A Long Poem For Myself...... Poem by RIC BASTASA

i, too, have started
folding a lot of clothes
or keeping some things
so that i could say
that i have done my
part, cleaning the mess
and keeping things
where they should be.

i have seen you do the
same, even ironing those
dried clothing taken
from the clothesline
outside the house, for
nights, and seemingly
you have not finished
doing all these, and
i watch you with pity,
why things and works
seem to be always
unfinished.

there is this fear of
finishing work or at lease
resting from them, because
one wants to leave for a while,
relax, and evaluate whether
all these have meaning,
and whether this meaning
is reliable enough to keep
on working or surviving...

you fear that i may sound
like a finisher, and having
taken a conclusion that i
am through, and ready for
a vacation, while you are
still caught in the web
of a busy spider unable to
catch a fly, or kill it,
or eat it, i may not at all,
invite you to be with me,

you fear being alone, just
like the way i feel, and
you fear that we may not
jibe altogether for the
same purpose and for the
same meaning.

it is all right. Stories
end. Poems begin to be
written again. And then


we stop, asking what do
we really want, as i also
ask, what are these poems
really want to say to you,

or at least to me, i, veiled,
and kept in the dark side of
my world, still seeking where
light is, trying to map out
where the end of the tunnel is.