RIC S. BASTASA
there are hiding places where people suffer
authentically alone, where they learn to find nooks as temporary solutions.
they have secret passages. Mantras of their own inventions.
They have secret doors. Enigmatic selves learning the games of living.
There is an open park where we meet. Share moments. Buy popcorn.
See kids, wait for sunsets. There are trees where we take shade.
Where we have the illusion that we are one in this journey.
We comfort our sorrows. Share our miseries.
There is a photograph of us. Wacky. There are times when some people
are out of fashion. It is summer and they wear thick leather jackets.
Boots where it could have been more comfortable with slippers.
There is a time not to talk about suffering. We choose law for its neutrality.
Then we forget the left side of our brains.
And that is where the small wars begin to swell.
It would have been wiser if we were monkeys. Playing with ropes
and then staying on trees. Making love on branches and pushing partners to the edge.
When we leave those who are no longer useful.
When we continue living with those whom we have started to hate.
I say, Life is like that. It is too hard to understand.
No maps. Nothing straight. Not predictable.
Not logical at all. Incoherent, and so...i can only have compassion.
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Comments about this poem (53456 by RIC S. BASTASA )
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
(13 September 1916 – 23 November 1990)
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