My Sort Of Poetry Poem by RIC BASTASA

A group of words that intends nothing
But only me
A group of words running towards a market of ideas
With no intention to buy or to sell
A group of children running towards the parks
Rushing
For no reason but
To play

Or simply a lonely
Word
With no other ambition, but to simply stroll under some shady trees of the boulevard
It has no direction
A mumbo jumbo with
No matching magic intended
A group of words like running cars to roads without traffic signs
Chaotic, dangerous, deadly
Accident-prone
Willing to take a solo flight
Then crash into the deepest sea
Or hit an indestructible mountain
Words that run berserk like kamikaze
When fed up
May take a sudden twist
Yogic stand stilling
Hide if you seek
Die if you will
Absurd
At times defecating,
Farting in the middle of a solemn mass


A group of words invented by my heart and mind
And mine alone
Hypocrite words hand in hand with honest words
Telling lies
And telling truths
And you shall be confused
By all these confabulations
Though not what I really wanted to achieve,
As I have no criminal malice
Except to make this group of words
For its own sake
My sake
My very own pleasure
Tiny pleasure

Now numb,
Now dead
Another victim
In a perfect crime

My own group of words wanting only to be human,
Ought to be,
Must have been,
And always must be


A group of human words
Where burdens are buried underneath
Or in-between
Hibernating mudfish
Molting garter snake
Molten magma
Saved saliva
Spittle
Living group of words,
Pulsating tadpole

Searching like a frisking airport guard trained for terrorism
A group of words, sort of poetry, sort of
My life
Expressing the idea
That some ideas are meant simply to be concealed
To be unexpressed, unexposed
. Like a newly cut- stem
Of a purple allamanda for propagation
For the next generation
Hidden from the sun

Glare is death
Exposure can become invisibility
Like familiarity breeding contempt
Too much
Can be nothing
In effect


Conceal to show the power of expression

I conceal to show my self to you
Helpless in anger
And it is good
Because we all need it

What is there to say?
When everything is there


Like a sea lion sunbathing



Or the penguins in procession

Or the goldfish
Inside a bowl

The noon sun
The full midnight moon

The white cross of Magellan
Or the twin towers of York

The need of not having to say any word
After all
Is the gift of etiquette

I am
Silent in too much noise
Unfathomable by too much layered depth
Of the everyday mores
Thick face
Thin scary skin

Lively feelings meant for the dead
For those better not said, better not done
For those that which these words have done and for those left undone
My life, my sort of group, of own words

All written for the prolongation of the secretive human race
For the preservation of this transient world
In the name of duty, of life, the ought, the must, the mandatory, of all the laws, man-made and
God- made
I shall obey

I have followed
Down to the last letter
All focused for eternity

All these words

Of fingers pointing towards the thousand careful touches of humanity

My greatest sigh of all

This group of words is so dedicated.