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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Me And Grandpa Together?
if grandpa were still alive
he could have scolded me to no end
why at this hour
(it is 11: 30 in the morning)
i have not yet done anything for my life
perhaps like chopping wood or pasturing the carabao
or bringing them in their mud hole and keeping them cool
under shady mango trees
or perhaps i could have been in the farm cutting those weeds
feeding the chickens,
and the pigs, and milking cows
and cleaning the pigsty
or climbing coconut trees and gathering all those nuts
and processing them to copra
all these farm dreams of his for me
he never knew what poetry is.
and if he soon discovers that i am into this craft
i know he will call me again some of my favorite names:
lazy-bone
useless ogre
animal
demon
a mouth to feed
another problem of society
rebel
fool
good-for-nothing
i nfidel
enemy of the church
devil
etcetera
but i might be wrong, grandpa loves me and his only wish is that
i must know how to make our farm the best in the village
the farm that produces the fattest cow
the heaviest pig,
the biggest coconut
the longest corn
i'm hardheaded, very hardheaded
if granpa were alive, i could have set a table for two,
for us, one glass of wine,
under the moon, under the garden
soft winds blowing our hair
in an atmosphere of camaraderie
nothing about sons and fathers or grandpas and grandsons
we'll talk perhaps about women, and poetry and
well, the last but not the least of course, our faith still in God.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The River of Me
I launched myself on the river me
Way back when I was two or three
I sailed out through the wall of snow
Beneath the bridge where all kids go
That Cheyenne Bodie was ten feet tall
His voice so deep it filled a hall
And that was who I dreamed I’d be
Until Cochise came on the scene
There was ice on the river and ice on the pond
And the singing nun sang on and on
There were trees on the river bank, cliffs by the sea
And fish galore in the river of me
The fields were full of cows, corn or wheat
The air was thick with bees and heat
The summer lasted all year long
I never knew til it was gone
And then of course came that high school girl
Her glances made my river swirl
More complex than the universe
I never knew what she’d do next
There was light on the river and light on the pond
And the singing nun sang on and on
There were trees on the river bank, cliffs by the sea
And fish galore in the river of me
And up we soared towards the sky
Through songs and dancing by and by
My waterfalls and waves ran high
For just the winking of an eye
And in the distance the quiet sea
was waiting on the river me
And on the banks the weeds grew tall
Where rusting leaves began to fall
Now there’s night on the river and night on the pond
And the singing nun is long since gone
There are trees on the river bank, cliffs by the sea
And memories in the river of me
I launched myself on the river me
Way back when I was two or three
I sailed out through the wall of snow
Beneath the bridge where all kids go
Evening Coconut
The statue of liberty is breathing in the air
Atlantis is waiting down below.
Late at night, flashing lights are sighted in the air.
Its no secret, what everybody knows.
It really dont matter much, which way I go.
But remember to pull over in the storm.
Have you seen the evening coconut
Bobbing on the bay?
Standing on the waters edge of stone
Someone there besides you
To hear the words you say
To show you things your eyes have never known.
Evening coconut, evening coconut
Evening coconut, evening coconut
Evening coconut, evening coconut
Evening coconut, evening coconut
Evening coconut, evening coconut
The statue of liberty is breathing in the air
While atlantis is waiting down below.
Late at night, flashing lights are sighted in the air.
Its no secret, what everybody knows.
