The Sound Of Children
it is their sound that makes
this world lovable still
under the mango tree
when the wind starts to blow
when the ripe mangoes fall
to the ground and the children
starts to scramble for their
share of the ripe ones.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Day In Summer
perhaps only some of you
knew what really happened
things that we did
at the prime of our youth
the one at the river was not true
neither was the one at the cogon grasses
the rumors were too advanced
and bent like a misshapen twig
perhaps this time you must have known
what joys we shared
picking ripe mangoes on that huge tree
at the foot of the hill
we drove no monkeys away
and no monkeys did give us any bother
the mangoes were too juicy
too ripe for our hands
too fragile for our wantonness
we never brought you any.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Under The Mango Tree
i like the idea
of doing many things under the mango tree
like
watching time go by like it is a stranger
and i
am a stranger too watching time pass by
like i am so interested
with what time
can do to me
making me old
making the mango tree bloom and flower and have fruits
and they are so many
that the mango tree bends
to the ground
and time stays for a while and ripens the fruits
and make all of them
in time
fall one by one to the ground
like some kind
of withered flowers
luscious, sweet, fruits of the mango tree
falling
by the slightest passing of the wind
and then the children
come and with all joy
pick them one by one
putting what they can
under
their shirts and still rushing
to keep
and take some more
under the mango tree
all the people
are so much alike
the rushing, the taking, the joy
of always having more
and it will never stop
as i watch time slowly go by
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Woman is like a mango
A girl is a mango infantile,
That tastes in pickles.
A lass is about ripe mango,
That tastes in curries.
A woman is a ripe mango,
That tastes with its flesh.
At forties as juice and at fifties
As jelly, she lingers to my taste.
Even in sixties, she is like mango-essence.
In seventies, as endosperm of its nut
She still taste though differently.
Woman to men is evergreen.
29.05.2001, Berhampur
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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On this silly hill
On this silly hill I remember the silly things
That we did
We were so young and we decided to pick
Some ripe mangoes on this silly
Isolated hill away from
Our teasing
Silly friends
And I really liked her a lot
My heart was trembling
Her heart too quivering
We felt we like each other
Feelings like hot chili
Heating our ears
We said we love each other
We promised to love each other
Till the end of days
And so I climbed the mango tree
And picked the most luscious
Delicious mangoes as may be gleaned
From their color and shape
Thinking all the best for her
That I could give
To her
I put all the mangoes in my shirt
And I was silly looking silly like a tray to her
And she picked them one by one
Near my chest lower to my tummy
Nearer to my bulge
I was breathless
As she took more
Ripe mangoes from me
Slowly
Gracefully
Peeling with her mouth and tongue
Licking the yellowish pulp
And she said the mangoes were all
So sweet smelling and delicious
Like me
She was craving
She was raving
I was simply receptive
Giving in
All
To what she wanted
She touched my heart and we were silly
On our teens we did
What married people did on this silly hill
Isolated from silly friends
We did something adventurous
We had something marvelous
We did all those silly things
Like wild horses
In nature’s ways
Galloping
Breath taking
The years passed and now I am reaching fifty
Looking back I remember the silly things that we
Young silly people on our early teens did on this silly hill
We went and parted and she married the right man for her
I too went my own separate direction, taking a wife on my own
Looking back,
I feel sad,
I feel happy
What we silly teeny people did which we think was silly
Was all done in the name of pure love so endless
We were all virgins in love & we all thought of nothing else
Love and love and love
The mango was a symbol also of love
The silly hill was the seat of love
The mango tree was a climb of love
The isolation was all in the name of love
The whole was but love’s marvel
Love’s adventure
Love and love and love was all that we had
All love and love
Pure love
Unmixed untainted unblemished unadulterated
And they think it was silly
And I once thought it was silly
On that silly hill remembering the silly things we did
The silly things we said and promised
We did not talk about money, politics and family strategy
We did not bother about inheritance, a family name, a community reputation
We were not told whom to marry and when and always why.
