this house dirty
or herself, her hands
her clothes and the
furniture that she keeps
on dusting
almost everyday
she slides her fingers
on the table and screens
the surface for dusts
and she thinks
this world must
be free
from dusts
she keeps dusting and dusting
and tonight
she sleeps
deep into
a slumber where
she does not wake up
anymore
she turns to dust
and the wind blows her away at last
poem by Antonio Liao
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Since You Are Too Human....
there are always choices
we are born to these oceans of choices
wave upon wave
we travel to choose
then we land and take feet
upon the sands
into the gardens
on rocks
and rivers
to the heavens we take the shape of clouds
and rain
for we have learned
this art to evolve
now tell me who owns us?
tell yourself that, we cannot hear you
you are too human
and earthbound
you are stuck on the chains of your
self-defined treasures
that finally bury all your bones
soon we shall turn back at you
dusts, all dusts that we blow and scatter
to all the rivers
if you remember leaves,
you shall remember us...
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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And So Am I To You
drought is here
river beds are drying
plants are wilting
trees are shedding off all leaves
they all look like
skeletons and skulls
there are dusts everywhere
roaming clinging leaving
blown by the strong winds
from the desert
please make the rain
bursting
water the earth
cracking
fill in the gaps
and the holes
shower this thirst
fill this hunger
give back life....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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No One Is There (revised)
i go home
and i open the door of this house
there is silence that greets the face of emptiness
the grass is but a green canvass
sprinkled with dead leaves
shades of brown and shattered sheen of lights
from the setting sun
a burst of orange, a slap of red,
gray colors hover,
black invades and triumphs
tonight, another round of applause
from lonely hands
my feet stamp the dusts
off my skin
the dog wags its tail
i close the door and shut the windows
i turn on the light
dimmer
i begin listening again to
the departing winds.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Dreaming
when fifteen i got more
dreams than you,
until i got to be nineteen
experiencing some little pains
i sorted some dreams
and threw them all away
i wanted to live in a new house
there is no show of a shadow of a house
i dreamed of horses that i can ride on mountainsides
i got only goats
got realistic somehow
i only take what i can take hold of
at fifty i dream no more
a practical man
i sit on a bench facing a road
sip my coffee
and watch the dusts left by a rushing car towards the city.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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5: 20 P.m.
departure,
a rush of people
escaping
the narrow door
bursting on the
road
towards home
you are here
with no place to go
the home
has turned into a mere house
plain stairs
with closed door
unwashed window panes
the lawn a stranger
to mowers
the dusts live here
and some
wishbones crushed
by a black dog
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I Have To Walk Away Again Looking For The Fresh Air
one finds a hard time nowadays
looking for fresh air
i step over a good view of the rice fields
from an Asian perspective
the rice fields are flowering
dews still sticking on the blades of grass
the sun is slowly rising from the mountains
a lot of fog hang on the sides
coconut trees are towering
not much winds today from the sea
a middle aged farmer stands under a tree
with his sweater on and his long bolo on his side
smoking his cigar
the woman in the house is cooking mud fish for breakfast
meanwhile she goes out and
starts a fire under the mango tree
burning a rubber tire
to drive some insects away
which she thinks are destroying
the tiny white flowers of
the tree
i smell the smoke coming from the cigar
it is floating in the air
the smoke from the rubber tire burning
is choking me
somehow that is what is being done to this world
brought about by ignorance and superstition and bad habits
i have to walk away again
looking for the fresh air
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Ronnie
My friend Ronnie when he
retired as literature teacher invested
his money in books
he bought crates and crates of
books from the United States
and brought them
to the Philippines
to include a number of his favorite
poetry books bearing such authors
as frost, walt, derek, etcetera
and he invites me in
for some hours
as he loves to read these poems aloud
and discuss the meaning of
each metaphor
for he is a poet in his own little way
a right he claims somehow
and modesty aside i also write some
published sometimes
and he finds me
a compliment to this blank spaces
and so we indulge in this higher
state of literary affairs until he could not
accept that i know more about
his favorite poet than he does
i mean, i know it by heart
he sometimes gets away from this kind of loving
until he gets offended and shies away
from my own way of
intellectual desperation
he did not invite me anymore
his books took the revenge
letting in more dusts more dusts more dusts
with no finger prints
until he died, his greed for books went with him
the books that till date,
remained virgins.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Dusts Of Summer
the restless dusts of summer
lay restive on the path
after a blessing of rain
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Transformations Of Our Being
at first, no matter how trivial
each dust becomes special
since it comes from your tongue
wet with the sweetest saliva of your love,
we always want it that way
that rainy feel
that wets us all over
running down our spine
into the hidden nooks of
our being
that we do not wish to share
with any creature
in this exclusive spot that we found
gee
you say it once
and i join you
in this harmony
of our
differences
wow is my other word
for these ordinary dusts
that go inside me
i become a part
of the boulevard
where lovers
want to spend the
night
with the winds
that change
the arrangements
made by
fate
now to dust
shall we to dust return
but when that time comes
we too
have assumed the body
of the wind
the soul of the earth
the dusts
invincible
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Golden Dusts from the Gleams of Love
when the golden dusts yet etching by the faith of trust
from somewhere within yet spilling into the milieu
as I feel yet fateful in deep ecstasy of nights
and I love the images of love when being refluxed
from the shadow of my dream as sourced by the faith of love.
