The Grasses Wilt In Summer
On the hour of my death
The ricefields are empty
The grasses wilt in summer
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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On the hour of my death
The rice fields are empty
The grasses wilt in summer
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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x15-I Saw My Death
-Jane Spencers-
My grave has kept away my secrets.
The leaves are greener, the grasses-taller.
I heard you talking to me
with your solemn tears...
you didn't have to say you're sorry
for taking away my cheers;
for taking away my lover...
for making it all over.
Coz it's not the reason why i died...
as this empty earth has always denied.
The petals had fallen, the waters had flowed...
leaves are greener, grasses standing on the ground.
I saw my death when I saw his face-
how it glowed when he looked at you deeply;
he looked at you the way he never did to me.
I saw my death when I saw his smile-
he smiled beyond his heart when
he smiled at you sweetly...
He smiled at you the way he never did to me.
I saw my death when he looked into my eyes,
and all i can see is my empty grave,
and all others are lies.
When he looked at me, but it's you he sees...
I never want to breath.
The day he said he loves you
was the day I saw my death.
poem by Jessel Jane Tevar
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The Golden Fields Of Rice
soon it will be harvest time
and you will see the women all wrapped in their sarong
their heads covered against the sun
bowing before these golden ricefields harvesting the
produce of their plowing and sowing men
soon it will be another happy hour
of drinking and singing and merry making
some debts will be paid off
the children shall remain in school
delicious dinners shall be served on the table
and happy conversations shall be in place
in the backyards of these working people
soon the fields will be empty again
some dried stalks will be left
some grains remain unpicked
by then it will be summer and the sun
will be so scorching
there will be changes going between the sowing and the harvesting
my faith shall keep staying amidst the cycles of the sun and the rain
the wet and the dry seasons of this tropical place
the mudding and the cracking of the paths
i will always keep going
to walk on like i am bound for a certain destination
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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What Makes The Summer?
It is not the lark's clear tone
Cleaving the morning air with a soaring cry,
Nor the nightingale's dulcet melody all the balmy night--
Not these alone
Make the sweet sounds of summer;
But the drone of beetle and bee, the murmurous hum of the fly
And the chirp of the cricket hidden out of sight--
These help to make the summer.
Not roses redly blown,
Nor golden lilies, lighting the dusky meads,
Nor proud imperial pansies, nor queen-cups quaint and rare--
Not these alone
Make the sweet sights of summer
But the countless forest leaves, the myriad wayside weeds
And slender grasses, springing up everywhere--
These help to make the summer.
One heaven bends above;
The lowliest head ofttimes has sweetest rest;
O'er song-bird in the pine, and bee in the ivy low,
Is the same love, it is all God's summer;
Well pleased is He if we patiently do our best,
So hum little bee, and low green grasses grow,
You help to make the summer.
poem by Marietta Holley
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This Early Morning With You Talking And Talking
regret, it is with deep regret that i tell you
that i regret sitting on this
computer chair
and facing the screen
and i am here writing for you
as you talk and talk
and talk and talk
like a quacking duck
oh Adam did not lay eggs,
or have the temerity to hatch them and so the chickens came first
how nice of you
regret that is all i feel now
i could have gone
out and take my walk
i could have read
the most wonderful poetry
of the trail
the line of green mahogany trees
blooming with their summer leaves
the sun finally coming out
with an array of clouds
and white herons
gliding and landing
on ricefields
and grasses creeping
and covering
the mud and the stones
indeed, it would have
been lovelier that way
and i should have
been happier
than simply sitting
and writing
and feeling
what poetry should
not be
this early morning
with you
what a hell!
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Guilt Will Wilt The Sweetest Flower
[Song Lyric]
Guilt will wilt the sweetest flower,
Cause the very sun to glower,
Though the skies their tears may shower.
Guilt will wilt the sweetest flower.
Shame will tame the lion's power,
Make the boldest warrior cower,
Turn the taste of triumph sour.
Guilt will wilt the sweetest flower.
For each mister, miss, or madam,
Son or lover— this is so.
In the Bible Eve and Adam
Did discover long ago...
