White Herons
As usual
these white herons
gather
on rice paddies
too many of them
and yet so
silent...
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Giving the carabao feelings of wings
The carabaos are grazing again
It is summer and
The white herons are teeming
On the green fields
Some take the usual sight
Of friendship
The white heron on top
Of the carabao’s back
They are so close I wonder
If there is this familiarity
Between them
Their friendship has lasted
For centuries
They say the white herons
Feed on carabao's lice
And to repay the kindness
The carabao gives the bird
Its free ground ride
I disagree totally
There is no pecking that I see
And there is no distance
Whatsoever that the carabao gives
This is friendship, this is a picture
Of friendship, the heron is giving
The carabao the feel of its white wings.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Men Are Killing The Life Of The Air....
this early morning
i take my walk
on the path leading to the
rice-fields
the men are killing the worms
with Japanese pesticides
the white herons feed on
poison
what else could that be?
the national geographic makes
the news
that eggs of herons easily cracks
and fledgling do not survive
agricultural teachers die
of colon cancer
and the causes remain
undisclosed
there is no cure
for men killing air
for companies making poisons
the herons still fly and catch and
eat the double dead worms
the air is foul and
turn back from the walk
i cannot carry my heart
it is heavier than
steel.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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6 o'clock in the morning at KNAS gym
i sit on the tenth stair of this public gym
of this university overlooking an oval
a field of green grass
circled by this road of sand and gravel
and muddy on some occasional rains
three men all covered, head and body and feet
from a distance carry the sprayers
on their backs, the usual pesticide
to kill the army worms that attack the rice plants
the air has turned poisonous, i can see the killer mist
around them as they keep on pumping the tubes at their backs
i ponder on the significance of men
poisoning its atmosphere, adulterating the freshest air in the morning
that nature has freely given
some white herons come flying on some green spots of the field
perhaps eating the worms and bugs killed by the poisoned droplets
i guess with the poisoned worms for their diet
i have read sometime
their eggs will turn off-white, and the shells are weakened
and the chicks feed by their poisoned blood
may not even grow to be stronger birds
some eggs will not experience hatching and the white herons
cannot do a thing about their misery
some dogs too come by perhaps curious about the smell of the
morning air,
a black dog runs around the oval, a white dog stays lying
on one of the manmade dikes
the poisoning takes about an hour and when it is over
the men take of their clothes and wipe their bodies
on the same clothes
some of them i heard have suffered diseases
like bloated livers and soft bones and they die without having
seen the right doctors,
they are poor hired workers of this college
i look around me, the sun finally comes out
it is still a very fine day i suppose, the mist is gone, the rice plants
are greener than ever,
and then i take my usual walk, thinking again,
for all that men do, poisoning and destroying nature,
will there be revenge? retaliation? repercussion?
i am crazy. How can nature ever speak?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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It Is Another Long Walk To Life
do not mismate
your shoes. try fitting
in what fits you.
tie the lace.
stamp your feet.
tighten your belt.
stand up.
comb your hair.
wear the warmer shirt.
take the cap
and put it on your head.
smile in the mirror.
take the watch.
wear the white socks.
eat the banana.
and wear the Ipod.
sounds of chappel
in your ears.
it is 6: 05, now
you are ready for
the usual walk
at the oval this
morning. The leaves
of the trees and
grasses are still
rich with their
dews. The sunrays
are slowly coming.
the air is fresh
scented with
the smell of the
rice paddies.
