Our Home... Poem by RIC BASTASA

the constancy of the heart
the restlessness of the spirit
the familiarity of these hands
mold the meaning....

that which happens every night
and day
becomes a habit
and routine
there is no more meaning to what
was once
electrical and sudden and
intermittent,

neurotic impulses giving all the signals
of something
euphoric
we all pass that way,
once, twice, thrice...

like the moving line of the graph
at first it goes up and climbs the hill of fortune
then for no apparent reason
just like what usually happens
something that is up
has no option but always to come down

law of gravity works through all
these emotions..

then someone begins to utter
the word 'home'

where the heart is
where the mind crumples like a scratch paper
with all the unnecessary etchings
where the fragility of porcelains break
into unbearable pieces

who recalls them and who puts them all back
as though nothing happens?
the scars of the cracks will always be visible
there is nothing that can be concealed forever
and the guests shake their head and
leave

because the party is over..

we hear the rain on our rooftops and we
admit the subsiding and finally the stopping of
the heavy pouring
now it is a clear morning and no fog
hangs on the hillsides
of our paths towards the garden
of Eden

home is no longer just a word.
it is a sculpture and with some colors
perhaps
it becomes us.