En.Citatepedia^®.ro

the Filipino Poem 1

As written by Bimboy a grade two pupil in
Olingan elementary school section sampaguita:

The sun comes to my barrio this morning
It peeps between two hills and on the side
Is our nipa hut and on the ricefield my father
Pasturing the carabao while mother cooks the
Mudfish in the kitchen while my sister looks
Out the window and waives at me who is
Holding this pen writing this poem on paper.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Filipino Poem 2

As written by Bimboy a high school student
At St. Vincent’s College in Dipolog City section Einstein:

The sun rises in my little barrio in Olingan
And sits on two hill where our nipa hut lies
The sun is like a handsome face looking
At two hills like the twin plump breasts of a
Beautiful maiden and his sunrays are like
Fingers lovingly caressing them with too much
Warmth the coconuts, yes, the coconuts like nipples
Spread on the hillsides and his tongue licks them
his mouth sucking them these young coconuts
while my papa Leads the carabao to a mudhole to wallow
While my mother takes some hot chilis for viand
My sister is not there on the window she
Eloped with her boyfriend so you can find
Nobody looking out the window of the hut.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Filipino Poem 3

The Filipino poem as written by Bimboy
A college student of the Ateneo de Davao
University taking up BS Chemistry on a
Cocofed scholarship grant:

The sun rises on the two hills in my barrio.
You cannot find Papa and Mama there anymore
They always quarrel over their extramarital affairs
And the nipa hut is just too crowded for the two of them.
My sister had two sons but you cannot find them there
Because they live in another nipa hut on the other
Side of the river while the ricefields are dry and did not
Yield any harvest because of drought and the carabao
Is also not there in that scene because it died, butchered
And sold as meat to the hungry neighborhood.
The sun sets on the hills like a bunsen burner turned off.
The two hills protrude like two empty glass flasks turned upside down.
You cannot find me there I am here still writing this poem.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Too Many Cooks In The Kitchen

Theres too many cooks in the kitchen
Theres too many minds on the job
Theres too many cooks in the kitchen
Everybody wants a piece of the action
Cooking the books and getting their fractions wrong
What we need is law and order
Everybody knows
Cant have chiefs without the injuns
Stepping on their toes
Theres too many cooks in the kitchen
Theres too many daps in the pie
Theres too many cooks in the kitchen
Everybody needs a place in the rat race
Playing games of power, its only a cat chase
Too many too many too many etc.
Too many cooks in the kitchen
[by the colonel]

song performed by by Xtc
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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On His Father's Side

On his mother’s side
Born in Bethlehem
On his Father’s side
No one before him
On his mother’s side
Growing and learning
On his Father’s side
All knowledge showing
On his mother’s side
Stuck in one location
On his Father’s side
Present in every nation
On his mother’s side
He was hungry
On his Father’s side
The multitudes he did feed
On his mother’s side
At Calvary he died
On his Father’s side
He was the essence of life
On his mother’s side
Buried like other men
On his Father’s side
He rose again
On his mother’s side
Human and weak
On his Father’s side
The God of eternity.

poem by Joses Tirtabudi
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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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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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Visiting The Wake Of My Teacher

today i visit the wake of
a 98-year old
retired school teacher

i watch her face inside the coffin
she is very peaceful

i begin to remember
when i was once her grade 3 pupil
in that old Miputak Elementary
School

she believed in me
and that is what made me today

she made me believe in myself
and that made her the best person in the world for me

she will not die
she is living in my memory

goodbye dear teacher
you have done your job too well.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Rednecks unite!

My father is my brother
My sister, with three ears,
Is his significant other.

My sister is my mother
And somehow, also my brother
My father's father am I
The vile thought makes me shudder.

Grandma was a mule,
Grandfather's sperm, she used as fuel
A french aristrocrat,
Made love to my mother, for he prefered his women fat

A letter written for my eyes
Containing news of demine
Said my true mother was some other
And my father, not her brother.

Jubilant and joyous,
My wife is what used to by my sister.. Or brother?

poem by Thy Mother
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There Is A Poem For Me Somewhere This Morning

THERE IS A POEM FOR ME SOMEWHERE THIS MORNING

There is a poem for me somewhere this morning
I will find it somehow
Perhaps it is in the memory of my father
Whose Yahrtzeit is today
Twenty- two years.
Perhaps it is as it is often
In the morning light
When I first walk outside to Shul
Perhaps it is in the deep need for a poem
For my own justification
Perhaps it is in my daughter’s search
For poems of inspiration
Perhaps it is in many things mixed together
Most of which I have not yet
And may never bring to mind
There is a poem for me somewhere this morning
I am writing it now
It is not beautiful
And not the best
And maybe even not much of a poem
There is a poem for me somewhere this morning
And I am not alone.

poem by Shalom Freedman
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Lovely, Lovely, Lovely Memories Too

Lovely 6

On Sundays papa buys some kilos of big crabs
He cooks them and puts shredded coconuts inside them

Cooked in pure white coconut oil

All the family prays for this sumptuous dinner
No one is late & everyone is present.

