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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Back To The Usual Walk In The Rice Fields
i am back to this place
and i am feeling strange
there are changes
and some i can tell have been missing
a few meters from where i stand
under this mahogany tree
where the wind is cold and fresh
flavored by the newly cut rice stalks
over this spread of golden fields
the well is still there
but the brown woman with earth skin is gone
an island of coconut trees
(and some mango trees
and banana shrubs)
has turned bald
and the grasses claim another territory to its grassland
the sparrows must have migrated to the nearby forest
the cable lines run an empty length of a sigh
from one pole to another
endlessly clinging is this anonymous electricity
the twenty or so white herons are here again
pecking on some little frogs in small ponds
i walk under the sun
revisiting reevaluating rekindling perhaps
the reasons why i must go on living
a life unlived for quite a time
why are the fields empty? why are the blackbirds circling the tree?
why do people pass by this path unable to know the significance
of this human journey?
the sun is up like an absurdity triumphant
a dog comes near me
it is waggling its tail and i am calling him another name.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Existences
Fenced carabaos of this Agricultural college Thrive on limited spread of grass Man-made They look forward To angles and rows of green hills and valley And clear flowing creeks To the other side The white herons, (wild ducks, sparrows, and mayas)
Fly above trees and (daffodils) And land on paddies with flecks Of surface mud fishes and tadpoles and mosquito larvae
I see The sparrows rest In flocks Lining up On electric cables Or Power Lines Watching army Worms and golden shells (kuhol) etching slowly, eating green greedily On rice and grass stalks
An owl hovers (the late owl, where was it last night?) On the island of twigs On an old mango tree (balding & ugly & dying)
No wonder The white herons (about twenty in all, I counted them patiently on digital cam) taunt The carabaos (muddy and thin as grasses were cut and cleaned by ROTC cadettes on Sundays, I can’t rationalize why the grass population be reduced) fenced On a limited supply of Manmade grass and Growth controlled
They wing finally when I got near them Lightly like blown leaves
This February wind And land on Carabaos’ backs Gleaning for lice Feasting on some pecking and swallowing & pecking again
Thriving on carabaos’ Hairs and skin some creatures though still
On the other side of the landscape A thin brown, woman With a buri hat And a rattan basket on one hand and a sack on the other Leans over A dry ricefield Gleaning for leftovers of palay
Beside her but not that really near The man drives the white herons Away to the other side of the island of banana trunks
Then he goes to the carabaos Their wet noses tied to an abaca roof and tied again to the cemented posts of this accredited agricultural college spreading about two hectares of stupidity
The questions about lice and herons and carabaos and grasses
And golden snails, tadpoles and mud fishes and sparrows died
The lice are free Feeding away from The eating white herons
They have flown away since then to the other side of my world
By now the flock of Sparrows On the electric cables or power lines Wing their way To a farther town as I leave them fast for lack of time for shortness of serendipity for lack of interest
There are pebbles inside my shoes.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Death of My Childhood Place
I miss the place so much
where I could climb trees
ate star apples and green mangoes
from fruit trees near our house
bath in the river
made a raft
out from banana or bamboo trunk
go boating with my brother
and enjoyed swimming in the river
Where we made a makeshift dam
got some catfish
or played with the tadpoles
and shooed away the frogs
and on rainy day
played with my childhood friend
creating pots and anything from the mud
forming clay vases and figurines
and enjoy the drizzles of the rain
But father sold the place
and we moved to an urban zone
where trees don’t bear fruits
and fruits are not on trees but in groceries.
and clays are beneath the cemented road
and during rainy days
people will not go out
and everyone seems so busy on
their business and their job
so in grief of my childhood place
and gone with it is my childhood stage
poem by Champs Ulysses Cabinatan
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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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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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A Pair Of Sparrows!
A pair of twittering sparrows I see;
What a great wonder sparrows are!
Due to constructions of concrete jungles
Sparrows are driven out farther and farther!
So, they take shelter in high way trees;
Even those trees are cut for laying highways
And the sparrows are driven out still far away!
What kind of guys are they who take shelter
Under the trees in summer time but not
Think of pouring even a dropp of water to it?
Extension of concrete jungles destroys trees
And drives away a few sparrows too forever!
Is this called progress in the modern world?
Or is this a harbinger of apocalypse of the whole?
poem by Ramesh T A
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Underneath The Neon Sign
Our hero leaves the pub his head still
Swimming with alcohol, his head
Buzzing with facts, figures and
Computers. night is descending as he
Wearily makes his way home through
The traffic jams and neon lights of the
Great metropolis.
Underneath the neon sign
All I see is imitation
And theres no earth beneath my feet.
There are no trees or fields in front of me
Only slabs of concrete.
Skyscrapers reaching up to the clouds,
Dont give the moon a chance to shine,
And Ive got imitation moonlight
Standing underneath the neon sign.
Is it real or just illusion?
Can there be a time when its night?
Is it merely my delusion
Or my senses telling me lies.
