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Best Poems From
RIC S. BASTASA
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9597.
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on a storny day while you are driving alone
you drive towards home
alone
under a strong rain
and wind
the storm has come again
inside the car
you hear nothing
you only see
the mess outside
you
you do not turn on
the radio
there is nothing there
only the buzzing
the FM stations lost
in the midst of this
chaos
you hear the silence inside you
talking
it is tired of the day's
heavy workload
you hear the sound
of the windswiper
you see the water
ahead of you along the
way
as the car cleans itself
so you may see the road
ahead
meeting you
the white bridge,
the thick lines of rain
like walls
like some liquid ropes
bursting on the glass
there are no cars
meeting you
no lights
except the darkness
and
the leaves blown away
from you
you think and you know the
difference:
you are losing your sense
of home
the sense of direction
insists
still towards this road
you do not like it
anymore,
you still think in the middle
of this storn
you want to stop and
watch the river
overflow
you wish the bridge is broken
you want it taken away
dismantled
you imagine there is
no more connection
whatever
you see nothing at the end,
what you see is simply
the storm
you stop again on the side of the road
where the tree shall fall and
you are under it,
you do not think of the car,
or of yourself anymore
what is there anyway?
there is no one waiting,
there is nothing worth meeting
and surely
life is not worth living
RIC S. BASTASA
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9598.
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on a Sunday back to the past that Papa left
on a Sunday
the man returns to the sea
to clean the foreshore
teeming with coconuts
from thick grass
bad grass and beetles
that eat buds and
kill
on a Sunday back
to the past again
clearing some forests
of memories
therein
one seeks a redemption
for what had been
putting some seeds again
as anticipations of
the future
that may never come
RIC S. BASTASA
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9599.
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on a sunny day
the red truck still parks
on the side of the concrete fence
it is TED 413
and still insists that it is
NOT FOR HIRE.
RIC S. BASTASA
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9600.
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on a white bench
at the plaza of this town
fronting the cafe
where i am now writing this poem
i see a white cemented bench
beside a mahogany tree
three men are sitting
they are talking
and i cannot hear them
i am walled
by this glass wall
one wears a white cap
holding a radio
blue faded jeans
and rubber shoes
the second one
a brown subanen native
wearing a white shirt
with a political ads
to vote for mayor dong
the third one
already left before i finished this poem
i could have described him
but i fell short of time and sensitivity
i ask someone beside me
what these three men are up to
they are waiting
they are looking for a job on this hard times
when the price of rice has gone high
together with the gas
i know you want something more than this kind of write
did i keep you waiting too?
tell me did i keep you waiting too for something that you want me to tell you?
i have nothing to tell you
how does it feel to wait, hours perhaps, for something that does not come/
how does it feel to wait
for nothing? tell me, tell me, if you understand now, how is it to sit on a white
bench beside a mahogany tree, in the plaza, in front of an internet cafe
where i write a poem
and nothing nothing really happens
RIC S. BASTASA
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