We Are Still The World
amidst all these
collisions
when planets shatter
into
insignificant pieces
when space
eats all of us
dusts to dusts
we shall return
yet we are still
the world
just the two
of us
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Sometimes I am amazed of the magic that is done
It all started with something insignificant
Like dust,
Sticking on a window pane, and I want it
Dusted off, it is dirt, it is unwanted,
And I do not even know what to do next
About such
Insignificance and feelings of simply
Trying to get rid of dust immediately,
But then, I begin to think about this
Dust, this me, this dust in me,
Some dusts on my feet, some dusts on
My forehead, and some dusts in my ears,
Some dusts in my eyes so obstructive
Of what I really am, and I know what to do next,
The bulb lighting in my head in a sudden,
I touch the dust,
I feel the dust with my fingers, and I am crazy enough
I taste the dust on my window pane,
And I shiver,
I am shaking to its taste, the taste of nothingness
If was from dust that I really come,
I now remember,
It will be to dust that I shall return,
I am now reminded,
And the dust that I used to see
As dirt, as something so insignificant, is now,
A magical patch, glistening, so filled with meaning,
I am nothing but dust; I am biting the dust,
I am very insignificant, in that window pane, at first.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Country
i let you drive
as i sit calmly on the rear side of the car,
i do not wish to speak to you
as i watch the countryside
on a very hot summer
rice fields newly harvested
cracking chunks of soil, brown grass, stacks of hay,
trees with yellow leaves, smoke from the house chimneys,
patches of fog hanging on mountains
behind us on this road towards home
dusts, dusts, dusts.....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Dusts
she is a woman fond of cleaning
dust and dirt and
almost everything that
makes this house dirty
or herself, her hands
her clothes and the
furniture that she keeps
on dusting
almost everyday
she slides her fingers
on the table and screens
the surface for dusts
and she thinks
this world must
be free
from dusts
she keeps dusting and dusting
and tonight
she sleeps
deep into
a slumber where
she does not wake up
anymore
she turns to dust
and the wind blows her away at last
poem by Antonio Liao
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Transformations Of Our Being
at first, no matter how trivial
each dust becomes special
since it comes from your tongue
wet with the sweetest saliva of your love,
we always want it that way
that rainy feel
that wets us all over
running down our spine
into the hidden nooks of
our being
that we do not wish to share
with any creature
in this exclusive spot that we found
gee
you say it once
and i join you
in this harmony
of our
differences
wow is my other word
for these ordinary dusts
that go inside me
i become a part
of the boulevard
where lovers
want to spend the
night
with the winds
that change
the arrangements
made by
fate
now to dust
shall we to dust return
but when that time comes
we too
have assumed the body
of the wind
the soul of the earth
the dusts
invincible
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Stars In The Heavens....
i was the praying
mantis on the grass
when we first met
here in this
spot of mud and
water
we talked
and i made promises
like turning
dusts into butterflies
and stones into
birds
and birds into
stars
in that black sky above us
now i am watching
all those stars of you
once stones
without minds of their own
once dusts without
meaning
once birds flying without
directions
i like the way all of you glitter
as i sit upon this strip of grass
covered by
black skies
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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* * *
in this life
there will be more questions than answers
everything seems to start with a what
followed up with when
and where but the most intriguing of course,
that which is unquenchable
that which demands the intervention of some
divinification
is the.....why?
so it is common: why me? why me?
why this? why did this happen to me?
fly to this world like a bird and gather the leaves
of whys
or just see them
they are like dusts, like sands of the shore, they are like
the particles in space, some meteors that they shoot
some planets unrevealed
some other galaxies unknown to us,
why? why?
it goes back again to why, it is true, this world is filled more
with questions
and the answers are getting less and less credible,
somehow others have given up the quest for answers
drowning in wine
and drugged themselves to this puzzle, this confusion,
this unknowables,
it is true, there must be a reason why,
we demand an explanation for the whys in our lives,
but then think somehow,
who are we to ask why?
we must go back to the basics of what, again for another start.
what are we? who are we?
we are but specks of light in the ocean of space
we are but the pebbles of the great rock
we are but fine granules of sand in the shore of this great universe.
