The Journey Of A Writer.... Poem by RIC BASTASA

there was a time when you go
into descriptions:
a sunlit hill,
a golden dawn,
full of details,

such as the nerves of
a blue butterfly
with black legs, or a koi
with its spots
of orange and whiteand
black and golden fins
swimming and floating
on a clear pond
with green weeds
and mossy stones beneath
them.

you have inherited it from a china man
or a Japanese haiku writer,

there is you
however who wants to write
what you have in mind,

something intangible,
so academic and
theoretical, or
theological and
even philosophical,
dealing with words
without skins, and
color and bones
faces without eyes,
clocks without hands,
stairs without steps,
orphans, and cities
without arms,
corns without their
ears,
and caterpillars
without their
cocoons,

somehow you have dealt
with all these
enigma, or mysteries, or
riddles or puzzles,
since you yourself
have no answers or
patterns or configurations
to arrive at
rest.

you shall rise and
then be effaced forever
from the faces of
certainties.
stripped of a body,
you think you are nothing
but a mere psyche.

if indeed,
there is a soul.
forever, you must
float and listen.
travel endlessly without
that sense of time.
of origins and destinations.
of right and wrong.
of reason.