Lovely 7

The white ducks all gather in the backyard during the black night
After eating brown snails in the green ricefield the whole day

Early morning you gather all their white eggs
Scattered everywhere like white stones

Your big brown basket is full as they look at you without any quack.

Lovely 8

It is midnight and everyone is asleep
You hear the slow rain dripping by the window pane

On a nipa roof
As you write your 8th love poem

Her face is still beautiful even when completely asleep

Lovely 9

25 years you have not heard of her
Tomorrow is Valentine’s Day

In your email a valentine’s greeting pops up
It is from her and you save it

Tomorrow morning you will open it again
Looking for the right words to read.

Lovely 10

Your music teacher now at 76 drops by
Your house this morning

You are invited for tea in his flower garden
Then he plays some pieces of Mozart

A little white dog wags its tail at you
As your heart jumps with joy.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Wicked Postman

Why do you sit there on the floor so quiet and silent, tell me,
mother dear?
The rain is coming in through the open window, making you all
wet, and you don't mind it.
Do you hear the gong striking four? It is time for my brother
to come home from school.
What has happened to you that you look so strange?
Haven't you got a letter from father today?
I saw the postman bringing letters in his bag for almost
everybody in the town.
Only father's letters he keeps to read himself. I am sure the
postman is a wicked man.
But don't be unhappy about that, mother dear.
Tomorrow is market day in the next village. You ask your maid
to buy some pens and papers.
I myself will write all father's letters; you will not find
a single mistake.
I shall write from A right up to K.
But, mother, why do you smile?
You don't believe that I can write as nicely as father does!
But I shall rule my paper carefully, and write all the letters
beautifully big.
When I finish my writing do you think I shall be so foolish
as father and drop it into the horrid postman's bag?
I shall bring it to you myself without waiting, and letter by
letter help you to read my writing.
I know the postman does not like to give you the really nice
letters.

poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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Authorship

You say that father write a lot of books, but what he write I don't
understand.
He was reading to you all the evening, but could you really
make out what he meant?
What nice stores, mother, you can tell us! Why can't father
write like that, I wonder?
Did he never hear from his own mother stories of giants and
fairies and princesses?
Has he forgotten them all?
Often when he gets late for his bath you have to and call him
an hundred times.
You wait and keep his dishes warm for him, but he goes on
writing and forgets.
Father always plays at making books.
If ever I go to play in father's room, you come and call me,
"What a naughty child!"
If I make the slightest noise you say, "Don't you see that
father's at his work?"
What's the fun of always writing and writing?
When I take up father's pen or pencil and write upon his book
just as he does,-a,b,c,d,e,f,g,h,i,-why do you get cross with me
then, mother?
You never say a word when father writes.
When my father wastes such heaps of paper, mother, you don't
seem to mind at all.
But if I take only one sheet to take a boat with, you say,
"Child, how troublesome you are!"
What do you think of father's spoiling sheets and sheets of
paper with black marks all over both sides?

poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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The Poem I Am Writing Now

The poem I am writing now
does not know if it will be finished
it does not even know if it will be a poem -
it is slowly appearing line by line
and making its own meaning on the page-

Is it worth anything?
will anyone care?
I don't know -

The poem I am writing now
is just these lines
and these lines like all lines
are only small words
in a vast universe
that has long lived
and will probably longer live
without them.

Why then write these words now?

The poem I am writing now is saying,
'I am here now'.

But why should this mean anything to anyone else?

The poem I have written here
is not the poem I would have posted here
It is only the poem I am finishing now
a poem without great love or belief in itself.

