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Poems By Poet RIC S. BASTASA  2/11/2016 11:01:30 AM
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  RIC S. BASTASA
 
 
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  11557.     

Remembering A Summer Fling

we were short of pillows
and blankets
and it was raining hard
and so cold
inside an empty room
in fact
antiquated, abandoned
and dilapidated
windows
where we hear the
thunder and see
the lightning
cast two shadows
fusing as one
in fast motion

two short lived
and swift
but i can still
prettily remember
the sweet scent
of our sweat
the moaning sounds
drowned by the
heavy rain
and the silence
of bliss
which reigned
after

we left early
morning
since then
there is no
word for
each of us
 
RIC S. BASTASA
   
 

   
   
 

  11558.     

Remembering An Old English Teacher

i look at him
he has only one tooth left and his face is like a tin roof
corrugated with too much heat and pressure
i do not blame it with the english grammar that he once taught
us with rigidity,
his degeneration or
degradation has something to do
with the way the walls around him
kepping him away
from the glow of the world and the glitter of everything that he is
supposed to own and
behold,
i look at him
his running nose cannot be stopped by any handkerchief
that i gifted him on his
78th birthday, he does not want to use any gift, he does not want
to remember the good old days,
he wishes a happy death he said this on the nth time
i detest this kind of
unwanted endings, but i look at him again, this time i utter
empathy
what can i give this old man so i can repay him what he had given
when words were so hard to understand
so harder to use with facility?

i look at him again
his eyes are tired wanting to get eternal sleep
his hands are shaking like a face refusing everything
turning clockwise and counterclockwise

he wants to die but he just cannot
i look at him and now i am willing to give him all my fears.
 
RIC S. BASTASA
   
 

   
   
 

  11559.     

Remembering Bukowski.... Hope This Is Nothing New To You

So You Want To Be A Writer?

if it doesn't come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don't do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don't do it.
if you have to sit for hours
staring at your computer screen
or hunched over your
typewriter
searching for words,
don't do it.
if you're doing it for money or
fame,
don't do it.
if you're doing it because you want
women in your bed,
don't do it.
if you have to sit there and
rewrite it again and again,
don't do it.
if it's hard work just thinking about doing it,
don't do it.
if you're trying to write like somebody
else,
forget about it.
if you have to wait for it to roar out of
you,
then wait patiently.
if it never does roar out of you,
do something else.

if you first have to read it to your wife
or your girlfriend or your boyfriend
or your parents or to anybody at all,
you're not ready.

don't be like so many writers,
don't be like so many thousands of
people who call themselves writers,
don't be dull and boring and
pretentious, don't be consumed with self-
love.
the libraries of the world have
yawned themselves to
sleep
over your kind.
don't add to that.
don't do it.
unless it comes out of
your soul like a rocket,
unless being still would
drive you to madness or
suicide or murder,
don't do it.
unless the sun inside you is
burning your gut,
don't do it.

when it is truly time,
and if you have been chosen,
it will do it by
itself and it will keep on doing it
until you die or it dies in you.

there is no other way.

and there never was.
 
RIC S. BASTASA
   
 

   
   
 

  11560.     

Remembering For Once An Old Time.

there is a ritual to serious
writing.

you close the door, then the windows,
you turn on the air-conditioner,

you switch on light, not that harsh,
like it dimmer, but not that blinding,

you do not actually think, you let your fingers
do the talking,

there is nothing in particular but the images
come and you want to capture it

with your eyes, but the dreamer wants everything
shut

mouth, ears, eyes, and a new world opens
you have never been there

everything is new....this awe and wonder,
you are not even a child, you do not know what you are

a spirit perhaps, remembering for once
an old time

and this is where everything begins
to be written.....
 
RIC S. BASTASA
   
 
 
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Poems By Poet RIC S. BASTASA