What Her Crystal Ball Says
dark clouds hovering
on the hills of mid-March
and murky waters on the
rivers of the last days
of April,
a platoon of people
comes to your house
asking for rice and
fish bringing with
them their empty
bowls
five cows are thin
seven piglets die
and emaciated
black horses drink
on empty ponds
moses wearing his
rainbow colored coat
perspires under the
sun on a very windy
portion of the dessert
alone and still looking
where the oasis are.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Walking With The Lover...
walking with the Lover...
i see empty fields plowed,
come alive with crops abundant.
empty factory buildings filled
with the ghosts of hard working lives.
empty houses lit up,
and the sounds of families.
empty hands given cups and bowls,
empty hearts held close!
empty words given meaning,
empty promises fulfilled.
walking with the Lover...
touching the plenty of empty!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Comfort Of The Rain
You had your finest hour before you
Long after I thought I had mine
Only in need of the right circumstances
Wat if the sunlight that has failed you starts to shine
If the sky is dark with clouds tonight
Don't bother don't complain
Bringing down the comfort of the rain
This morning I came across your window
The lights were all on
and the curtains drawn
Casting a burden from yor shoulders
Wearing yor winter coat and waking up before the dawn
And if at last the silence falls tonight
And empty streets remain
For once enjoy the comfort in the rain
song performed by by Shoot High Aim Low from Shalplatte
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Gale
Outside the mirrors, the dark, it fell.
The day seems squeezing the head into a sleepy dead.
The seagulls are swirling, at the approaching rain,
the leafs with their yellow faces, angry rustling
in the wind blowing away.
It is dark as night, clouds flowing in the sky, like black kites,
fading away in the murky air
The wet lamps, light the flooding oaks,
The day is wearing raining coat
shivering white and pale
by the winter raging gale.
poem by Luca Menin
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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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A Black Hole of Dark Empty Nothingness
My world is a black hole of dark empty nothingness,
It rains blood all of the time,
I can't see most of the time,
I don't even know why I'm alive,
I should have died,
So, I cried.
The sun never shines,
It's dark all of the time,
I lay in my dark empty bed,
Staring at the nothingness,
I live in a world of darkness and despair,
My world is a black hole of dark empty nothingness.
I try to escape my fate,
But, I can't; for I am tied to my bed,
With the lies that lay in my head,
I scream but, there is no one that hears me,
Everyone fears me,
My world is a black hole of dark empty nothingness and that's all it is.
poem by Kayse Oberley
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Song For John
On a windy day, lets go on flying.
There may be no trees to rest on,
There may be no clouds to ride.
But well have our wings and the wind will be with us,
Thats enough for me,
Thats enough for me.
On a windy day, we went flying.
There was no sea to rest on,
There were no hills to glide.
We saw an empty bottle rolling down the street
And on a cupboard stand at the corner of the street,
Wrinkled souls piled up like grapefruits.
song performed by by Yoko Ono
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Just One Of Those Days Really...
yes, there were eternally bleeding palms
Pio, do you remember the name?
astigmatic, and there were those many names
many images, so many mirages and
desert suns, oasis, camels, Bedouins,
scimitars of the past conversations
the origami of storks and ponds
there was this chines frog who made it to the seven rivers
that koi that turned into a dragon guarding the eunuch of the empire
so many words said and you think
those were wastes, they never had any meaning at all
except that gullibility of the gulls
but who knows, you maybe wrong ultimately for dismissing
some facades of poems
people are poets and they cannot tell you the meanings of surfaces
submarines go deeper and will not announce its resurfacing
corals there, colored fish, pearls, sunken treasures of the past
who knows, there may be real stories there
hands that bury metaphors
euphemisms that actually carry truth between the legs
of their syllables
you should have known better and when you believe all these at once
i tell you, you were never wrong.
it is just one of those days, when words are more real.
i never regret having said them, drawn the lines, and fortified my forts.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Farmer And The Stray Dog
the farmer arrives
bringing with him his
viand and rice
places it in the corner
of his hut,
the stray dog
gets in through its
sense of smell
and finds its catch
the farmer's
viand and rice
the catch is taken
far away
the farmer
is not angry for soon
a woman with a long
black hair arrives
bringing him
his broiled fish
and newly cooked rice
the woman is not
his wife
and there they are
under the shade of
the mango tree
the stray dog watches
as this story unfolds
to the final chapter
inside the hut
on such a very dark night
the dog is clever
and it knows the ending
the farmer is not angry
for dogs. mind you,
never tell.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Sitting In An Empty House
Sitting in an emtpy house
Waiting for the phone to ring
Sitting in an empty house
Wanting someone to call about anything
Sitting in an house
Just a cat for company
Sitting in an empty house
Will someone please take time for me?
Sitting in an empty house
No one knows I'm so alone
Sitting in an empty house
The pain I feel remains unknown
04/29/06
Oh House! So Empty
Oh House! So empty.
My love was wasted.
Oh House! So empty.
No joy was tasted.
Oh House! So empty.
No children within.
Oh House! So empty.
