A Young Child Waking His Eyes From Sleep, Stretching His Hands And Looking For Mother. Poem by RIC BASTASA

to write is to recall
what cannot be found

you keep on trying
there must be a real capture
of what slipped

it is like fishing and
what you fish is not fish
and what you are riding
is not even a boat
and you float there but
there is no water

to write is to be filled
with contradictions
meeting the ironies of your
life and shaking their hands
as though you are ready
to have friends again in that
room where lights are dim
where candles are restrained
with what and how much light
to give


to write is to go back to that
thatched roofed cottage long
abandoned and as you open the
door you hear the creaking sound
of your past who appears as
a young child waking his eyes
from sleep, stretching his hands
and looking for mother....