This Art.... Poem by RIC BASTASA

it is just a matter of having it in
and it gives the usual
pain or joy, no choice, the feelings
are always there
and the sense of knowing and
being too analytical seemingly destroys the
beauty indescribably
setting

she gives a sigh
when nobody seems to be clapping hands
when no one is bowing
or saying a name at least that one makes it right
and rhyming

'at last, i do not really care'
this is autonomy
of indiscretions of feelings and all these are but
streams
of consciousness the usual candle tears taking shape
in a bowl of cold water

'we let it go'
we tell ourselves mutually about the release of what had been kept
for years
and we know no one understands what is these all about
a sewing machine
a pillow, a veil, a pin, an injecting sting,
a rope, a blanket,
an authority, a cushion, a bluffer,
a clown, and so on and so forth

you are finally misled about all these things
a scissor, a triangular cloth,
an umbrella,
a starfish,

the usual moon resting upon the trees
the sun peeping between two mountains early morning
the kid in town
finally planting the rice seeds
and the buffalo still enjoying the day in mud

there is plane that lands at the airport at 2 o'clock in the afternoon
when you are still taking your siesta by the verandah
and you are irritated and you tell yourself

'oh yes! ' this is all about it.