i, think, let us be humble enough
to bow our heads, then look to the skies with awe and wonder,
then wait for a while
till the right when comes, then let us ask, why?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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2:15 P.M. Roxas
we smile because they tell us to smile
we project what this world must be
or ought to be, but after that last click
we go back to the
beginning when we were going somewhere without a definite direction
when it was raining so hard and we found no shelter
when every part of us, present and future is wet with
anxiety, and there is no sign that
the rain will stop, that the door will open showing us the way
to the fire
no two persons with separate arms and legs will have to stay in one room forever
the feet walk away
the eyes fly
thoughts roam the world and will be glad to know each cloud
of doubt
each sting an education each wound
a seed of growth
we shall soon know this and we give way to our soul
traveling, traveling, until you become so strange as a creature i have not ever
met before
a myth, a story,
and then you smile realizing the truth of being blown by the wind
dusts, yes dusts,
that is what we are
and will always be, into the nothingness of what we have
not ever
thought before
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Ronnie
My friend Ronnie when he
retired as literature teacher invested
his money in books
he bought crates and crates of
books from the United States
and brought them
to the Philippines
to include a number of his favorite
poetry books bearing such authors
as frost, walt, derek, etcetera
and he invites me in
for some hours
as he loves to read these poems aloud
and discuss the meaning of
each metaphor
for he is a poet in his own little way
a right he claims somehow
and modesty aside i also write some
published sometimes
and he finds me
a compliment to this blank spaces
and so we indulge in this higher
state of literary affairs until he could not
accept that i know more about
his favorite poet than he does
i mean, i know it by heart
he sometimes gets away from this kind of loving
until he gets offended and shies away
from my own way of
intellectual desperation
he did not invite me anymore
his books took the revenge
letting in more dusts more dusts more dusts
with no finger prints
until he died, his greed for books went with him
the books that till date,
remained virgins.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Since You Are Too Human....
there are always choices
we are born to these oceans of choices
wave upon wave
we travel to choose
then we land and take feet
upon the sands
into the gardens
on rocks
and rivers
to the heavens we take the shape of clouds
and rain
for we have learned
this art to evolve
now tell me who owns us?
tell yourself that, we cannot hear you
you are too human
and earthbound
you are stuck on the chains of your
self-defined treasures
that finally bury all your bones
soon we shall turn back at you
dusts, all dusts that we blow and scatter
to all the rivers
if you remember leaves,
you shall remember us...
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Motor Sounds At The Streets....
waking up from a nightmare
there was this woman in black
leaving the house
and
blown by the ill wind
towards the
rugged terrains of the
mountains
gone.
as i rub my eyes
from the dusts of sleep
i am met by the crazy sounds
of the motorcycles
down the street
at rizal avenue
this is a cruel world
so unforgiving
this is the world that that black woman
is shaping
from her rough hands
from those unpredictable movements
of the lines of her palms
imagining doom
always looking at the end of her world
stars shutting their own lights
planets turning into
powder
meteors hitting one another
like kids without
their mothers.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Golden Dusts from the Gleams of Love
when the golden dusts yet etching by the faith of trust
from somewhere within yet spilling into the milieu
as I feel yet fateful in deep ecstasy of nights
and I love the images of love when being refluxed
from the shadow of my dream as sourced by the faith of love.
yet the dream of love a stance yet unequalled
by the touch of the rainbow in all its secrets
as the splashing of the waves of gleams when eternal
are the raves up as the sacred hue as the blue moon
never yet end then there still persists till our time
onto the mingling of the tide even if ebbing yet
all the bits of dusts golden as subsumed into the totality
when in uplifting the soul by embracing the gleams
as when revered by the truth of love when divine
the dusts of bliss yet whispers the love when aspired
swell into the sky high in honor of the glory of faith
and the gleams of love onto the sea slushing when abased
when glimmered by the blue moon and the blue sea
yet in embracing the love in truth of trust by the faith of love
poem by Dr subhendu kar
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Dusts.................
