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Poems By Poet RIC S. BASTASA  10/23/2014 4:20:57 AM
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  RIC S. BASTASA
 
 
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  9633.     

On That Lonely Table

when i entered the house of
grandpa
grandma watched my every
step

she was strict. each gesture
must have a reason,
each step must be according
to a tradition

which she had no power to break
but had always upheld
and to which i have had the moment
to judge her
that she was unhappy even in the
last hour of her life, truly

grandpa loved her but like other
men, he had his own love stories
to tell, escapades that grandma
knew but never talked anyway,
since that was part of the
macho code,
that a good man
must have had more experiences
than a woman,

philandering was acceptable,
more children, more happiness
and the woman stayed in the house
doing the cooking and the praying
and the patience
to love the man who had always
betrayed her,

back to grandma, she invited me
to eat dinner,
and i had problems with the rituals,
of spoon and fork, of this saucer and
that china, that porcelain where soup
was served like a

precious liquid which i should not
sip sounding like a faucet
which made me feel that my brain
was going to the drainage
of cockroaches deprived of self-esteem

she watched how i placed my hands
on the table
and i was already conscious how to eat
and not satisfy my hunger
it was not the embarrassment but it was the
hatred about hypocrisy

from that i learned to love papa more
who taught me well, and which i could not forget,
that to eat with my
own bare hands
was like fondling my own penis
where ejaculation comes naturally and
without any guilt at all.

grandpa was quiet and firm
his stoic silence was more honest
than grandma's
well arranged words which
were like all her gadgets
of etiquette
on that lonely table.
 
RIC S. BASTASA
   
 

   
   
 

  9634.     

on that same hour of the night

on that same hour of the night
while you
were drinking your beer
alone
and taking big bites
of your beef steaks
and releasing
your stress
on some sticks of
imported cigarettes

on the other side of the table
too
sit two other friends
talking nonchalantly
like the sound systems of
the barrio

the wave their hands
shouting their names
telling me

that these times
they too know how to still enjoy
life and forget

and that i am always too far away from them
in my own kind
of indifference
in my own way
to disregarding
other people's selfishness

and they ask me if i have not forgotten them
their names the place of their origins
their true faces
and how the scars and violence have changed them
how they now learn
to look the other way around and bury themselves
in the small pleasures of smoke and alcohol
defining for once
what is despair
 
RIC S. BASTASA
   
 

   
   
 

  9635.     

on the 20th day

on the 20th day of this
month on the 20th year
of my life,
let me treat you to
a free drink,
on that much
awaited day
congratulate me
at most, i will by then
have conquered myself.

is it not a feat by itself?
myself my foe finally my
most revered friend?
 
RIC S. BASTASA
   
 

   
   
 

  9636.     

On the 25th...

i am repeating
what usual things i have done
and will always be doing

there is always a room for
my silence
how i keep it always as a seed
growing
and just that
forever.... a seed

its fruits are nowhere to be
found
it has never even bloomed

a seed in my mind
like cancer

restrained, controlled,
well kept

now this silence
takes its toll at the count of
ten thousand and five hundred
solitudes.

i take my cup
drink the wine and i am praying
that let it not be taken

Thy will be done.
 
RIC S. BASTASA
   
 
 
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Poems By Poet RIC S. BASTASA