Is it just hallucination?
Have I been drinking too much wine?
I dont know if its day or night,
When Im underneath the neon sign.
Underneath the neon sign.
Electronic nature made by man with robots in mind.
Big city lights guide my way into the night, darkness shines
When Im standing underneath the neon sign.
If there isnt any sunshine
Well some-day buy the neon sign
And if we cant see any stars at night
Well sit and watch the traffic lights.
If there isnt any day-time
Ive got an imitation dawn,
Ive got a simulated sunshine
Standing underneath the neon sign.
Is it an illusion?
Have I been drinking too much wine?
Can there be day-time when its night
Underneath the neon sign.
Underneath the neon sign.
Is it mother nature
Playing tricks with my eyes
For darkness shines
When Im standing underneath the neon sign.
song performed by by Kinks
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Lahijan on my mind
Hills of tea
Sheitan Koh
Three trees on the corner of
The pool
Dubliners
Waste land
Ziba restaurant
Justice and freedom
Shimmering in the eyes of green frogs
Pitter patter of rain
On the pots of the houses
Tramping in the allies
With tall brick walls
Balcony and old man
Green city
Green girls
Green dreams
Put me under lashes!
poem by Framarz Bagheri
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Pollution and Metal Birds
These fields aren't as large as they once were, aren't as green as pastures new, aren't as tranquil with these giants leaning over shadowing the sun,
The dirts moisture now brittle and dry. I remember the days when me, my brother and my old dog Sammy would wander this land collecting frogs in
The pockets of my old denims hand me downs from my brother
We were filthy children muck clad to our eyeballs to our toes
Yet we were pleasantly happy in this tranquil setting
My brother was much older than me
Much taller too
He believed to be wiser
But we all knew I was the brains
We would run together through the poppy fields
Every day was a new race
A new competition
But we both would run slowly
Never at our full pace
Instead enjoying each others company
That smells of blossom hitting the fabric of our clothes
The uptake of sparrows feeding on the seeds
Shooting up into the midday air
Fearing us the giants with muddy faces and frogs in our denims
Now I look back my hands still dirty
My denims still old
Yet so much has changed
My brother left when we were younger
To fight for queen and country
To make this world a better place
Now look at it
Metal birds haunt the sky
And pollution corrupts our lungs
My brother gave up his paradise to see this world die and rot
I love you brother come back
Run with me again
Make these black dull fields
Fill with poppies from days of old
Bring back plentiful textures into this earth bring back moisture in the soil
How I miss you my old days
My denims full of frogs
My skin clad in mud
How I miss you best friend, hero, my brother
poem by Jacob Andrew Jarman
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Lost In Rural Suburbia
Streetlights flicker on at the end of day,
the day is gone,
I am on my way far too suddenly
with headlights on,
all around me many tall buildings rise
solid like stone
there are some busy people everywhere,
are always rushing, going here and there.
Coming is darkness of the early night,
some neon lights flash,
the large city does never really sleep,
some people dash
to be in time for dinner appointments,
heaps of old trash
line some of the long backward narrow streets
where whores and slimy characters meet.
No tranquillity is in this city,
I drive away
to somewhere in a old rural suburb,
the headlights play
over a very old graveyard with trees;
on no new day
all the kinsmen that sleep there will awake,
from the high palisade some old paint flake.
I stop across at a small grocery shop,
life I ponder,
were the lives of all those people fairer?
Here and yonder
they daily worked their farms and cornfields
and I wonder
about changing times, about rural bliss,
about how full of crime daily life now is.
This suburb has a own kind of gentleness
with big old trees,
teenagers in love not knowing about
flowers and bees;
I have got to rush to still shop in time,
some employees
are busy leaving, are on their way home
and I get a smile as the owner's welcome.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Her Letter Dated July 1,2008, To Me, It Is Poem By Itself
I wonder how many more poems related to me I've missed.
I also wonder if you're a mind-reader.
Every springtime when the cherries bloom,
I do think of fire trees dotting Mt. Makiling
and lining the highways of Los Banos.
When wisterias bloom here,
I think of the jade vine in Makiling forest.
The pink, red and white flowers of azalea are pretty when they bloom in April to May,
but they can't compare with the explosion of colors of bougainvillea flowers trailing over the terraces of the buildings of IRRI where I used to work years ago.
I wonder if they are still there.
I did ask my father to plant ylang-ylang or sampaguita years ago,
because in Dipolog,
I can hardly find them anymore.
But father preferred palm trees, orchids, and anthurium.
Yes, I'll always miss the land of my birth.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Shine O Sun Shine
Shine o sun, shine on
The earth and on me.
Shine on land, on trees,
Shine here smilingly.
Come out, pulling the,
Curtain of dark cloud.
Damp is the weather,
For the blackish shroud.
Pools are always full,
Grey look, took the sky.
We want to be basked,
To make this place dry.
Trees are now tired,
As they bathed all day.
Birds nests very wet,
For you, we must pray.