No God just sin.
poem by Saint Eule
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Beauty
I have seen dawn and sunset on moors and windy hills
Coming in solemn beauty like slow old tunes of Spain:
I have seen the lady April bringing the daffodils,
Bringing the springing grass and the soft warm April rain.
I have heard the song of the blossoms and the old chant of the sea,
And seen strange lands from under the arched white sails of ships;
But the loveliest thing of beauty God ever has shown to me,
Are her voice, and her hair, and eyes, and the dear red curve of her lips.
poem by John Masefield (1910)
Submitted by anonym
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The Farewell of a Virginia Slave Mother
Of A Virginia Slave Mother To Her Daughters Sold Into Southern Bondage
Gone, gone, - sold and gone
To the rice-swamp dank and lone.
Where the slave-whip ceaseless swings
Where the noisome insect stings
Where the fever demon strews
Poison with the falling dews
Where the sickly sunbeams glare
Through the hot and misty air;
Gone, gone, - sold and gone,
To the rice-swamp dank and lone,
From Virginia's hills and waters;
Woe is me, my stolen daughters!
Gone, gone, - sold and gone
To the rice-swamp dank and lone
There no mother's eye is near them,
There no mother's ear can hear them;
Never, when the torturing lash
Seams their back with many a gash
Shall a mother's kindness bless them
Or a mother's arms caress them.
Gone, gone, - sold and gone,
To the rice-swamp dank and lone,
From Virginia's hills and waters;
Woe is me, my stolen daughters!
Gone, gone, - sold and gone,
To the rice-swamp dank and lone,
Oh, when weary, sad, and slow,
From the fields at night they go
Faint with toil, and racked with pain
To their cheerless homes again,
There no brother's voice shall greet them
There no father's welcome meet them.
Gone, gone, - sold and gone,
To the rice-swamp dank and lone,
From Virginia's hills and waters;
Woe is me, my stolen daughters!
Gone, gone, - sold and gone,
To the rice-swamp dank and lone
From the tree whose shadow lay
On their childhood's place of play;
From the cool spring where they drank;
Rock, and hill, and rivulet bank;
From the solemn house of prayer,
And the holy counsels there;
Gone, gone, - sold and gone,
To the rice-swamp dank and lone,
From Virginia's hills and waters;
Woe is me, my stolen daughters!
Gone, gone, - sold and gone,
To the rice-swamp dank and lone;
Toiling through the weary day,
And at night the spoiler's prey.
Oh, that they had earlier died,
Sleeping calmly, side by side,
Where the tyrant's power is o'er
And the fetter galls no more!
Gone, gone, - sold and gone,
To the rice-swamp dank and lone;
From Virginia's hills and waters
Woe is me, my stolen daughters!
Gone, gone, - sold and gone,
To the rice-swamp dank and lone;
By the holy love He beareth;
By the bruised reed He spareth;
Oh, may He, to whom alone
All their cruel wrongs are known,
Still their hope and refuge prove,
With a more than mother's love.
Gone, gone, - sold and gone,
To the rice-swamp dank and lone,
From Virginia's hills and waters;
Woe is me, my stolen daughters!
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Farewell
Of A Virginia Slave Mother To Her Daughters Sold Into Southern Bondage
Gone, gone, -- sold and gone
To the rice-swamp dank and lone.
Where the slave-whip ceaseless swings
Where the noisome insect stings
Where the fever demon strews
Poison with the falling dews
Where the sickly sunbeams glare
Through the hot and misty air;
Gone, gone, -- sold and gone,
To the rice-swamp dank and lone,
From Virginia's hills and waters;
Woe is me, my stolen daughters!
Gone, gone, -- sold and gone
To the rice-swamp dank and lone
There no mother's eye is near them,
There no mother's ear can hear them;
Never, when the torturing lash
Seams their back with many a gash
Shall a mother's kindness bless them
Or a mother's arms caress them.
Gone, gone, -- sold and gone,
To the rice-swamp dank and lone,
From Virginia's hills and waters;
Woe is me, my stolen daughters!
Gone, gone, -- sold and gone,
To the rice-swamp dank and lone,
Oh, when weary, sad, and slow,
From the fields at night they go
Faint with toil, and racked with pain
To their cheerless homes again,
There no brother's voice shall greet them
There no father's welcome meet them.
Gone, gone, -- sold and gone,
To the rice-swamp dank and lone,
From Virginia's hills and waters;
Woe is me, my stolen daughters!
Gone, gone, -- sold and gone,
To the rice-swamp dank and lone
From the tree whose shadow lay
On their childhood's place of play;
From the cool sprmg where they drank;
Rock, and hill, and rivulet bank;
From the solemn house of prayer,
And the holy counsels there;
Gone, gone, -- sold and gone,
To the rice-swamp dank and lone,
From Virginia's hills and waters;
Woe is me, my stolen daughters!
Gone, gone, -- sold and gone,
To the rice-swamp dank and lone;
Toiling through the weary day,
And at night the spoiler's prey.
Oh, that they had earlier died,
Sleeping calmly, side by side,
Where the tyrant's power is o'er
And the fetter galls no more!
