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Poems By Poet RIC S. BASTASA  7/24/2014 5:40:10 AM
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  13597.     

There is no sound sleep as sound as home

In the foreign land where you live
Where the snow is cold and slippery and smooth
You say you cannot sleep
And all alone not feeling safe
In that house made of steel and fortified walls

Here in our country
Where walls are weak where beams are but coconut wood
Where the sun is hotter
Where the dust spread like blanket on the bed
Where the noise is simply intolerable
Where beggars come asking for food
Where poverty and calamities abound

Here in my country I sleep so soundly
Because lady, this is my home this is where my heart is
Because lady, I am safe in this place that I call my own
Because lady, there is no place like home
Where sleep is sleep and will always be sound
 
RIC S. BASTASA
   
 

   
   
 

  13598.     

There is no space for sorrow.

one day i write and feel that i am all hands
just hands arising from the little existences of my fingers.
i write about anything and i don't really bother what is it that
bothers me that bothers you. This intellectual itch that keeps on moving inside our brains our hearts, this restlessness, this
spacious injuries that reach as far as the next universe imagined.
writing is groping in the dark. You are trying to feel your body.
when you close your eyes you see most in fact, and feel the
rudiments of your soul.
morning is a basket heavy with smooth ideas like fruits and scented like flowers. It is a beautiful day.
i like to write about beauty. The things, the scenery outside my window. But these do not last for a long time.
My eyes focus back on the monitor which also monitors me.
How is honesty? How honest have we become beyond the
flashes of the camera on the smiles we give to people.
Life is a tragedy. All lives are.
But who wants to spread tragedies to those who are already suffering the tragedies of their lives?
we do not want to hurt. We are hurt already.
To hurt the world further would be too much.
There is a mission to writing poetry.
Or the stories that we write.
We re-arrange the mess.
Early morning after we rise from that sleep we comb our hair.
Fold the blankets. Put the pillows in place. We wash our faces.
We flush the toilet. And so on and so forth.

We open the window and the door.
we go out the room and we close the door behind us.

The room is neat and orderly now.
The house is big. And the backyard is waiting.

Hence, there is so much to do.
There is no space for sorrow.
 
RIC S. BASTASA
   
 

   
   
 

  13599.     

there is no stopping

a bud
blooms

a car
crashes

hairs grow
and fall

got wrinkles
and forgetting

watching the beautiful sunset
not with sad eyes

sitting on the sand
and feeling the fineness of the world

plunging into the sea
and holding the breath

rising and walking back
and laying down

without you.
 
RIC S. BASTASA
   
 

   
   
 

  13600.     

there is no substitute for presence

the promises of promises
are nothing but promises
it is absence looking for
the perfection of presence

when you leave i shall not
keep on remembering you

i shall close the door and
ring the phone for by then
she will come and take care
of what you have not done.
 
RIC S. BASTASA
   
 
 
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Poems By Poet RIC S. BASTASA