good morning.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Existences
Fenced carabaos of this Agricultural college Thrive on limited spread of grass Man-made They look forward To angles and rows of green hills and valley And clear flowing creeks To the other side The white herons, (wild ducks, sparrows, and mayas)
Fly above trees and (daffodils) And land on paddies with flecks Of surface mud fishes and tadpoles and mosquito larvae
I see The sparrows rest In flocks Lining up On electric cables Or Power Lines Watching army Worms and golden shells (kuhol) etching slowly, eating green greedily On rice and grass stalks
An owl hovers (the late owl, where was it last night?) On the island of twigs On an old mango tree (balding & ugly & dying)
No wonder The white herons (about twenty in all, I counted them patiently on digital cam) taunt The carabaos (muddy and thin as grasses were cut and cleaned by ROTC cadettes on Sundays, I can’t rationalize why the grass population be reduced) fenced On a limited supply of Manmade grass and Growth controlled
They wing finally when I got near them Lightly like blown leaves
This February wind And land on Carabaos’ backs Gleaning for lice Feasting on some pecking and swallowing & pecking again
Thriving on carabaos’ Hairs and skin some creatures though still
On the other side of the landscape A thin brown, woman With a buri hat And a rattan basket on one hand and a sack on the other Leans over A dry ricefield Gleaning for leftovers of palay
Beside her but not that really near The man drives the white herons Away to the other side of the island of banana trunks
Then he goes to the carabaos Their wet noses tied to an abaca roof and tied again to the cemented posts of this accredited agricultural college spreading about two hectares of stupidity
The questions about lice and herons and carabaos and grasses
And golden snails, tadpoles and mud fishes and sparrows died
The lice are free Feeding away from The eating white herons
They have flown away since then to the other side of my world
By now the flock of Sparrows On the electric cables or power lines Wing their way To a farther town as I leave them fast for lack of time for shortness of serendipity for lack of interest
There are pebbles inside my shoes.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Green Ricefields
green ricefields spreading to a distance
some white herons circling and landing finding a hiding place
for a while gone and then the wind comes from the trees swaying
the white herons in a flock of fives fly away again
to another rectangular spread of a green ricefield
a scarecrow stands in the middle of the place
the clouds arrive turning from pale to grey to blue
the sun has come in full grandeur
i am just amazed, sitting on a bench praying
simply watching and wondering
they all say that i am lazy and doing nothing
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The White Herons And The Black Buffaloes
the harvest season is over
the women had gone to their homes
with their men and children
around the table of wood
dinner of fish and rice
the family eats as one
how close can a family be
in love and friendship
last night the rain poured heavily again
flooding the rice fields
this early morning before the sun rises
the black buffaloes graze and
then wade in the muddy waters
above their heads the white herons are flying low
gracefully hovering and landing
at their backs
some stand beside their thick skins
pecking for lice
how close can these creatures be
on friendship consistently
symbiotically designed
by nature's hands
sometimes i wish
we can be like all these
on a friendship without vested interest
on love platonic
in sickness and in health
......
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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On A Blurred Vision
on a foggy hillside
there are white patches
from far
they look like
mushrooms
then i hear the
sound of thunder
suddenly they all
fly away
oh, the white herons
again!
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A composition in a ricefield
The white herons
Are commas
The carabaos are periods
An eagle flying over my head
Is the head note
The trees are the margins
And the fences
The nipa huts
Are footnotes
The rice field is one big
Pad of paper
And so this is the composition
Of a ricefield
Commas on top of periods
Two head notes will do
Four footnotes
Can make a story of a village
My hand is always the ampersand
And I think
Like there are no carabaos on this pad of paper.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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My Mind Was Full Of Ideas This Morning
my mind is full of ideas this morning
while i am walking alone
on the grassy path of this mountainside
i am so tired. I take my rest sitting on a log
rotting under a tree.
i gaze on the ricefields just below this hill.
some white herons as usual fly low
some sparrows regroup themselves and
scatter in an instant like a confetti of dry leaves.
the sun comes out in glory
proclaiming though its reign on this corner
the gumamela flowers on the side of the hills bow down
and bloom again
i am amazed on the beginning of this beautiful day.
The butterflies flutter on the bushes of white petals
of these wild flowers. I see a nest with three small white eggs.
the sound of waters cascading on the creek.
some leaves are carried away. A fish jumps trying to catch
a low flying dragonfly. Some dew begins to lose their
glow on the bamboo leaves.The law of evaporation gets in.
Lost. I am so empty.The window of my heart is open.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Ardan Mór
AS I was climbing Ardan Mór
From the shore of Sheelin lake,
I met the herons coming down
Before the water’s wake.
And they were talking in their flight
Of dreamy ways the herons go
When all the hills are withered up
Nor any waters flow.
poem by Francis Ledwidge
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The Herons Of Elmwood. (Birds Of Passage. Flight The Fifth)
Warm and still is the summer night,
As here by the river's brink I wander;
White overhead are the stars, and white
The glimmering lamps on the hillside yonder.
Silent are all the sounds of day;
Nothing I hear but the chirp of crickets,
And the cry of the herons winging their way
O'er the poet's house in the Elmwood thickets.
Call to him, herons, as slowly you pass
To your roosts in the haunts of the exiled thrushes,
Sing him the song of the green morass;
And the tides that water the reeds and rushes.
Sing him the mystical Song of the Hern,
And the secret that baffles our utmost seeking;
For only a sound of lament we discern,
And cannot interpret the words you are speaking.
