Travelling
a travel is a metaphor of a journey
and a journey is always
what life is all about
arrivals and departures and i see it well
at airports
and well, so well, at pre-departures
then we move inside the plane and
the doors close and we are lifted to the skies
for hours you are beside the clouds
but you never have the courage to open the window
and touch each fine cotton beside you
crazy but sometimes i think that way
opening closed windows and think not of the
prohibitions and the consequencies,
there is so much silence up there and it is the mind
that does much of the talking and you listen
always for the reminders of the stewardess
and the captain telling you that
we are 30,000 feet above sea level and out there
you see Panay Island
we will be flying for one hour and a half
it is a fine day
and then the seat belt sign is on for the
turbulence but you do not mind
you look forward to an arrival and the another
opening of a door to a destination
touchdown, the plane lands perfectly as always
no plane crash, no headlines for the daily news
but i do not really think about these matters anymore
i am thinking of the silence. I am thinking about the mind that
keeps on talking. Data. Ideas. Sad memories.
Dead parents. Sick sibling. Flowers. Trees.
The sun brightly shining behind a
Thick Cumulus cloud.
the stewardess announces an arrival, fifteen minutes
earlier than scheduled. Fast plane. My thoughts unconsumed.
we step down. we take our bags. this journey never stops.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Plane
when it starts to fly it is being met by this rain.
there is this strong wind ahead of us and some dark clouds
the stewardess announces said state and we are 30,000 feet
above the mountains
yes, these are the bumpy skyways.
i close my eyes. i think of you, the house, the garden, the room,
and the two dogs you are caring.
(will we crash? will this plane fall to the ground? shall we die in an instant?)
i close my eyes.
then the plane steadies. i open my eyes.
there are clear clouds. below is a wide expanse of the blue sea.
i look at the wings of the plane.
and then its wheels touch the ground.
the door opens.
it is another world for me.
i feel the importance of the ground. Its glory. Its reign now.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Friendly Skies
Missy:
Yeah
A little slow jam
Kiss me Hold me
The weatherman says it's gonna be
Cold tonight
Whatever man
Whatever whatever whatever whatever whatever
Whatever man you wanna do
I'll be the pilot
Don't miss your flight
I'm stewardess of the plane
Feel the turbulence and maintain
Please refrain stay in your seats
Until we reach the game
I'm stewardess of the plane
Feel the turbulence and maintain
Please refrain stay in your seats
Ginuwine:
Take me higher
Let's just go for a little
Joy Ride
Whatever man
Whatever whatever whatever whatever
Let's stay
Buckled up
And let's make love
Across the friendly skies
I'm passenger of this plane
I feel the turbulence I maintain
I will refrain Stay in my seat
Till I reach the game
I'm passenger of this plane
I feel the turbulence I maintain
I will refrain
I stay in my seat
I want you (I want you)
Baby
song performed by by Missy Elliott from Supa Dupa Fly
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Fait accompli
the plane took off
i realized i did not like the aisle seat
i transferred to the window seat
and the stewardess said
'excuse me, sir! ' trying to stop me
for doing so,
i pretended i heard no one
moved as fast a i can towards the window seat
fastened my seat belt
and put my head
well rested on the
beside the window
below the clouds flew
past me
on a deceiving speed
the mountains spread
benumbing
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Morning blue sky
Morning blue sky
~
Looking upon a pale blue sky
A plane cuts across my sight
That sharp white line climbs
Into a journey to begin the day
Off into a wandering fantasy
A stirring of birds fill the view
Like a thousand thoughts
All the world slowly waking
Still not a cloud to be seen
Last nights sleep rubbed from eyes
While watching the plane disappear
The fading white trail ebbs away
A journey somewhere beginning
Or perhaps another’s ending
The fantasy of a journey
Looking into a morning blue sky
Stirs the waking mind
poem by Matthew Holloway
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A Nigthmare
i take the plane
at 2 a.m.