Evening coconut, evening coconut
Evening coconut, evening coconut
Evening coconut, evening coconut
Evening coconut, evening coconut
song performed by by Neil Young
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Misty River
This morning
Me in this Misty River
All the happiness
I am feeling inside myself
Misty River
The mist is coming
From this Misty River
There are clouds
In the sky
And the mist
Is caused by the condensation
Of the heat mixed in the cold water
Misty River
I am in a fishing boat
That boat is moving slowly in this
Misty river
It is early in the morning
I am eating my breakfast in the fishing boat in the middle of this
Misty River
I hear the birds singing early in the morning
In this Misty River
There must be trees because the sound of the birds is coming from the Branches
Misty River
So peaceful
It looks so different with the mist
No one is around but me
With my fishing boat
And the beautiful sound of the birds
It is so nice
To have a place to come to
Where I can
Hear the sound of the birds
And be left alone
With no one disturbing me
Misty River
This is my special place
And by afternoon
No clouds I will see
The birds are beautiful
Their song is just beautiful like mother nature intended it to be
If nobody else appreciates this Misty River
I do
Misty River
I will die for you
Misty River
I will shed my tears for you
I have been coming here for so long now
Misty River
poem by Aldo Kraas
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Farewell
Farewell to the bushy clump close to the river
And the flags where the butter-bump hides in forever;
Farewell to the weedy nook, hemmed in by waters;
Farewell to the miller's brook and his three bonny daughters;
Farewell to them all while in prison I lie--
In the prison a thrall sees naught but the sky.
Shut out are the green fields and birds in the bushes;
In the prison yard nothing builds, blackbirds or thrushes.
Farewell to the old mill and dash of waters,
To the miller and, dearer still, to his three bonny daughters.
In the nook, the larger burdock grows near the green willow;
In the flood, round the moor-cock dashes under the billow;
To the old mill farewell, to the lock, pens, and waters,
To the miller himsel', and his three bonny daughters.
poem by John Clare
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Those Were The Times
those were the busy bustling days
of the cities
where people have no places
to go home
and laundry themselves in parties
of friends
and friends of their friends
till the wee hours
got fed up of those days
of smoke and beer
and now i am back to the silence of
this little town of
my birth
the trees are shedding off their leaves
the cows are giving birth
the birds black and white fly on the skies
and perch on a tree
enjoying the ripe fruits
today i am going fishing in the river
my sail boat is waiting
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Mona's Monday Morning.
Mona stands outside
the back door of the
cottage and stares up
at the morning sky.
Monday, school soon.
It seems a lifetime ago
since Friday. She and Lisa
had, the previous day,
burned into each other
a different relationship.
She can still sense each
touch, each hold and kiss.
The rainfall had soaked
them like a holy baptism,
a fresh start, a new beginning.
She breathes in the morning air.
Fresh in the lungs. Cows
moo in a far field. A crow
calls. She closes her eyes
and smells the farm across
the fields. Each part of her
seems touched. Each inch
of flesh seems hotly kissed.
The bedroom had been their
sanctuary, a place of rebirth.
The parents had not heard
or known or suspected a thing.
Teatime had been so innocent
after. Acting as normal, as if
the moments before they had
not made love, had not been
naked in each others arms
flesh to flesh, body against body.
Just tea and sandwiches and
cakes and the usual talk of
farm and land and weather.
She opens her eyes and
watches the clouds drift.
More cows moo. Birds
fly overhead. There is
a new life within, a new love
inside her heart and head.
poem by Terry Collett
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iN dAKAK
We are here in this island
at the back the surrounding mountains
a little near the woods and bushes
we hear the birds singing this morning
it is eight o'clock in the morning
you walk along the coastline
as i watch you
i lay my body on a swing tied
between two coconut trees
under this big pitogo tree
i bathe in air and hear the hush of a
certain longing
it is so peaceful here
the clouds are bluer than in the city
do not ask me why
the sea is like a pastel blue blanket
spread in bed
the silence runs on the white sand
the hermit crabs run and stop and run
i can hear the crumpling of the castles in the sand
last night we built them
i put my buri hat hiding my hair and covering part
of my forehead
the leaves fall inside my mind
there are certain notes of sadness trickling
inside my heart
a cascading loneliness
my ears are hearing them
my arms till now cannot embrace
i do not doubt it
here is this paradise even with her
i still long for you
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Moon Shining Over The London Bridge
The sky is dark now
And the night is here again
But there is a moon shining over the London Bridge right over the sky
And I keep watching that moon while I rest for a while at the Thames River
But I can't take my eyes of the moon that is shining over the London Bridge right over the sky because it is beautiful to see
And at the same time it is getting late now but I don't mind at all because I Rather stay all night at The Thames river watching the moon shining over The London Bridge right over the sky
Yes the Big Ben chined midnight now and London is going to sleep
But I am falling asleep now at The Thames river below the naked three That is there at the Thanes River
Also all the buildings near The Thames river have their lights out
And I am sleeping in totall darkness and at the same time enjoying the Peace and quiet of the Thames river during the night
But near the Thames River is always cold and I don't mind at all Because I am dressed for this kind of weather
But this night at the Thames River I will always remember because it Will be the best sleep I ever had in years
poem by Aldo Kraas
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Juliana....
