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Poems By Poet RIC S. BASTASA  1/31/2015 1:10:58 PM
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  RIC S. BASTASA
 
 
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  9633.     

on stevenson syndrome

lowly
writer are you
dwelling
in an indistinct island
namelessly

if you write about
the rain
it is nothing but simply
rain

your sea is not
their kind of sea
though
its blueness
is same without
shame

unless you are a
Louise
when he writes about
the rain
and the sea
and then
suddenly everyone
becomes
crazy
figuring out meaning
where
actually
there is none
 
RIC S. BASTASA
   
 

   
   
 

  9634.     

on that day

on that day the color of the sun
shall be as scarlet, as red as drying blood

the clouds shall all be gray
and the sea is darker than blue

the air is humid and the sounds of
rocks grinding themselves to sand

shall be heard. You will not be there
to witness the birth of a new sun

the moons as round as the halo of light
on the head of saint

the silence as deep as the sea
the murkiness you must condemn

but only for a while. The light in your eyes
comes out. The angels sound their trumpet.

The skies split into two.
You shall hear the sound of the rain.

The sky is not empty.
And the stars shall stay.
 
RIC S. BASTASA
   
 

   
   
 

  9635.     

on that empty glass

on that glass
empty as it is

do not fill it with
mere air

pour all that you
have
from sighs to
leaping joys

and wriggling pains
and screams

and creeping
anticipations

leave it under
the sun
and let it stay
under the moon and stars

in the middle of the
night
drink it with some pieces
of dreams

savor life
rub your body to another body
tell you what

you shall see a glimpse
of the face of God
 
RIC S. BASTASA
   
 

   
   
 

  9636.     

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
   
 
 
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Poems By Poet RIC S. BASTASA