Sing of the air, and the wild delight
Of wings that uplift and winds that uphold you,
The joy of freedom, the rapture of flight
Through the drift of the floating mists that infold you.
Of the landscape lying so far below,
With its towns and rivers and desert places;
And the splendor of light above, and the glow
Of the limitless, blue, ethereal spaces.
Ask him if songs of the Troubadours,
Or of Minnesingers in old black-letter,
Sound in his ears more sweet than yours,
And if yours are not sweeter and wilder and better.
Sing to him, say to him, here at his gate,
Where the boughs of the stately elms are meeting,
Some one hath lingered to meditate,
And send him unseen this friendly greeting;
That many another hath done the same,
Though not by a sound was the silence broken;
The surest pledge of a deathless name
Is the silent homage of thoughts unspoken.
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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All Ghosts...
the town as usual
misses the noise of the
microphone
wanting to see boxing
bouts not just during
the Feasts
but also on ordinary days
the is only second
to gambling
these fighting cocks
that dominate
the itinerary
of the month and all
the poor men gather
and try their luck
to get rich
even for a day
the church is nearby
and its bells are silent
copy paste
the silence of the
cemeteries
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Hoar-Frost
In the cloud gray mornings
I heard the herons Flying
And when I came into my garden,
My silken outer-garment
Trailed over withered leaves.
A dried leaf crumbles at a touch,
But I have seen many Autumns
With herons blowing like smoke
Across the sky.
poem by Amy Lowell
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The Day I Hate Rice
The day I hate rice
Is several rare day in a year
When I don't eat rice
I don't want to eat rice
I don't want to see it
Because I hate its taste
And I hate to think about it
If I have the day I hate rice
Then you'll know that I don't feel well
I'm bored of this procession
I want to run from this life
Because I begin to hate myself
...just a little while
And everything will be back to normal again
That's the meaning of
The day I hate rice
poem by Maria Sudibyo
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Rain
Today I watched the falling rain
Rice paddies drinking droplets sweet
Heaven watering farmers' grains
As stalks shoot up their growth to meet.
The scenery shown in verdant wetness
Ushering the harvest of a season
Bountiful proof of Nature's goodness
A rich store of life's provision.
I love the feel and sight of rain
Its cool refreshing sound of falling
I like to think I am the grain
Each dropp of rain shall keep me feeding.
poem by Cynthia Buhain-Baello
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Awesome!
IT is your word, but could be mine, when you
saw the pictures,
of little boys and girls posing
for the centerfold of
mama's love, where papa is nowhere to be found,
or uncle's attention,
because mama has not been good enough to
call them
pretty,
awesome!
it is your word for the ricefields
green, filled with the light of the sun,
where the white herons
are friends with the black carabaos
pasture
graze, graze, till the afternoon ends,
the day
when the sea is calm and the sand
so white
unblemished by any man's sadness
or any woman's grief,
awesome!
you saw the old man and the old woman
hugging
missing the moments of their youth
now in each other's arms again
despite
names forgotten and places gone away
awesome!
it is always your word against mine
as i take the pictures
rehearsing them again in my mind
now
with captions and human conversations
in low key
where shall we go next and gather
and then again remember?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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All Ghosts (revised) ...
the town as usual
misses the noise of the
microphone
wanting to see boxing
bouts not just during
the Feasts
but also on ordinary days
this is only second
to gambling
those fighting cocks
that dominate
the itinerary
of the month
and all
the poor men gather
and try their luck
to get rich
even for a day
the church is nearby
and its bells are silent
copy paste
the silence of the
cemeteries
despite, this is still
the little town that i write
about
and i ask if i love it
or does it love me too?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Simplicity
before a table
a cup of rice and
few pieces of fish
you put your knee
near your mouth
as you mold
sticky white rice
with your bare hands
you open your mouth
and swallow what
you have inorder
to live.
(shall i say
poverty?)
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Emoting A Landscape
the rice paddies are dead, they have been long cracking
drying under the cruelty of the summer sun scorching every leaf and pebble
as the mud fish buries itself under for another hibernation
the trees are not complaining compliant with the strong dry wind
from the bald and browning mountain peaks towering to kiss the clouds
the pathways are bare and vacant for no child comes out and plays on the fields
the carabaos are kept under the shadows of the mahogany trees while the man
near the well bathes naked as the woman pretends to wash the dirty clothes
someone peeps with mad eyes, ready with his bolo behind the thick bush.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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