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9197.
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my life
well folded clothes
in the closet
half-opening to
the marital bed
it is more of the
window not the door
more of the wing
not the claws
it is the bird
beside a pane
looking forward to
the best journey
RIC S. BASTASA
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9198.
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my life is just a house and nothing else
people say i am a narrow
path. There is no allowance for
a waterway. There is even
no space for birds. No grains
along the way. No flowers.
they add, i am cruel
above all to myself. I give
myself no time for wishes.
No dreams. There is no
horizon for an illusion.
my life is just a house and
nothing else. There is no
backyard, no place for
dogs to play. An extension
could be an office. There is
no other path that leads
to the circus. I hate clowns.
People say i am mad.
I don't mind. I am real.
RIC S. BASTASA
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9199.
|
My Life Is Still All About You
I may invent you as unkind
cruel
stranger to my being
me
i pretend that you despise me
my intention is to drive all of you away
from me
so i may not be hurting to myself
so i can free myself away from your
gaze.
it does not work
your unkindness is my unkindness
it is not fair to what i feel
there is something real about you
you are love itself and you love someone else
i am love too who loves you more each day
and who too loves
someone else
when i tell you
about this
what shall happen to my world?
when your world clashes upon mine
what explosion shall take effect?
there is only this ruin
and i may not run away
i created this world and i live here
you are a star so far away
shining
like a diamond
like
a
dot of light
amidst
and ocean
of space
and darkness
it is my own
darkness
here
that binds me
to you
let me be content
with that faintest light
i know i cannot
reach you
i shall imagine that you are kind
and compassionate
that you too can love me
as i have
loved you
so secretly
in
this tomb
in this
catacomb
of my
dead dreams
i imagine
that farthest away
you smile
for me
now i soundly
shall i
sleep.
RIC S. BASTASA
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9200.
|
my little bird
I tried to make you feel
What loving ought to be
I ask if you wanted me
To make you mine
But there you are
Running away
In the fields
In the open skies
Running away from me
I tried to ask
If there is something I can do
For how would I know
What you are growing
Inside you?
But your lips are tight
As virginal as
The early rose bud
There is no word
That I hear from the air
Or from the sea
Or from the mountain
I look at the fountain
There is no dropp of water
I look out into the open
And there you are
My little bird
Flying away from me
RIC S. BASTASA
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