i was once a worm
people look at me with anticipation
and then i became a fly
the good people did not swat me
and then i turn into
a donkey
oh, the children had fun
riding on my back
and then i turn into a
horse,
men love me,
and then i turn into
a man,
oh, the demands are too many
i have to read
the codes of humanity
ethics, philosophy
science, logic,
and then i become old
and turn into
a rotten flesh
where all the worms are
having fun eating me
and i remember joy
and freedom
and being not minded at all
deep in the dark
underground
back to worms, i sensed
that i am complete
and then i must turn to dust
and then
i have become
so perfect
in the solitude of my tiny strains
in the peace of
the grave
where we all started and then
must end.....dusts....dusts....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Banaba Leaf
this banaba leaf falls from its branch
a child gathers it
and hands it to me
and i keep it
on top of my study
each day i look at it
like it is something so different
from the rest of the leaves
time shrinks it
time browns it
until its cells begin
to show its veins
until it turns to thread
crumpled pieces
until it turns to dust
until it becomes like the sands
of the shore
nothing lasts
in such a short time
the leaf returns to ash
on its last day
i gather what remains are there
on my palm
outside i sprinkle the leaf that
returns to dust
to air back to the empty space
back to the nothingness
our place of final destination
the world is hungry for this
dusts and sands
death to everything living
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Galaxies
the galaxies drift
the stars are swimming in the ocean
of space
it is dark but all the planets are feeling confident
there are laws to follow
there will be no collisions
the big bang was so terrible
some stars explode
on the other hand another galaxy is born
somewhere in space
all these
meteors and stars and earths
paradise
in random chaos
we must all know
is still the best poem
ever
you see? the stars over there
they are twinkling
they agree and do not question
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Perfect Crime
the walls have as always been mute
the lizard who sees it left to another ceiling where
there are more mosquitoes
the curtains are dirty too
and dusts and stains make a good companion
and so the only witness left
to testify about the crime that has just been committed is this
cockroach
no one believes what it is telling
no matter how truthful can it be
and with one stroke of the insecticide spray
everything is erased away
the walls wish for a tongue
the lizard comes back and has nothing to tell
the mosquitoes are inside its belly
the curtains are tied with a rope
the dusts are blown by the wind
the stains fabricate another companion
a funeral for the cockroach is done
i am present there, and i too have nothing to say
about the murder
pure white magnolias are laid
on the ground
on that bright day
it rains....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Cycle
From the void
A ray of light
Tamed the shadow
Its flimsy paws
Stood like a divan
Carrying the burden
To the stars
The coarse skin
Callused with caliginosity
Was stropped
And the dead stone
Was a diamond
That would soon
Learn the demon
That would send
Him groveling
To return
To dusts.
poem by Norman Santos
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The Seiges Of Dusts...
too tiny to be seen
yet on their one final storm
all is covered
the surroundings
breathless
the towers of eyes
cannot see
the grasses nothing but
a desert sand
in one siege
the whole world learns
the powers of dusts
and their returns
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Amidst The Noise And The Haste
amidst the noise of people coming and going
passing you by
(they want all the while to stay and have a talk with you
for whatever
but you ignored them as you are busy with other
preoccupying things and events and places and
ideas, you write and keep on writing still in your journal,
the poems on used pages, the vandalism on the walls and
the painted words on the fences
of the house where you live)
you ask, what is this sea of people doing here
around you making all this whirhpools and waves
trying to drown you? or put you in a breathless space?
or pull you down in the oceanfloor of meaninglessness?
you look at them, and you do not find any meaning to their
flow, their movements anywhere, they all seem to have no
specific directions like
dusts and water bubbles only to spread and burst
what then? do you allow yourself to be drowned in their noise
and haste and
waste?
look inside you, investigate the available evidence of your heart
find there the magical silence
the wisdom of your past
pick them one by one like colored stones in the beach
put them in a jar
and look carefully the pieces the stones of what you are
you are never like them you are in them but you can never be one
like them
you are unique, and free and always
the center of your own
created universe
be good, be kind and sing sweetly your strong silence
live, live the way you like to live
just be yourself and to moments of haste and noise
close your eyes shut your mouth
and stay peacefully in the home of your heart
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Dusts Of Summer
the restless dusts of summer
lay restive on the path
after a blessing of rain
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Tenth
the tenth is always my ending
the tenth of a day
and the tenth of what i am
the rest shall not be yours
for the universe owns it
the rest scatters itself
a no man's land
a place for all air and dusts
a place for all the shining stars
there is light, and space and
eternity
like the longings of the heart
like the droplets
of memories
the tenth as gift
and nothing more.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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