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Poems By Poet RIC S. BASTASA  7/28/2014 5:19:26 AM
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  Best Poems From
  RIC S. BASTASA
 
 
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  11557.     

that night when my poem was stolen

that night when my poem was stolen
i looked up the sky and saw
the moon smiling and the stars winking
more beautifully than before
and i was wondering
the change

something must be special
about what i told them
my poem was stolen

the wind was in a hurry leaving
a message that i should have been angry
and should have reacted
the way other poets do
report the matter to the authorities
and file the charge
of intellectual thievery

i could have reacted like an angry man
deprived of a priced possession
but on the other hand
i, go beyond what others think,
i could be more kind
and understanding and more compassionate
to thieves
i ask: does he like the poem? does he love it
so as to steal it?
will he sell it? will he keep it throughout his life
and treasure it the way i treasure it too?

in the last analysis, that poem is not really mine too
it is God given, a gift during another birthday of
emptiness, another day of loneliness
and in fact, the poem was about a black rose
unfolding its petals on a very dark night
and then coming out of a crevice from
a deserted building and then found a way
to bloom one morning
but darker still....

all my poems, anyway, are written for someone
or anybody out there, lurking in the dark, looking for an opening,
wanting to drink the coming light of day, searching for their angels
of light and freedom and happiness

well, that poem that was stolen, could be intended
or meant for the thief, and so, i have come to the conclusion
that i might as well, finally,

give it to him
or her, i don't even know who that shadow was,

there was simply this shadow fading in the ward.
that poem now shall be my gift to whoever shall have it
in the future

i think, i know, how it feels now, to really give, even if it hurts.
 
RIC S. BASTASA
   
 

   
   
 

  11558.     

That Old Water Well In Olingan

it is far
from civilization
only a few
have reached
there

it is deep
and full and
my genealogy
source of
survival

i go back there
again
refreshed and
thirst
quenched
for its memories

mother bathing a
boy
horse drinking
from a pail
natives filling
their drums
maidens singing
and men
wooing them
for a night of
love
after

when the needy have
left
to take their much
needed rest

there the well
stays
sighing
but meaningfully
filled

it has served
so well
less the selfishness
of all
men.
 
RIC S. BASTASA
   
 

   
   
 

  11559.     

that old woman that i know....

the old woman
goes to church everyday
reads her novena, spends more time in church
than in the house

she is close to the parish priest
gives sums of money to the
religious activities
noted for charity and
enjoys many indulgences
from the Pope

always she is dressed in the proper
whiteness
her head covered by
the required embroidery
her movement restrained
her poise reserved
holy and
silent

what they do not know
(and this is her secret that i have discovered)
is that
just this morning she slapped her maid
because her coffee was served
and no longer that hot
to satisfy her
cold longings

exactly the opposite of what she is
in society
this old woman takes away the faith of
the maid
from the same God that she adores
in her Sunday church.
 
RIC S. BASTASA
   
 

   
   
 

  11560.     

that open-ended novel...

is that the way you want to end
a story? nothing definite,
not the usual one, where the hero stands
against the sun
and then his lady comes and kisses him
and then
The End with the matching music
that satisfies the heart
that justice is served
and that once again the good has
triumphed.

how did you end our story?
you left me hanging upon a cliff
and the audience did not see how i fell
from a thousand feet
and smash my head on the rocks below
and how my blood oozed
and squirted and
make the sea red.

what kind of writer are you?
you left the last page blank.
the monitor is anxious and the keys
are idle still for hours

until there was a blackout
and the computer's off.

for days the blog is left undecided.
for years the last lines waited.

i guess that is how you wanted it
very much like life

individualist, one can make or unmake oneself
smashed the little bird
or set it free from your hands that hold it
there is this will
this human will

and i the actor of your novel
must use it now.
 
RIC S. BASTASA
   
 
 
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Poems By Poet RIC S. BASTASA