on early morning
she walks down the river
leaving all her
coverings on the grass
she wades in the water
naked
as the bamboo trees
bend with the wind
paying homage to her
raw beauty
she plunges into the
cool waters of the river
and the river
takes joy of her body
then she rises
as water drips on her breasts
giving way to her
nipples
as the water cascades down
her abdomen
to her legs
Juliana, the mountain beauty
once i have seen her
under the moon amidst
the trees in the forest
and the virgin hills.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Travel
the fast craft slices the oceans
of our passage
from one island to another
day by day
we see the sea foams
and the skies
that we cut through
the sea gulls and the sun
meet us on the shore lines
of the port
another destination
of this travel
this wandering
another arrival greets us
smiling faces telling us
welcome
welcome
we are offering you this paradise
white sands
cool shady coconut trees
sweet queen's pineapple
crunchy to your teeth
pamper your tongues
beside the blue pools
reflecting the clouds
and our faces
we splash and take
what the jacuzzi offers
the sweet conversation begins
you are beside me
your legs touching mine
we make whispers
the water so cool and relaxing
you are warmer than the morning sun
we confirm again
distances
we confirm again the power of nearness
we affirm us in our arms
we close our eyes
the world is still
and it is indeed beautiful
inside us
on soundless splashes
the waters in our minds run deep
we fall in love again
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Countryside
Patches of dark grey clouds
and streaks of white clouds
on the greenish brown hills
blocking the daylight;
The water-filled paddy fields
the swaying of the coconut tree leaves
the raindrops on mustard flowers;
some black and white coloured
cows tied under a tree
and a herd of mooing cows heading home;
The smiles of children playing in
rain puddles, various coloured
umbrellas scattered from
here to there, people rushing
to their homes, a small
temple sheltering all;
The cool breeze, the droplets of
water on every face,
the smell of damp brown-earth
made the time stand still.
I paused and resumed
my journey of life.
Copyright©2011Rizvana Parveen
poem by Rizvana Parveen
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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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The Boatman's Crossing!
The boatman is out, crossing the swollen river,
Dips the bamboo staff, churns the frowning waters,
Calling for strength from the still depths, he moves on,
Like children running behind a cart, waves giggle along.
The river asks no questions.
Dark for lies shrouded in curtains of inky black,
Moon just a strained smile, is seized by the clouds crack,
Lovelorn silver edges aglow, puff in pride on the conquest,
Homesick, signaling to each other, stars join in the jest.
The night asks no questions.
Yet to startle darkness, the weakest hour of morn,
Pushing this log of wood, is yet to be born,
Thick as honey, wind flutters leaves in bouts of rage,
Dripping with the scent of hill balsams and lush foliage.
The wind asks no questions.
Heaving branches of blossoms and figs, offer themselves,
In homage to the river, on either banks banyan trees swagger,
Dipping their flowing roots, like an old woman’s tress,
Bait fish; like one throws pebbles in water seeking answers,
The trees ask no questions.