Gone, gone, -- sold and gone,
To the rice-swamp dank and lone;
From Virginia's hills and waters
Woe is me, my stolen daughters!
Gone, gone, -- sold and gone,
To the rice-swamp dank and lone;
By the holy love He beareth;
By the bruised reed He spareth;
Oh, may He, to whom alone
All their cruel wrongs are known,
Still their hope and refuge prove,
With a more than mother's love.
Gone, gone, -- sold and gone,
To the rice-swamp dank and lone,
From Virginia's hills and waters;
Woe is me, my stolen daughters!
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Lord GOD has given me a well-trained tongue, That I might know how to speak to the weary a word that will rouse them.
they are here
tongues from the skies of blue
skies of clear waters
tiny lights hanging
like fireflies on the trees
in multitudes
drips of light hovering
resting on the hair of my head
unlike the disciples
i do not speak
those tongues
i only write them
from here
where i sit
miles and miles away from you
i, trying to make
a connection
to
you, empty hands to empty hands
in space
we have never all meet
but we are beginning to understand
the wisdom of interlinks
that fence that separates my house
from your house
where a morning glory
climbs, hold on with her
roots
reaches to a sky
with its tendrils
and greets you
with the sweetest petal of
a very simple
hello
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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March Horse Fair Day
The morning has a heavy winter chill
And dark rain clouds move over Clara hill
And the old man says that the rain will bucket down
As he stands holding his horse in the Square at Millstreet Town.
In Ireland on March the first the sun doesn't often shine
In fact the day is seldom ever fine
Old February till latter March remain
You take your hat and coat expecting rain.
Near 10 A.M. it makes a heavy shower
And it keeps on raining maybe for an hour
And horses and their owners soaked right to the skin
But rain doesn't worry tough horse loving men.
The deals were clinched with hand slap and hand shake
Your bond your word and your word you would not break
The Town Square packed with people young and old
And deals were done and many horses sold.
And people there from many walks of life
The travelling man with his children and wife,
And the man who owns forty acres of moor
By any standards he's considered poor.
And wealthy farmer down south for the day
To buy good horse and make the journey pay
And horses changed hands when the deals were made
And Uptown pubs were doing a roaring trade.
My thoughts return to happier days gone by
When I was younger and a school going boy
And March horse fair was always school free day
The better memories with us tend to stay.
And I too went to Millstreet old Town Square
For to watch the dealings and the barterings there,
The slap of hands, the handshakes deals were done
And old friendships renewed and new friendships were won.
A nip of winter in the morning air
As people made their way to the horse fair
A shame about the weather some did say
But rain or sleet did not keep them away.
A time of year between winter and spring
Too cold and early yet for birds to sing
Old February till latter March remain
And you take your hat and coat expecting rain.
The morning has a heavy winter chill
And dark rain clouds move over Clara hill
And the old man says that the rain will bucket down
As he stands holding his horse in the Square at Millstreet town.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Evening Prayer
Wind stirs in expectation; it
softly strokes my face.
The March sun reassures me,
warms pale flesh
through layers of thick sweater
and winter coat.
Under indigo hills
new grass flows,
yellow and green,
as past distant ranges,
to the sky-bright, rounded sea
he flees and sends
a gift of clouds,
aflame
in glory.
Peace to the grass of the fields!
Peace
to dark hills and drifting clouds,
and to the sacrificial sun
peace!
poem by Steven Federle
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Hope at Sunset
Across the fading valley
The silver bay shines,
effulgent edge
under twilight hills.
Confined
flat waters
cut a thin line
beneath dark heights rising.
Saw-toothed ridges
rip thin clouds
to ragged strips
the plunging sun ignites
into resplendent light
of love
for this sad, winter world.
poem by Steven Federle
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The Muse Of Life
Black and white horses,
Black and white cows,
All that muses is about life;
Cos', the wind blows to where it is directed.
Brown and white horses,
Brown and white cows,
The muse of life teaches us many tricks;
But, i've got rain and sunshine to crown the day.
The muse of a moose,
The bloom of a flower,
The blues of mankind to take the pieces;
The muse of life teaches many.
'The dish washer is not in the Bible'! !
Shouted the lone-ranger in need of love;
But, all that muses is about life.
Of cows and horses,
Of men and women,
Of Black and White Race to fill the earth;
Yes, all that muses is about life.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Kansa
People of the Wind:
a fitting name
for those who lived
on the windy plains.
People of the wind
live in Oklahoma now
but their name was claimed
by the center state.
Flying with the wind
when horses came
they roamed
the hills and valleys
of the place
that took their name:
The People of the Wind
on the windy plains.
poem by Duane L. Herrmann
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Your mind a landscape
a farm of coconut trees
and horses and cows fenced
a buffalo wading in mud
beside the river filled with fish
a woman naked
enjoying the cool waters
a man watching hiding
behind the thick bushes
birds above their heads
clouds shifting places
lights fade
the curtains fall
and then we all live
and not talk about it
all these
still disturbing our minds
we figure out
how these can end
what murder
what prison cell!
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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