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Poems By Poet RIC S. BASTASA  9/16/2014 6:21:50 AM
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  RIC S. BASTASA
 
 
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  11633.     

the art of love making...

undress
remove those coverings of restraints
undress
wear the skin of desire
touch, kiss, rub those bodies of stone and sand
hug the world and believe in the innocence of
natures colliding inevitably to the
silence of
ecstasy

spill and simmer
savor and favor

taste the bliss
bless this peace

desire culminates at the top of the mountain
saying Oh my God How beautiful Life Can be!
 
RIC S. BASTASA
   
 

   
   
 

  11634.     

The Art of Poetry

To gaze at a river made of time and water
and remember Time is another river.
To know we stray like a river
and our faces vanish like water.

To feel that waking is another dream
that dreams of not dreaming and that the death
we fear in our bones is the death
that every night we call a dream.

To see in every day and year a symbol
of all the days of man and his years,
and convert the outrage of the years
into a music, a sound, and a symbol.

To see in death a dream, in the sunset
a golden sadnesssuch is poetry,
humble and immortal, poetry,
returning, like dawn and the sunset.

Sometimes at evening there's a face
that sees us from the deeps of a mirror.
Art must be that sort of mirror,
disclosing to each of us his face.

They say Ulysses, wearied of wonders,
wept with love on seeing Ithaca,
humble and green. Art is that Ithaca,
a green eternity, not wonders.

Art is endless like a river flowing,
passing, yet remaining, a mirror to the same
inconstant Heraclitus, who is the same
and yet another, like the river flowing.

-Jorge Luis Borges
 
RIC S. BASTASA
   
 

   
   
 

  11635.     

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
   
 

   
   
 

  11636.     

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
   
 
 
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Poems By Poet RIC S. BASTASA