This, a strange journey he makes in the quiet of the morn,
Questions arise in his head, like on the banks- the wayside corn,
To lull them sings, a wailing tune, like in wilderness richotteing nails,
His mother sang, to stall his questions after
her bed-timetales.
The boatman asks no questions.
As they sail by, birds sent aflutter, snigger, trees jeer,
A startled stork from the far-off horizon hollers-All clear,
Drawn by his song, in his trailing nets fishes ensnare,
Like a maiden in panic, the river hastens, after a night’s dare.
The birds ask no questions.
Dawn breaks its garland of flushing colors galore,
A veiled maiden sits at the boat’s far-end, shadows devour
Head bowed, eyes downcast, break not her silence of the night,
Lest she should dropp off like an unopened bud at first light.
poem by Seema joglekar
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A Poem of Moving Fire n Fiery Wings
On cool waters
Of a winter morning
She moved like fire
Shifting in a blink
As the dark waters flowed
Through the thick fog
She appeared like a butterfly
Flapping its fiery wings
On the cactus
By the dark desert tracks
(04 Aug 2011)
poem by Indira Babbellapati
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Sick With Self Inflicted Pain
Heads thick and fantasized,
Have minds closed and prevent...
Abilities to reason.
Or rationalize with common sense.
Many minds like these,
Are not often seen sitting on fences.
Minds encouraged and convinced,
Become defensive...
When shown they are wrong.
And an offensiveness begins...
To shutdown with a stubbornness,
That creates their own unhealing wounds!
Heads thick and fantasized,
Have minds closed and prevent...
Abilities to reason.
Or rationalize with common sense.
And around those with heads thick,
Are walls cemented with a lifetime...
Of an ignorance sick with self inflicted pain.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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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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The Blue Kingfisher
Where the little river gleaming
Thro' its shadows green and cool
Broadens to the quiet dreaming
Of a little shady pool;
There an azure jewel burning
O'er the waters you may spy,
Never moving never turning:
'Tis the silent fisher,
Head aloft above the river,
With an apathetic air,
Not the smallest quirk nor quiver
Warns you of my presence there.
Mayhap you will thnk me sleeping -
Dreaming summer days away -
Till you mark a keen eye peeping
Where the tell-tale ripples play.
Now a dive, a sudden darting,
Now a flash of gold and blue,
And the placid waters parting
Let my gleaming body thro'.
Then, long ere the ripples, spreading,
Circle to the pool's green lip
Back to safety I am heading;
And the kill is in my grip.
So I haunt the cool, dark places
By the river, from that hour
When the dawn's bright finger traces
Fairy lights about my bower,
Till the western hilltops redden,
Fade, and vanish I am there,
And the far skies, growing leaden,
Bid me seek my secret lair.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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For I Have Become Murky
i am the river beside you and you are the woman
wanting to go naked and take a bath in my mouth
while wading you think of the calmness of the
a pond, some petals of roses, air showered with
white magnolias,
i am the river beside you and my ripples are tongues.
i move around loving every part of you.
and you tiptoe and wriggle and sing for i am winding
you take the plunge and you search for my heart
the warmth of my floor and the comfort of my banks
the tickles of my fish, the power of my pebbles
you feel that i own you now and you want some more
wanting to stay and savor the embrace of my foams
at noon the sun comes at the height of its brightness
you realize the mistake & you stand and dress yourself
you never want to be a part of me for i have become murky
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Poet And Woman
Woman, you are incomplete without poet,
Poet, you are also imperfect without woman.
The soil is incomple without the root of trees,
The sky is incomple without the clouds,
stars or the shining Moon,
The river is dead without the dancing of waves,
And, the poet's heart is a desert without a woman's love.
The forest is incomplete without the wild animals,
The sun is lost in darkness without its light,
The trees are but a row of emptiness-
without the chirping of the birds,
And, a woman is but half without a poet's imagination.
poem by Nazmul Haque
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