Love can be developed and marriage can always be arranged
That to me are the silly things that we people do to ourselves.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Mango Tree And The Children
the mango tree
blooms on the month
of May
fruits are heavy
soon
on all its branches
is opulence
Comes June
the children come
with their sticks
and slings
and stones
the mango tree is
hit once again
and all the fruits
fall to the
ground
the children
have all the fun
saliva flows from
tongues
dipping in
salt
as early as that
they know what fun is
by hurting those
that fruit so well
by taking the fruits
beyond
what they actually
need
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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There Is No Substitute For What Is Present...
to view an apple in the internet
or climb an apple tree with many ripe apples
in cyberspace
they are nothing
compared to the ripe mango in my hands
to a virtual love that is described as true
love making vicarious
that is nothing compared to a kiss
that i planted on your
cheek of
peach
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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It Starts With A Kiss
It starts with a kiss,
That brings the world down,
A kiss,
That makes my body give in,
It starts with a kiss,
And your hands,
Slowly moving down my back,
And lifting me up to put my legs around you,
It starts with a kiss,
Our lips will do what they do,
My lips will part,
When yours do,
It starts with a kiss,
With my hands through your hair,
And with your hands on my waist,
Man this world seems to quake,
It starts with a kiss,
Man this is so fair,
Your lips feel so good,
On mine that just sit their,
It starts with a kiss,
That makes the whole room stop,
They see sparks fly,
And the room glow in a light so pure,
It starts with a kiss,
But when your lips leave mine,
My neck feels their company,
Then my body gives into you,
It starts with a kiss,
Your lips seem to know what to do,
Cause they are moving up and down my neck,
Once that ends they find my lips again,
It starts with a kiss,
And my body sub comes to you,
And once again,
The Kiss Is Where It All Begins! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !
In the Fruit and Veg
Knocking you listen
to the sound
that a watermelon makes
to test if it is ripe
and I wipe the smile form my face,
trying to look sincere
and the whole of Fruit and Veg is filled
with shoppers, adoring ripe fruit and vegetables
crowding around some places with special offers
like a great vast congregation
gathered in the temple of a god
and tonight you will again
make your great fruit salad
with chopped and sliced mangoes,
papaw, sweet melon, some squeezed orange juice
and grapes
and maybe this afternoon
we will eat the watermelon
in the shade next to the swimming pool.
poem by Gert Strydom
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The Point That You Are Driving At
of all inanimate
you say you want to be a fruit
a mango
luscious, sweet, and
ripe
i know, your point is that
you are ready,
ripe for everything, an end
for itself,
and of all animate,
you say you simply want to be this
mosquito
of the female variety, one that sings
one that tells you
that life sucks
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Afternoon
a woman with a long black hair
sweeps the road
using a coconut broom
three children pass by
and suddenly throws a stone
to the mango tree
a motorcycle speeds its way
from the market
a dog crosses the street
the little girl runs after
we hear a screeching sound of the
brakes
and that is how the case starts
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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That Something Which Went Wrong
there is a ripe papaya
too ripe for my hold and i climb it
too weak for my body
the tree swings to the other side
and then the papaya fruit falls to the
ground
crushed
something goes wrong somewhere
something that you are about to hold
and yet crushes to the ground
looks like a vomit &
you don't want to eat it
back
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Early Morning
the rain just stops showering.
the leaves are wet and some dews are staying.
the sun peeps.the petals of the flowers open up.
some buds follow. some fruits hang heavily on the mango tree.
a pig is tied under and starts burrowing the muddy ground.
some leaves fall. orange in color.
soft winds from the sea come.
the twigs sway. a ripe papaya falls.
a stone receives it.
a cat comes to check if there is any fish.
a dog barks.a bystander runs to the other side of the road.
the canal is full of rainwater. some leaves clog.
moss thickens on the side of the cemented drainage.
a cockcroach runs away and hides on a crevice.
a rat looks over a railing on the roof of the camarin.
an ylang-ylang flower gets caught on the tin roof.
the white sampaguita opens up finally to the
sunny sky. a butterfly hovers. a bee buzzes near my forehead.
my hand makes a snap. it escapes away.
some fruitflies find a new territory on the rotten apple
which i threw last night in the garbage can.
i start the engine of my car. and then to the office i am gone.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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On Promising Fruitfulness of a Tree
A comely sight indeed it is to see
A world of blossoms on an apple-tree:
Yet far more comely would this tree appear,
If all its dainty blooms young apples were.
But how much more might one upon it see,
If all would hang there till they ripe should be.
But most of all in beauty 'twould abound,
If then none worm-eaten should there be found.
But we, alas! do commonly behold
Blooms fall apace, if mornings be but cold.
They too, which hang till they young apples are,
By blasting winds and vermin take despair,
Store that do hang, while almost ripe, we see
By blust'ring winds are shaken from the tree,
So that of many, only some there be,
That grow till they come to maturity.
