Mere Words, Mere Scrap Poem by RIC BASTASA

the wall clock
takes the shape
of a wooden table
and the hands of
time stop
sounding the hours
of a happy life

the twigs of our
hard earned
learning cannot
withstand
what is set to
happen on
murderous
moments of
a martial law

a mountain of beliefs
the green valley of of
principles which we accept
from a dictator
as solid and unchangeable
are at a distance
paradise but when we
arrive there
was a horror

we try to define our
perspectives
and reinvent our molten
selves

when i was a child
i felt the swiftness of time
on a hot summer day
upon an ice drop on my hand
and tongue licking sugar on
water upon a bamboo stick

on an assigned usual essay
how i spent my summer vacation
my mind whirled in search for
satisfaction with my old teacher
in mind: how to make her happy?

enjoying jack-fruit flavored
ice candy in the store nearby
with only one peso in my pocket
in 1970

i was thinking how to sell time
and make most money from
mere words, mere scrap.