Midnight Birds Sometimes Make Their Wailing Songs Waking You Up In Shivers. Poem by RIC BASTASA

in that dark nook
in a not so well known
folk house
i sit listening to the
kind of music
that you love playing

mostly, sad, and deep
like a wound that refuses
to yield to
a healing balm

i have my glass of wine
for company
its alcohol also appeases
my appetite for
longing

for always loving you
my precious illusion
my mirage in the hope of
finding an oasis
in the desert
my flower on the top
of the mountain where cliffs
always remind me
of the enduring danger

guitar strings of love
violin loneliness
the angst of those piano
keys
the tragedy of ivory
the pain of broken glasses
and empty beer bottles
that lie drunk the following
morning

all those trash and
garbage of love stories
which we always hear and
bear with
all those kinds of
having been
related and elated and
dumbfounded

stupidities abound
foolish people mushroom in the
darkness of this folk house as you
begin to play with your own
sorrow


i must be drunk
and i close my eyes to be carried
away with your music

on those lonely alleys
and pathways
on those houses with doors
and windows closed

as one enters the abandoned
shack
turns on the flashlight
gets a lighter
clicks it
to find a dusty candle
to light another night
at the foot of the hill
surrounded by
forests and mountains

midnight birds sometimes
make their wailing songs
waking you up
in shivers

some though like those
pink nosed monkeys
make their love calls
to those
who are ready for their
heat season
violently shaking those
trees
and then the sounds of
someone falling to the
river
reverberates in the air
oh, another one is hopelessly
in love
full of lust
and lacking the compassion
bereft of love
nil in affection.