Comparison.
This tree a perfect emblem is of those
Which God doth plant, which in his garden grows,
Its blasted blooms are motions unto good,
Which chill affections do nip in the bud.
Those little apples which yet blasted are,
Show some good purposes, no good fruits bear.
Those spoiled by vermin are to let us see,
How good attempts by bad thoughts ruin'd be.
Those which the wind blows down, while they are green,
Show good works have by trials spoiled been.
Those that abide, while ripe upon the tree,
Show, in a good man, some ripe fruit will be.
Behold then how abortive some fruits are,
Which at the first most promising appear.
The frost, the wind, the worm, with time doth show,
There flows, from much appearance, works but few.
poem by John Bunyan
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The hostile typhoon
To him,
Voluptuous are her thick lips when she sulks;
Bewildering are her eyes when she lurks;
Enticing is her glow in high voltage.
An irresistible to encapsulate.
To her
Simulating are the moves that he
employs;
Nourishing are the words that he writes.
The unobtrusive is his desire charged.
A ponderous, to put in a nutshell.
Driven by tides of time,
Perfidy stares at her face,
Fanned by the firebrand.
She is half ripe and he, fully ripe.
She is a cold candle set aflame.
A portrayal of sensuality.
With her poise and grace,
She makes him yawn and pine.
With his pen and words,
He makes her wean and lean.
She lets go of her inhibition
And collapses like waves
Splashing against old rock ashore.
He lets go of his reservation
And sweeps, like whirling wind,
The whole olive tree, semi ripe.
Both entangle themselves
And dismantle each other.
All in a hostile typhoon.
Since then rests on them the guilt.
[a middle aged woman and a lad
Were on slippery ground]
16.11.2002
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Autumn Broke Today.
I turned today and Autumn broke
Before my eyes on fields of gold.
Whispered low-key on each haystack
And curled itself through bonfire smoke.
Summer's colour starts unfolding
In cool mists, pales and loses track.
I felt today that Autumn showed
Its hold. Summer, palling, flutters
To the ground. Cracking sound of twigs
Snapping from each tree, as slowly
East wind saps them, then it mutters
Warnings round the wires of riggings.
I sensed today, as Autumn fell
Into hedgerow's berry harvest
Time now to measure well ripe juice,
As chance of losing who can tell?
Nights wrapped in chill will do their best
To blight it, - with Autumn as excuse.
A Sweet View From My Window...
the rain starts to fall
the red hen runs
towards the mango tree
the leaves are thick and
the trunk is old and tall
ten little chicks
red and yellow follow
the tracks of the red hen and
then seek shelter under her feathers
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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When a durian tree is already ripe and sweet, many of the durians will fall to the ground.
Busheled Together
See those apples hanging ripe,
All yet to fall...
From that one tree.
Even though they appear,
To look the same...
If one should examine closer,
Each would have a unique and distinct...
Quality.
Although on that one tree,
One may declare...
Them to have similar identities.
Upon tasting from those apples picked,
One will come to a core...
With seeds inside of it.
And delicious is a sweetness,
When the juice is licked.
But when busheled together from that one tree,
Some may have blemishes.
While others upon inspection may be blemish free.
And all of them have been witnessed,
To be the product of the same tree.
See those apples hanging ripe,
All yet to fall...
From that one tree.
Even though they appear,
To look the same...
If one should examine closer,
Each would have a unique and distinct...
Quality.
And when busheled together,
They are all apples.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Swing of Memories
Hurrying through the crowded city lanes
On one fine sunny day
Lost in my worries
About various this & that
I saw a swing in a nearby park
Surrounded by playful kids
Basking in the sunshine
For one second I was back in time
Swinging with my friends
Lost in careless chatter which
Rhymed with the tinkling of our glass bangles
We were racing against the wind
In our long wooden swing
Hanging beneath the branches of
Benevolent old mango tree
Munching ripe golden mangoes
Shared by squirrels & birds
Relishing each moment of our childhood
Now I am back to present
Childhood long gone
I won't regret
About not being among the kids
It’s their time to enjoy
I have my swing
My swing of memories
To swing always
poem by Ammus Sreeraj
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Something Descriptive Only For What Is In There
inside a wicker basket
are two red apples
beside three persimmons
on top of them
is a ripe mango
still
there is no sound
even a ripple of air
from the window
covered with
white lace curtains.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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