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Poems By Poet RIC S. BASTASA  5/23/2015 12:45:49 AM
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  9633.     

Mark Lloyd

my brother wants to
repeat history
i shudder to this malignant idea
but i let him
go back
perhaps he can learn
much better
now that he is
too old
to know the tricks

mark Lloyd is going to be
Fink
and there will be loud banging
and more failings
but his dad cannot hear them
as usual the silent screams
are more found in the
screen
and it is always away from
the hell of
any home

fake home
where mother is queen and dad is king
and where everyone
are but subjects
and numb
ers.

i've seen Fink move away
his face is square
but there are crooked lines
everywhere
tiny volcanoes on his face
which my
erupt soon
and cause
the flow of magma
in the comfort room

i warned his mom
but her face is a highway without any
interiors

for the meantime
there are no cars
colliding

soon, i expect something bizarre
it is Fink markig Lloyd
bloody on the street
holding a gun
filling the city with smoke.
 
RIC S. BASTASA
   
 

   
   
 

  9634.     

Marker

I stopped being nice
To be happy for once

And so today
you will find the word
No
in the dictionary of my mind

I will keep things
Short and sweet
I won’t gabble
I won’t give you
A rope to hang you with

I won’t engage
And apologize
Or even explain
I won’t give you the
Fuel to use against me
And I get my 'no'
In quickly


I will set the marker
Right from the
Beginning
So you will
Know where
You will end.
 
RIC S. BASTASA
   
 

   
   
 

  9635.     

Marking The Boundaries

this is yours and
this is mine
you do not step within
my own line
and circle
i exclude you and you
must exclude me
as we mark the boundaries
of our
lonely territories

what if we change
this law of exclusion into the
nicer code
of inclusions like

this is ours and we
are one
we are brothers and sisters
the earth as our mother
the sky as father
and the rest of the humanity
as stars

the heavens smile
the space bends into a vow
the journey though long
and there is no time
nor light years
to mark our differences

there are no more fragments
of this porcelain jar
there is only a spread of silk
in space
and we are the intricacies
of that beautiful design
embroideries of God
sequins and diamond glitters
of that whole dress
in that party of happiness
 
RIC S. BASTASA
   
 

   
   
 

  9636.     

Marriage On A Sunday

the man is albanian
we think he is British, bloody british they'd say.
at six feet five, his built is horrendous,
if horrible means the same as that,
broad shoulders, pluffy, peachy cheeks
glowing in Philippine summer. He is the groom.

the woman is a Filipina, chinky, brownish,
short, petite, too small for his huge kind of
affection, they call it love. she is a mere five feet
long black hair, small arms,
frail, she is beautiful and too innocent
for this kind of an important affair. Marriage.

Her chatmate finally now her groom.
Her saviour from poverty, and family honour.

It is none of my business really. But i have
doubts on this discrepancy.
Love, is this love? Can love bloom
between tall and short, between white
and brown, between the rich and the poor,
between an innocent Filipina girl and
and a bloody britisher? Forgive the word.

Tell me, who's the lucky one?
 
RIC S. BASTASA
   
 
 
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Poems By Poet RIC S. BASTASA