That guilt will wilt the sweetest flower,
Steal the pleasure from the hour,
Even in the greenest bower—
Guilt will wilt the sweetest flower.
poem by Harley White
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An Invite, to Eternity
Wilt thou go with me, sweet maid,
Say, maiden, wilt thou go with me
Through the valley-depths of shade,
Of night and dark obscurity;
Where the path has lost its way,
Where the sun forgets the day,
Where there's nor life nor light to see,
Sweet maiden, wilt thou go with me!
Where stones will turn to flooding streams,
Where plains will rise like ocean waves,
Where life will fade like visioned dreams
And mountains darken into caves,
Say, maiden, wilt thou go with me
Through this sad non-identity,
Where parents live and are forgot,
And sisters live and know us not!
Say, maiden; wilt thou go with me
In this strange death of life to be,
To live in death and be the same,
Without this life or home or name,
At once to be and not to be -
That was and is not -yet to see
Things pass like shadows, and the sky
Above, below, around us lie?
poem by John Clare
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A Digital Photo Of The Ricefields
ripe ricefields early one morning
as i take my walk
it is a wide rectangular field
and on its tip on the right side
from this gravelled road
is an island of banana shrubs
bamboo grasses
and mahogany trees
and there is an old well there
that survives the past droughts
for scores of years
a little focusing will show
that there are bathers
there and one of them
is lovely.
Zoom in.
Never mind, she is too shy
and she is just for me.
Her eyes are soft
not like the almonds
her skin is smooth
like a ripe mango.
Zoom in.
She is bathing now.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Invitation To Eternity
Say, wilt thou go with me, sweet maid,
Say, maiden, wilt thou go with me
Through the valley-depths of shade,
Of bright and dark obscurity;
Where the path has lost its way,
Where the sun forgets the day,
Where there's nor light nor life to see,
Sweet maiden, wilt thou go with me?
Where stones will turn to flooding streams,
Where plains will rise like ocean's waves,
Where life will fade like visioned dreams
And darkness darken into caves,
Say, maiden, wilt thou go with me
Through this sad non-identity
Where parents live and are forgot,
And sisters live and know us not?
Say, maiden, wilt thou go with me
In this strange death of life to be,
To live in death and be the same,
Without this life or home or name,
At once to be and not to be--
That was and is not--yet to see
Things pass like shadows, and the sky
Above, below, around us lie?
The land of shadows wilt thou trace,
Nor look nor know each other's face;
The present marred with reason gone,
And past and present both as one?
Say, maiden, can thy life be led
To join the living and the dead?
Then trace thy footsteps on with me:
We are wed to one eternity.
poem by John Clare
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Death, My Friend
Death, my friend - so good to see you!
Stand aloft and view my soul!
I have to say you’re looking frightful -
Bony chum, you affable ghoul.
Death, my friend, so charmed I’m sure!
State your case and tell me straight -
Am I worthy of reward, so
Venture I to Heaven’s Gate?
Death, my friend, a new acquaintance!
You're always welcome in my home -
Though the stare from empty sockets
Indicates to Hell we roam!
Death, my friend - my bosom buddy.
My! your finger points at me!
Be you tired of my frivolity?
Aha, I see - Oblivion, we!
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2009
Death death death death death death
Death death death death death death
Death death death death death death
Death death death death death death
Death death death death death death
poem by Mark R Slaughter
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Night Close
Under night close
Death rose to greet me.
I turned; looked back,
Though nothing beckoned -
No one cried or mourned.
Scorned by all
- My fellow race -
I shed the byes to empty space, then
Gazed upon the stony face
Of Death anon, and
So chose our treaty.
Line of Death
death death death death death death death death death death death
poem by Mark R Slaughter
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Green Grasses
Green beautiful grasses
Where lands the butterflies
Green grasshoppers just hopped
Greedily shining beautifully to be alive
Looking deeply in ones gazing eyes
And don't know how to say goodbye
Or tell ones flesh never to smile freely
With these green grasses
That smiles with a dog tooth
For flesh makes grasses ever green.
Green beautiful grasses
Just doesn't feel right
Growing on a burial ground
Across ones head
Having no yesterday,
And no to-morrow.