The shutters are all down,
Muddy are lanes, roads.
Ponds became playground,
Of frogs and their toads.
Water-logged people are,
Totally helpless.
Appear Sun God,
Give ray and do bless.
poem by Nilakshi Das
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Green Ricefields
green ricefields spreading to a distance
some white herons circling and landing finding a hiding place
for a while gone and then the wind comes from the trees swaying
the white herons in a flock of fives fly away again
to another rectangular spread of a green ricefield
a scarecrow stands in the middle of the place
the clouds arrive turning from pale to grey to blue
the sun has come in full grandeur
i am just amazed, sitting on a bench praying
simply watching and wondering
they all say that i am lazy and doing nothing
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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What You Will Miss Here Baby
...the ripe bananas
the coconut juice and young meat
the local wine
the rice cakes
the fruits that you can pick from the trees
the lone line of beaches
surrounding practically the whole island
the fresh air
the wide expanse of green fields
the peace and quite
the hospitality of the people
we have it just name it
and it's all yours for free
because we care.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Early Morning Scenario
the frogs are singing
gratitude for the heavy rain last night
the pond has ripples
some fish jump with joy
the trees are tall and fresh
the rainbow appears
the grasses are still filled with dew
disturbed by a little bird that flew
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Back To An Old Place
it is summer
scorching summer
season creeping,
grasses are wilting
trees are shedding of
their last leaves,
what i see are bones
of trees,
skeletons of
branches,
the dry wind keeps
blowing the leaves
away,
what i have is this
bald surrounding
emptied of their
essence
beyond me are
brown mountains
vultures are
in the skies
eying for
death as prey
i sit upon a rock
the only rock
left here
i have no cover on
my head
i am half naked
i have no one to talk
to,
they have left this
arid place
a long time ago
i am back
i am telling the
sand soil,
i have something
to write and
tell the world
about it
it is summer
in this vast desert
a long time ago
this was ours
and the trees are green
grasses verdant
butterflies flutter
and innocently
land on our
hands.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Beautiful Day
the fields are empty now
the grains have been harvested
the clouds drift and stay a while
on the side of the green mountain
still dressed with mists and fog
the trees line the path
the leaves are green and lush
i take as usual this morning walk
towards a hut beside a graveled path
a white heron arrives and lands
on a drying pond
the sun just shines to mark a
beautiful day
the pale horizon turns pastel blue
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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When The Green Gits Back In The Trees
In spring, when the green gits back in the trees,
And the sun comes out and stays,
And yer boots pulls on with a good tight squeeze,
And you think of yer barefoot days;
When you ort to work and you want to not,
And you and yer wife agrees
It's time to spade up the garden lot,
When the green gits back in the trees--
Well! work is the least o' _my_ idees
When the green, you know, gits back in the trees!
When the green gits back in the trees, and bees
Is a-buzzin' aroun' agin,
In that kind of a lazy go-as-you-please
Old gait they bum roun' in;
When the groun's all bald where the hay-rick stood,
And the crick 's riz, and the breeze
Coaxes the bloom in the old dogwood,
And the green gits back in the trees,--
I like, as I say, in sich scenes as these,
The time when the green gits back in the trees!
When the whole tail-feathers o' wintertime
Is all pulled out and gone!
And the sap it thaws and begins to climb,
And the sweat it starts out on
A feller's forred, a-gittin' down
At the old spring on his knees--
I kind o' like jes' a-loaferin' roun'
When the green gits back in the trees--
Jes' a-potterin' roun' as I--durn--please--
When the green, you know, gits back in the trees!
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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You
I see the flowers bloom in the fields
I see the trees standing tall in the mountains
I see the rivers going to the oceans
I see the clouds travelling the sky
I see the moon and the stars in the evening
I see the sunrises and sunsets
I see the children born, and men dead
but I have not seen YOU.
I hear the wind whistles
I hear the birds and insects sing
I hear the babies cry
I hear the whispers in silence
but I have not heard YOU.
YOU...
Do YOU really exist,
or just created to answer all questions
unanswered in this universe?
poem by Marites C. Cayetano
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The Sojourner
Are your herds all dead
That you walk the street alone?
And do you have your own bed
When the toiling day is done?
City nomad without his herd
Wanderer, pilgrim of the mind
Wont you rest your tired head
You herdsman of a kind?
Were your ancestors cattle rearers
Who sought where grasses were green?
But you have mingled with the city dwellers
Leaving your herds either dead or lean
Tell me, city nomad
Why did you leave your father's way
And choose the city, tis' sad
That you roam the streets day by day
Or are you of the gypsy race
And your clan, minstrels and magicians?
Who wander from place to place
Sleeping and waking in caravans
Foxes have holes, and bird the trees
Do you have any to call your home?
Some live in houses, some in tents
Why do choose the streets to roam?
I am but a sojourner in every city
Seeking my God and the crown
And may he lead me to that heavenly city
A better place to call my own! !
poem by Okonkwo Osamedua. Allen
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