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Poems By Poet RIC S. BASTASA  7/28/2014 7:19:44 AM
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  RIC S. BASTASA
 
 
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  10797.     

SHOULDER

pains on his shoulder
creepy
like snakes looking for
the big bite

poisonous
lethal bite for the night

dead ma
a white man does not understand
what is it

deadma
no one's dead here

it simply means
the unmindfulness of the surrounding pain

or the itch
and the scratch

the fingernails have reasons
not to scratch anymore

too disturbing
too important to be give the attention

leave them do whatever they want
and just like anything else
they too leave
when not a pinch of attention is given

or the pain becomes a part of routine
like a the chase of the blinking signs of traffic on the road
 
RIC S. BASTASA
   
 

   
   
 

  10798.     

Shoulders Support The World

There comes a time when we no longer say: my God.
A time of absolute purity.
A time when we no longer say: my love.
Because love proved useless.
And eyes don’t cry.
And hands only weave in rough work.
And the heart is dry.

Women knock at the door in vain, don’t open it.
You stay alone, the light goes out,
and in the dark your eyes glow enormous.

-Carlos Drummond De Andrade
translated from the Portuguese by Len Sousa

You’re convinced, you no longer know suffering.
And you expect nothing from friends.

Old age matters little, what is old age?
Your shoulders support the world
and it weighs no more than a child’s hand.
The wars, famines, and talks in buildings
only prove that life goes on
and not all have freed themselves yet.
Some, finding the spectacle barbarous,
prefer (the delicates) to die.
There comes a time when there’s no point in dying.
There comes a time when life is an order.
Merely life, without perplexity.
 
RIC S. BASTASA
   
 

   
   
 

  10799.     

show me the happy one

show me the happy one
and i shall show you

the dead one show me
the man who says the wars shall end

and i will show you
all the dead lining up the streets

witnessing the end
of the wars that mankind has invented
 
RIC S. BASTASA
   
 

   
   
 

  10800.     

showcase

socialite clouds rest on the top
of Malindang Mountain
the common trees look at them
with envy
the grasses chide that there is no point to this
the clouds are meant to pass
the trees are meant to be cut and burned
and the grasses win.
 
RIC S. BASTASA
   
 
 
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Poems By Poet RIC S. BASTASA