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Best Poems From
RIC S. BASTASA
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11577.
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the child in us
playful, runs, and hides
this is the child in me
in us, always in the side
of carelessness,
mistakes, and always
changing dispositions,
the incapacity to hold
anger, and the capacity
always to forget,
enemies now, friends again,
no ambitions, just the toys
and always be with
mother, though father
may come and hug sometimes
and produce memories
unforgotten,
the child in us
the innocence that was lost
the imagination undiscovered
how we wish be be children again
how can we be?
we are about to close the door
it is dark and there is no time
to play anymore.
RIC S. BASTASA
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11578.
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the child made the choice
when you were a child
you crawled to two choices
one for the life of the
red rose
and another one for the short lived
burst of the gun
you grabbed the rose
and that was enough
RIC S. BASTASA
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11579.
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the child who does not recognize his mother
when his mother comes
he does not utter the word mama
the mother tells him
Me, Mama, and hugs him
but he wrestles her away
he grabs a ball and throws it away
and he chases it
he falls on the ground
and shouts for help
his mother rushes to help him
removes the dirt from his shirt
and calms him down
then the boy utters the word at last
Mama
the mother smiles and kisses him
RIC S. BASTASA
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11580.
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the child, the man and the old man....
i look at the child
at the farther nook of a old house.
there is no chair and beside the door
is a box, it is empty
and the child in fear
took its hiding there
a favorite place
safety box, safe house,
the four corners are
so silent
and the child is happy
asleep in a moment.....
time travels like horses with wings.
there is a man
with a long bird his toenails
are long, no time to cut them
it throat is swollen
bacterial infection again
or the weather changes
cold this time then hot in
a moment
dusts all over the place
and white painted houses
it is lonely, child and man
at the same time
and not one of him speaks
they become one box
and one flap opens to
a sky
always there are
no extra hands. it is reality.
there is an old man
with words of thread
sewing upon its lips.
there is a very dark night.
the child, the man and the old man
are asleep
inside a box, safe and
silent.
there is no morning.
it is final.
RIC S. BASTASA
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