The poem I am writing now
is written.

poem by Shalom Freedman
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The Poem That Perhaps Never Should Have Been Written

THE POEM THAT PERHAPS NEVER SHOULD HAVE BEEN WRITTEN

Not the poem of yesterday
Nor the poem of tomorrow
But the poem of today-
What gives life meaning now.
Not the poem as it is read
But the poem as it is written.
Not the certain poem
But the poem that does not know
If it truly is a poem.
The poem that gives hope only when it is written-
The lesser poem-
The poem that perhaps never should have been written.
The poem I am writing now,
Perhaps for myself alone
The lesser poem
The poem that perhaps should never have been at all.

poem by Shalom Freedman
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Butter in her mouth

Butter in her mouth
School time is just too over, waking up and ready for the school otherwise I will beat you bitterly.
He put off the bed sheet from my body, stretched my hand,
In addition, put me on my foot.
Tears came in my eyes then I went slowly and slowly to my mother in the kitchen,
I put my finger towards my father
And complained about the rude behavior of my father,
Who was asking him to go to the school?
She embraced me; kiss my fore head, and politely asking me to become ready to school because I have to be an officer by studying in the school.
Orders were the same.
Father orders me to wake up and to go to the school while he was having a stick in his hand.
Mother also orders him to go to the school having butter in her mouth.
(From the diary of an Indian)

poem by Vijay Gupta
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What Mother Tells Me

she is always the first to wake up in the house
as she prays the rosary
and father follows to check the carabao on the side
of the hill and transfer it to a greener pasture

while we their children are still asleep
always wanting more sleep on those cold days
curled in our bed covered with thick blankets
and soft pillows on our heads and our ears all covered up
against the sound of the kitchen
our eyes hiding from the light of the morning sun

and mother pulls my blanket
and takes my arm and hugs me and tells me

wake up! wake up! the night is over
go to the river and take your bath

there is no one on your side now
the rest have gone to their respective tasks

wake up! wake up! my son
go and clean yourself and face the day because
the night is over

and these words still cling to my ears:
the night is over
and another one will be coming

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I have a lot of memories of Falls Church. I went to grade school in Madison Elementary School.

quote by Jim Fowler
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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This Poem Will Be For My Mother And Father

THIS POEM WILL BE FOR MY MOTHER AND FATHER

This poem will be for my mother and father
In my old age-
Why not one more poem for them?
Who were my world
Who gave me what I am
Who in their life together
Struggled and endured through the pain
Loved in their own way-
Raised us-
Why not think of them again?
This early morning in Israel
Far away from Troy New York
Where they made their story?
Why not one small poem for them,
Who are no longer here
Who were everything once?
Why not for Ma and Dad,
The only ones the real ones the ones I love
Ma and Dad and Jakie and Joycie and me.

poem by Shalom Freedman
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Unexpected Father.

Your mother
had brought Helen

home for tea after school
and she had held on

to the handle
of the pram

your mother pushed
and you walked

along side
thinking of whether

to show her
your toy soldiers

and cowboys and Indians
and the guns

that fired
loud banging caps

or whether to just sit
and watch the TV

and eat your tea
and show her nothing

but once you got home
and your mother went off

to the kitchen to prepare
the tea stuff and such

Helen looked at you
and shyly smiled

and said
Can I see your sister's dolls

and pram
and does she have

a doll's house
I could play with?

you dismissed the idea
of showing her

the guns that fired caps
or your toy soldier collection

and took her
into the room

where you kept the toys
and pointed to

your sister's dolls
and the pram

and said
Take care

my sister doesn't like
people messing

with her stuff
and Helen nodded

and picked up a doll
and held it to her chest

and rocked it
to and fro

and walked up and down
murmuring there there sounds

that echoed softly
around the room

Where's your sister?
Helen asked

will she mind me
rocking the baby to sleep?

Guess not
you replied

and stood watching her
as she walked

and talked to the doll
in an undertone

and you stood there
hands in pockets

like a father
of an unexpected child

wondering what to say
or do and taking in

her thick lens glasses
and her eyes

seemingly enlarged
focusing on the doll

and the way her head
moved from side to side

so that her plaited hair
went from side to side

and up and down
and she said softly

and suddenly
We may have a baby like this

one day and you had better
say something more

than you are now
or I'll think

you didn't want it
and off she walked

up and down the room
and hoped your mother

would come soon
and save you from the fate

of being the father
of a doll with a dodgy eye

and a painted smile
but having a tender spot

for Helen
all the while.

poem by Terry Collett
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Father

Father, blessed father,
Its morning again.
I give you, father, myself, father,
Continue your plan.
I know together we can climb mountains in the sky.
No one can stop us when Im standing by your side.
Troubles knocking here again;
Ill tell him jesus has me by his hand.
Hell walk me through.
Father, loving father,
Create in me
A pure love, father, your love, father,
Instill it in me.
I remember the nights Ive cried for you;
Now I only have to die for you;
Thank you, lord, youve made it clear just for me.
I see the light;
Its burning out the night.
Oh, father,
Its morning.
Morning.
Morning.
Morning.
Morning.
Morning.
Morning.
Morning.
Morning.
Morning.
Morning.
Morning.
Morning.
Morning.
Morning.
Morning.
Morning.
Morning.

song performed by by Amy Grant
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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