cebu bound, and
i dream that
the plane crashed
and that
we are all dead
our souls look
down upon our
torn flesh
some are burnt
unidentifiable
we are so silent
like stones without
winds
x x x x x x
the plane touches down
perfectly well
at the airport
silently we line up
to step out
from a nightmare that
i only know
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Yep, You Told Me
A plane crashed
Between Chicago and LA
It's all my fault
I didn't do the pre-check
I'm a bit shook-up
Oh Bea
You tried to warn me
You said, 'Young man,
This plane has got to crash
It don't have no pilot
It's running out of gas'
I said, 'Bea,
You just don't see
I'm flying this plane
And the gas will last'
But the engines started to putter
My mind began to flutter
As I held onto the wheel
If it had to smash
I'll die with it
That's the only thing I could see
Then I said,
'Wait a minute
what am I doing
I have to jump'
You know Bea
I'm an injured man
But I'm a living man
That's the way it should be
But the wounds will heal
Again I'll feel
And I don't know
Guess I'll have to see
poem by Roger Harkness
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Too Much Talk
there is so much talk
on TV
this morning on some
bleak news of
the crash
of the financial market
the crash of
an Indian plane
the crash of the
whole world
turning glaciers into
water
the extinction of the prakees
and the parakeets
the journey of the tadpoles
on higher places of
the mountains
there is so much talk
so much talk
i turn the TV off
and savor the taste
of my
breakfast of
silence.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Between The Cebu-Bacolod Skyways
i like the window
this is where i usually sit on my plane rides
upon the mountains below
the clouds are sleeping as they move
like fish
they say sleep
and yet flow with the movement of the waves
and then
discover
as one wakes up that this is no longer
the same place
but another set of mountains
fencing a new city
your destination
at night when you arrive there
as the plane makes its
touchdown
you want to find another feeling
like you are another driftwood
transported anew
to another bank of the river
the feeling is like an old ancestral house
you remember
the past like all those clouds that you pass
by in different shapes
back-grounded by a shift of orange
and yellow lights
until something clears them out
blinded
or you become a
blank piece of paper
searching for
new words, and yet, and this is sad,
it is the same
nothing's changed
what you want not to meet anymore
is there
waiting for you
and you forge a smile
yet no matter what it is as raw as
meat with blood still
dripping on the side
time does not subside the
pain
there is no automatic cure
even your
escape to other places of
your mind
your heart will always
tell the truth to you
in fact....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I Want To Live On An Abstract Plain
Ive had it with this town
I never saw those shifting skies
I never saw the ground
Or the sunset rise
I want to live on an abstract plane
Im building a frame
A place to put my ten-yard stare
Thinking of that paint
Painted in plein-air
I want to live on an abstract plane
I need a new adress
I want some new terrain
Is it north or south?
I want to live on an abstract plain
I could sit on the roof
On top of that abstract house
See my abstract view
An abstract mouse
I want to live on an abstract plane
I need a new adress
Tell me Im not insane
Is it up or down?
I want to live on an abstract plane
song performed by by Frank Black
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Life And Time
if life is a book, then time is pen--writing pages of life journey;
if life is a piece of white paper, then time is color--painting more colorful life journey;
if life is a long river, then time is surging waves--pushing forward of life journey;
if life is a tree, then time is pieces of green leaves--enriching life journey;
if life is a door, then time is just the key--opening new start of life journey;
if life is a cup of coffee, then time is a bag of condiments--flavoring into life journey;
if life is a scene of tv play, then time is nameless leading role in it--performing its own speical and unique life journey;
if life is a oil painting, then time is its palette--rendering life journey;
if life is a fast horse, then time is its running greenland--carrying load of life journey;
if life is a greenland, then time is spring rain--moisturing nutrition of life journey
...........
this is ur own life, a life which only belong to ur own, ur sepcial and unique one.......
poem by Flying Heart
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The Omen
The Omen
I heard the sound of a plane looked up
a big carrier going north, it was white
and had an orange tail.
In one of its portholes my brother sat
looking out he had a serious face and
I think he was day-dreaming.
I waved he took his glasses off polished,
and put them back on, politely waved
too, but I don’t think he saw me clearly.
The plane vanished into a cloud of fine
woven air, I listened to its silence till a
crowing crow in a tree broke the hush.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Beatles Memory
Listening to ' Beatles Sunday Morning'
Reminds me of a foggy London memory.......
Spent nine hours on a plane from JFK
Some years ago back in the 60's
Attempting to land in London
Fog so thick no way to get down
So up we go and circle, circle, circle 'round...
Still no visibility, so back we go
To Shannon, landing there to refuel;
Wanting to throw up - so queezy!
Sat on that plane for 2 hours eating Rolaids
But I do recall the beauty of the country
As we soared high above and circled 'round......
I vowed to return one day
When my stomach could handle the trip;
So here we go again, onward to England
This time the fog has lifted
And there on top of the buildings
Throngs of people are waving and shouting....
Certainly not for this American plane,
But for the Beatles - on a plane
Coming down somewhere behind us!
What a thrill! And here we are in London
Just in time for dinner -' on the house'
Thanks to the delay in reaching our destination.
That's the closest I'll ever get to 'royalty'
But still a memory I'll treasure forever.
