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Poems By Poet RIC S. BASTASA  5/27/2015 4:49:07 PM
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  RIC S. BASTASA
 
 
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  11997.     

St Frances Xavier Cabrini

he travelled
he worked and his health suffered
he met and was weakened by a thousand difficulties
but to him
all those were nothing

this world is so small
the sufferrings whatever were they
were just few
to him this world is nothing

the space is too small
imperceptible

because he is accustomed to dwell in eternity
 
RIC S. BASTASA
   
 

   
   
 

  11998.     

Stability

when you wake up
in the morning
the night before when
you were drunk

you open same window
beside your bed
you watch the same
clock and you reset it
at the same time

the air outside is cold
and the drapes begin to
dance to the nuances of
what is sad and daily

same thing over and over
again
upon enumerated acts and
things

this is living and there
is nothing new
this is pure routine and
stability.
 
RIC S. BASTASA
   
 

   
   
 

  11999.     

Stage Four

stage four is of course, sure death.
the nerves are swerving and convoluted to utter disbelief.
he says, four months more, no bonus, not bogus, not
a leaf of lettuce that you play with your teeth or tongue
no figure of speech can save this inevitable crashing of cells.
stage four, spell four, i will spell it for you. There is no word
to start with about tomorrow. There is no tomorrow. It is clipped.
And cut and set aside. There will be some discussions for a while.
Where to leave the pen and paper. And the basket of daisies
and glossy red apples. The green ones have to be give away
as early as the sixth day of our agony. Less pain you want it?
A glass of clear water. Pills and pins. Touch my hand.
I will tell you i love you (20x) but it is late. The sun at the port
is setting earlier than expected. The steamer has arrived.
No it isn't. It is an old wooden boat docked by the side
of a very old river. Shadows. Darkness. Ripples of the river.
I hear the sound of the black bird. It is your name now that is called.
A hand with a candle. I see you taken,

What is important now is the peace of this bed.
It will be empty at the nearest hour. My love shall never die.
I whisper it to you. Closed eyes. Another journey and then
That man in the dark, drives us away and takes you.

To the other side of this lonely island.
 
RIC S. BASTASA
   
 

   
   
 

  12000.     

Stage Three

no one enters the house using the door.
The doors close without the use of hinges and locks.
The living room is turned upside down.
The traces of my steps are a myriad labyrinths of
puzzles, cross, crescent, moon, sun, stars, and

dead leaves just below the body of a rotting log.
Log on. Say some more. This is freedom.
The railings are roses. The stairs are rivers.
The walls are faces of the one you make love.
The roofs are ideas. Theories live there and metaphors
Abound in the living room.There is an old piano and you
Begin to play: Vienna woods. You dance the waltz with her.

Whispers mossy on the carpets. The toilet is kept empty
And shiny white tiles, glossy to the feel of your fingers.
The bedroom is bare. You too complete the picture.
An hour of sex. Gracious! This house is the most beautiful
House of our neighborhood.

It is not our home yet. Tomorrow we unpack.
The distance is our journey. And it is somewhere else
With someone you still love. It is not I.

I am just a picture: black and white, and dusty.
 
RIC S. BASTASA
   
 
 
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Poems By Poet RIC S. BASTASA