I Once Write To Follow An Idea Poem by RIC BASTASA

writing has a purpose. Words can preach.
Or they are like a wind vane, giving you the
north, and south and east and west.
You ask: why am i heading west? What is
in the snow as thick as my agnosticism?
and you follow, and ask what is it that i
really mean about the sound of a frog
croaking? I put some leaves, and twigs
and pretend that i am composing a tree.
I like the sound of a hush, the wind and the
silence of the mists, the insistence of frost.
Too early, yes too early to conclude that
words must, and must have no other purpose
but to convey and idea. About myself. Looking
for Myself. I am an idea.

Sooner i am told, by this star and this moon,
there is no idea, and there is no purpose either.
Just seasons. Cold and warm. Humid and Dry.
Desert and snow. Wet and Arid. Acidic sometimes.
Smooth. Rough. No reason at all, why prey? What
caused the depredation of feelings? Outbursts and
explosions. Cry. Shout. Bohemian rhapsody.

Yes, this is nothing but colors. Feelings I mean.