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RIC S. BASTASA


A Happening Within


there is something in us that grows
into a complication,
the sophistication of the labyrinths that
we create in every word and line,

it used to be just a simple house with
one door without walls and ceiling
a theater for the dance of the wind
and the fireflies & perhaps

one window and a little patio to appease the senses
of simplicity
dressed like a rag doll

but it can't be prevented
as time grows more hands and feet and even wings
and horns

many subways are built
secret chambers
foxholes and slaughter houses
or tea tables

restricted areas and hidden homes
and buried cemeteries
and lost treasures
that will never be found

perhaps that is our nature
and also the nature of our poetry

there is a room where we make love
and there is only one person there
name not revealed
no one has a hint

there is a kitchen where no cooking is done
for fear of smoke and fire

where firewood is taboo and where cigarette speaks
a language of puffs

like Indian warriors communicating to
themselves
in the smoke of their palms

i, myself, create signs
that are designed more to confuse
than to
make bridges

the rivers are happier
and the clouds celebrate the success of
the floating

i am into this again
this chasm between two selves
split carrot stick

that falling that is endless
that bliss that is as silent as the star at night

when you are alone
and missing no
one.

Submitted: Wednesday, August 03, 2011
Edited: Wednesday, August 03, 2011

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