S7 Poem by RIC BASTASA

early morning eyes
fresh from their dreams

the mind recalls
the heart confirms

all the emotions still contained
vivid images in technicolor

the hands summon the fingers
write, write, write

strike while the iron is hot
cliche, cliche

now the thoughts rush like a flood
from the forest mountains

the fingers are adept at all these
one with the mind and heart

and so here we are again
slaves of our art

redeemed risen anew
maybe still cold and perhaps even frozen

thaw
melt only to be solidified again when the sun comes

irony of the mind
paradoxes of the heart

listen
to you i am saying nothing

it is for me
in the labyrinths of my confusions i am trying to find my way out

trapped fly in a bottle
buzzing for its wish for freedom

genie
wanting someone to rub its ancient lamp

if you let me free
you may have four wishes

and that is not just a promise
it is a contract

morning thoughts
tunnels without end lights yet

there is yet no exit
and so you still find me here in my own shadow

fog and mist
trails filled with tall grasses

up there is the house of my intentions
a figure waits but i do not know yet who

surprises surprises
anticipations of life

these are all the reasons
hazy as a refraction of light bending upon a glassy vision