Our Arrival
our arrival is greeted by the wagging of a tail
and the jumping of a dog long denied
of company.
our arrival is the opening of the windows
the winds come
and once again kiss the furniture
and the room shows once more
the luster of an almost forgotten
fullness
our arrival shall keep the blankets
warm again
it shall unlock the bolts and shall
once more open a closed door
our arrival shall give us the sounds
of faucets
the flushing of an old water
inside the bowl long silenced by the
kind of absence that
sometimes want a revival of newer
perspectives
our arrival is a reconstruction of ourselves
for once again
we shall make the questions open
and then, if you only know, the meaning of things
that grow again, like seeds, these, all of these
shall make an arrival interesting....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Silver Bird
This morning as I walked, I gazed out across my land
Lying there all still lying there upon the sand
A big silver bird had planted itself into the ground
And being the kind of person who isnt very easily alarmed
Decided to take a walk to see just what I could find
Walked around the walls, tapping to find me a door
Looking for a windows to see if I could find out more
Big silver bird let me inside your plane
Want to fly so high fly me high, away
All of a sudden the door slid back and someone was there
A strange kind of being spoke to me in my tongue
Step inside, well take you away in our plane
Well fly you so high, youll never have the chance to complain
To leave this earth, never even (? ? ? ) ...
Stepping inside I fixed myself into a seat
Holding on, lord, I heard them engines start to beat
Big silver bird let me inside your plane
Want to fly so high, fly me high away
(instrumental part)
song performed by by Ufo
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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for F.T.
gifted with the mind and heart
you decided not to use any of them
not to think and feel and love and desire
what is left then? a heart wilting a mind drying
you exist like an everyday occurrence
of sleeping and waking and going and coming
arrivals and departures become anything
a routine and so much like a door closing and opening
who is it and for whom and what for and why
to you it does not matter, this is nothing but everyday
you add no essence anymore not any seasoning
the fat in you melts and liquefies and turns to gas and evaporates
it lands as a smell of meat somewhere in the lawn
the people pass by the house like some shadows against the sun
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Seated At D
at the F seat of
the plane
the fat man with scattered white hair
talks that his daughter is
graduating tomorrow
in high school,
the E seat man
makes a link that his son is
graduating this afternoon
in the elementary school
they are overseas workers
from Jeddah
they are talking about salaries
and other incentives
the thin one brags that he
can work overtime and on fridays
he sidelines as driver
in the desert
road
I am the D seat man
i close my eyes and take my sleep
the plane sails like a ship in
a very calm sea &
i really have nothing to say.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Once when I was in Hawaii, on the island of Kauai, I met a mysterious old stranger. He said he was about to die and wanted to tell someone about the treasure. I said, "Okay, as long as it's not a long story. Some of us have a plane to catch, you know." He stared telling his story, about the treasure and his life and all, and I thought "This story isn't too long." But then, he kept going, and I started thinking, "Uh-oh, this story is getting long." But then the story was over, and I said to myself "You know, that story wasn't too long after all." I forget what the story was about, but there was a good movie on the plane. It was a little long, though.
Jack Handey in Deep Thoughts
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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air travel in a Dakota
Air Travel in a Dakota (1956)
White as sheet, the virtual page in front of me, I want to compose a gentle
whisper of a memory. Thought of my first flight, an old Dakota plane, that
looked like a diesel stinking bus inside. I looked under the seat to find
the parachute, but the steward said there weren’t any. Disappointing I had
seen myself jumping out off the burning plane land safely and be in
the newspapers. The steward handed out sweets I pretended to eat one,
thought it might be a drug to keep us quiet, this made sense since many of
the passengers were drunk. Turbulence, like driving on a bad country lane,
I threw up in a paper bag. The plane landed in Sweden, the flight had only
lasted an hour. Walked tall across the grey tarmac, nonchalant presented
my passport to an immigration officer. Here comes a seasoned traveler.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Next Plane To London
Im on the next plane to london
Leaving on runway number five
Next plane to london and Im missing her
That baby of mine
Told her I was gonna be a star
But to do it I would have to go far away
But Ill come back someday
And take her away
Im on the next plane to london
Leaving on runway number five
Next plane to london and Im missing her
That baby of mine
Said that over here I wasnt in
Down in hollywood I couldnt find a friend
Who would help me get in
Or listen to me
Im on the next plane to london
Leaving on runway number five
Next plane to london and Im missing her
That baby of mine
Maybe over there Ill get a start
Only hope by leaving I dont break her heart
The more important part
Than any record on the chart
Next plane to london
Leaving on runway number five
Next plane to london and Im missing her
That baby of mine
Next plane to london
Leaving on runway number five
Next plane to london and Im missing her
Whoa-whoa
song performed by by They Might Be Giants
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Positive and the Negative Charges
More people die yearly in car accidents than in a plane crash,
But the British, John Boyd Dunlop, invented the rubber tyre in 1888.
More people die yearly in car accidents than in a plane crash,
But Rudulf Diesel invented the diesel engine with patent Nr.67207 in 1892.
More people die yearly in car accidents than in a plane crash,
But Carl Benz invented his car with patent Nr.37435 in 1886.
More people die yearly in car accidents than in a plane crash,
And today we are bombarded with many vehicles arouns us!
But to everything in this life, we do have the positive and the negative charges;
And like the pros and the cons of any act.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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