Treasure Island

RIC S. BASTASA


fourteen


While in china at night on the great wall
By a hill, there he writes about the moon
His shadow his flute and his
Cup of rice wine,
Then he sings for a while
And sleeps under a sky of stars
On a blanket of soft grass,

When he immigrated
To the American city
He writes differently now
About the moon
As the companionless
wanderer

The head of a murdered man
Rolling on the floor
Uncontained by a sack
A moon

Or some kind of a fluorescent
Truant
A silver circular corpse
Infected with AIDS,
That corpuscle confusing
And ovulating

Him, spoon feeding
Her with so much longing
Date-rape drug, where she howls like
A bitch

To the moon in that great American
City

I just like it here,
The moon is still my
Moon child
my fair lady of the night

In all shining glory
Above the mango tree,

In this little country..

Submitted: Monday, February 16, 2009
Listen to this poem:

Do you like this poem?
0 person liked.
0 person did not like.

Read this poem in other languages

This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.

I would like to translate this poem »

word flags

What do you think this poem is about?

Comments about this poem (fourteen by RIC S. BASTASA )

Enter the verification code :

There is no comment submitted by members..

Top Poems

  1. Phenomenal Woman
    Maya Angelou
  2. The Road Not Taken
    Robert Frost
  3. If You Forget Me
    Pablo Neruda
  4. Still I Rise
    Maya Angelou
  5. Dreams
    Langston Hughes
  6. Annabel Lee
    Edgar Allan Poe
  7. If
    Rudyard Kipling
  8. Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
    Robert Frost
  9. I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings
    Maya Angelou
  10. A Dream Within A Dream
    Edgar Allan Poe

New Poems

  1. Making A Nation, Tony Adah
  2. Two Moons, Akhtar Jawad
  3. If James T. Kirk wrote a poem, Gouda Moon
  4. Who wants that Catch-22?, Mark Heathcote
  5. yup, Mandolyn ...
  6. Jessica, Prophmatt . . .
  7. CARE, mallika.R Chari
  8. Compulsions, Nick Kler
  9. I love the sheet you write!, Mandolyn ...
  10. Poverty a Curse or Boon, Aftab Alam

Poem of the Day

poet Alfred Lord Tennyson

It little profits that an idle king,
By this still hearth, among these barren crags,
Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and dole
Unequal laws unto a savage race,
...... Read complete »

   
[Hata Bildir]