Transitions.... Poem by RIC BASTASA

at first the house is one kind of a party
more friends are coming
you even let the mailman to have a drink
and stay for a while
though he has nothing to say just like
the masons and some carpenters

then the house was almost burned
there was so much panic that day
the whole village talked about it for weeks

of course, the house as usual is silent like
most rocks
to regain its solidity
it listens to the refreshes of the sea breeze
it resumes its pacific nature
facing the sea and learning from the past storms

then something so horrible happens
but no one in the house is telling about it
the pillars shook and some walls gave in
a part of the roof was taken by the hurricane
but the house is still in tact


changes come into play
the gates are closed
the mailman is having a hard time pressing the door bell
the mail box is broken
and some thieves are anticipating that someday
they can get in and make their presence felt
perhaps to take
what is essential

what they did not know is that
no one lives in this house anymore
all the memories are put into boxes and kept in the cellars
the house has become one mummified pharaoh
a pyramid that points to the sun
the village only talks about the built-in mysteries

it is one kind of a cadaver surrounded by flowers
whose heart has been removed a few days ago

and then the talk stops
and that was only when the last prayer was said.