yet the dream of love a stance yet unequalled
by the touch of the rainbow in all its secrets
as the splashing of the waves of gleams when eternal
are the raves up as the sacred hue as the blue moon
never yet end then there still persists till our time
onto the mingling of the tide even if ebbing yet
all the bits of dusts golden as subsumed into the totality
when in uplifting the soul by embracing the gleams
as when revered by the truth of love when divine
the dusts of bliss yet whispers the love when aspired
swell into the sky high in honor of the glory of faith
and the gleams of love onto the sea slushing when abased
when glimmered by the blue moon and the blue sea
yet in embracing the love in truth of trust by the faith of love
poem by Dr subhendu kar
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A Rural Scene
a line of carabaos grazing
on a newly harvested ricefield
behind an abandoned nipa hut
some wilted grass and dry leaves
shadows of hills and mountains
tall coconut trees and a footpath
two little boys holding each other's hands
bound for home on a late afternoon
sunset, red and orange, and then you
leave the place: your pain is subdued.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Tryst Of The Past
what i have been
telling you
here is actually
different from what
i am seeing,
i just can't tell what
it is
that makes me
happy for now
when i tell you
that trees are growing
on rows along
a country road
where the skies are
blue and the sun
is warm
where dusts follow
a truck
where birds fly
towards the lake
to feed on fish
perhaps i am
hallucinating on
what is not there
i am having the
arms of someone
that you
have not met even
once
in a secret garden
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Dusts.................
i was once a worm
people look at me with anticipation
and then i became a fly
the good people did not swat me
and then i turn into
a donkey
oh, the children had fun
riding on my back
and then i turn into a
horse,
men love me,
and then i turn into
a man,
oh, the demands are too many
i have to read
the codes of humanity
ethics, philosophy
science, logic,
and then i become old
and turn into
a rotten flesh
where all the worms are
having fun eating me
and i remember joy
and freedom
and being not minded at all
deep in the dark
underground
back to worms, i sensed
that i am complete
and then i must turn to dust
and then
i have become
so perfect
in the solitude of my tiny strains
in the peace of
the grave
where we all started and then
must end.....dusts....dusts....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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4: 55
and so it will be that
i will give you the flesh that you love
and you shall live well
and i will keep the bones
those cranky ones that you set aside
and i will listen to the sounds
of old age
and i will keep what i have learned from
this experience
you are the geek
that keeps what splices of happiness is there
those that are temporary
and i am the outmoded that keeps
what i think shall last forever
but at the end
we are even
beyond these musings
and callings
along the roads of our choices
these patches and parches
we all shall turn into nothing
but dusts
and i shall take pride no more
of what i am and
what i had been
neither shall you whose name
must i have
also forgotten
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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How I Can Smell Like Dusts And Molds....
i take a walk this morning
in this village of trees where there are no houses of
dwellers,
i am looking for a peaceful place as i carry with me a load of some
thoughts heavy on my hair
i do not think that i am being punished with these
i am just trying to take my time
listening to my own footsteps
to the sound of the leaves on those grasses and trees
a river walks along with me
that is how i see it
it is a water traveler wanting a companion
towards a far end
that it knows too well for i am but new here
a lost stranger to his view
a novice of distance
i bring peace in my heart, i have set some pigeons free
my gifts to the balding mountains and to the hills with brown grasses
no pen, no paper, nothing about personal computers or cellphones
no signal, i am satisfied,
i am sucking air, words are carried with it in my nostrils
the river smiles, flows, and winds itself like a snake smooth on the grass
i listen too much, i become this earth
the river winds around my hair, birds are building nests,
the owl sleeps for the night beside my ears,
how peaceful is this place, how foolish had i been for all those years
hiding behind those rooms and rooms of books,
which explains why the river says that i smell nothing but
dusts and molds.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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