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Poems By Poet RIC S. BASTASA  12/19/2014 6:49:13 PM
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  11585.     

the art of scribbling

this is art.
this is not really just a game or a habit.
it is not a barrier not a bar
or dart.
this is the art of concealment but which hungers for an opinion.
this is the player at the backstage putting a mask, or a thick layer of make up
winks, and practices the movement of eyeballs.

this is the art of conveying emotions
a little bit exaggerated to get you direct to the point
nothing about pegs on square holes.

this is the art of dressing up for the proper occasion.
you pay attention to particular details expecting that he can also
understand the protest of your
color and insignias.

this is what you read and analyze and say perhaps this is it.
that this is what i am and this is all about what happened to me in the past
or that the future is already well drawn and
with your conclusions, then i am what you think i am.

but this is not what i am.
precisely because this is art.

just art.Not a dart.

that is the circle where you throw the dart
you did not hit the red zone.

you see, why should you blame me for just being happy
for just living a certain moment?

this is art and this is not what i am.

this is the world, this is what we actually are.
 
RIC S. BASTASA
   
 

   
   
 

  11586.     

the art of scribbling...

to scribble
in symbols, some lines
drawn by the sharpness of
a knife
upon a bark of a tree
or this steel chisel
upon a rock

some dashes of
my stick
upon the sands
i ponder upon these truths

it is raining again
slowly some lines shall be taken away

the sea rises and its tongues of waves
lick the smooth thigh of the shore
romance, and love
lines that are dissolving upon the water
and the gentle rain
that robs me slowly
of what i remember

silence sits upon my lips
longer
and i do not wish to drive it away

somehow
it is making me happier

the deep sea
settles upon my forehead
sinks there
like a boat where all the passengers
scream
only for a while only to be swallowed
whole
by that big mouth
of emptiness
 
RIC S. BASTASA
   
 

   
   
 

  11587.     

The artificial and the real

In this world, the artificial and the
Real mix, and sometimes it is hard
To distinguish one from the other,

So here is the gauge:

The artificial man does not bleed,
The real man does,
The real man is not afraid to love,
The artificial does not

The real flower has a dew and
Can be torn apart and gives off a scent
The artificial flower gives a blank
Stare at you
And there is no question thrown
Away

The plastic, the wax, the foam,
The flesh, the blood, the sweat,

The dust, the stiffness, the wires
The feeling, the softness, the veins


But you must beware, I may feel you
And you may feel me, but I can still

Be not real, but artificial in some subtle
Sense, in some secret ways, so what is

The real gauge this time? It is just you,
Be real yourself, and let them be, whatever.
 
RIC S. BASTASA
   
 

   
   
 

  11588.     

The artist....

she cries,
she wants to talk,
she wants him to listen

' i am unhappy' she tells him,
she wipes her tears
her cheeks are red
she bursts

'and so are the millions of us! ! ' he shouts at her

she leaves her
he drinks himself to death

the other woman who really loves him
comes and
joins with him

now they are talking.
 
RIC S. BASTASA
   
 
 
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Poems By Poet RIC S. BASTASA