Forgetting thoughts, taught, time
Forgetting fortune, life and love
Lying at peace
With grasses growing all over ones head
Green beautiful grasses
Where I lay when I rise to the morning sun
Stretching legs during the burning ray
Forgetting about death or life
Feeling an angel
Angels cherish a background
Looking so beautiful,
A sight to see
A scene to show
How deep is a love….
written by: Onyeche Vincent Onyeka
© 2012
poem by Onyekachukwu Vincent Onyeche
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Disciplined
like a disciplined cat
he sits on the chair
on a motionless scale
staring at an empty
breakfast table
an empty cup
an empty bowl
on those empty hours
she expects him to say
meow
but he didn't
in an hour he left and
tells the wind about it.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Observations Of The Man With A Broken Heart Spending Summer In A Getaway Beach
mother finally decided
to transfer his son to another
school in the busy city
there was something that she saw
and she did not like it
the son knows it
but like her says nothing about it
all the people saw it
but no one dares to mention it
taboos are silent pebbles
gritting to the coldness of the waves
not hurting to the eyes
but the ears are intolerant
it is during summer
that the pebbles begin to wear their angry eyes
the sands borrow the glitter of diamonds
the air is humid like a frigid woman
the trees shed off leaves
and grasses begin to wilt
the sea in its silence
has told more stories than the babbling kid
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Those Empty People...
for in truth how can days be empty
with the sun up high
and grasses green below
and clouds of blue
in between?
those hollow men
chests filled with air
and words
without clarity and direction
words without meaning
spoken
without flesh and bones
promises and promises
nothing real
shattered principles
broken glass
indeed there are only empty
men speaking their
empty words
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Imitation of Lines
ADDRESSED BY M. D--, A YOUNG MAN OF TWENTY-
FOUR YEARS OF AGE, THE NIGHT BEFORE HIS
EXECUTION, TO A YOUNG LADY TO WHOM
HE WAS ENGAGED.-1794.
I.
THE hour that calls to death is near,
It brings to me no throb of fear;
The breast that honour arms, can brave
The murd'rer's steel, th' untimely grave;
But thou, to whom I gave my heart,
From thee for ever must I part?
Wilt thou not hear my latest sigh?-
Ah, 'tis a cruel task to die!
II.
To-morrow, my clos'd eyes no more
Shall gaze on beauty I adore;
To-morrow, sadd'ning every grace,
Unceasing tears shall bathe thy face;
To-morrow, chill'd by death's cold grasp,
This hand no longer thine shall clasp;
For thou-no more wilt thou be nigh-
Ah, 'tis a cruel task to die!
poem by Helen Maria Williams
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Too soon so fair, fair lilies
TOO soon so fair, fair lilies;
To bloom is then to wane;
The folded bud has still
To-morrow at its will;
Blown flowers can never blow again.
Too soon so bright, bright noontide;
The sun that now is high
Will henceforth only sink
Towards the western brink;
Day that's at prime begins to die.
Too soon so rich, ripe summer,
For autumn tracks thee fast;
Lo, death-marks on the leaf!
Sweet summer, and my grief;
For summer come is summer past.
Too soon, too soon, lost summer;
Some hours and thou art o'er.
Ah! death is part of birth:
Summer leaves not the earth,
But last year's summer lives no more.
poem by Augusta Davies Webster
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A Hymn to God the Father
Wilt thou forgive that sin where I begun,
Which is my sin, though it were done before?
Wilt thou forgive that sin through which I run,
And do run still, though still I do deplore?
When though hast done, thou hast not done,
For I have more.
Wilt thou forgive that sin by which I have won
Others to sin? and made my sin their door?
Wilt thou forgive that sin which I did shun
A year or two, but wallowed in a score?
When thou hast done, thou hast not done,
For I have more.
I have a sin of fear, that when I have spun
My last thread, I shall perish on the shore;
Swear by thy self, that at my death thy Son
Shall shine as he shines now and heretofore;
And, having done that, thou hast done,
I fear no more.
poem by John Donne
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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We say that the hour of death cannot be forecast, but when we say this we imagine that hour as placed in an obscure and distant future. It never occurs to us that it has any connection with the day already begun or that death could arrive this same afternoon, this afternoon which is so certain and which has every hour filled in advance.
quote by Marcel Proust
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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