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10769.
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sixteen
when she says goodbye
waives her hand
and sort of cry some tears
like she will be missing
us all a lot,
try not looking at her
let her be
if you must
climb some stairs
or feed the chickens
or busy yourself with the pigs
let us see
if her goodbye is honest
if she does not have some crocodile tears
if she comes back
again on the same
ship taking her away
let us see
actually, i do not have any plan
welcoming her back
i have found
my life and she is not a part of it anymore
even a doorknob
or a button to my
shirt or a cuff link
her hands are never
true.
RIC S. BASTASA
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10770.
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sketches for a fine day
actually i like the sound of
brooms sweeping the street today
a young girl
short for her age
and brown and
bow legged
does her assigned task in the street
gathering dead leaves
as i watch
it is a bright day
the street light is turned off
a young boy's hand is held by her mother
crossing the street
waiting for the school bus
a white dog pisses
on the side of the trunk of the
mahogany tree
a black car from the right side of the village
wheels its way towards the boulevard
a young woman with short blue jeans
jogs along the green valley
the sea is sky
blue and the sun slowly rises from the horizon
like a man's face peeping upon a table's edge
the long line of trees along the faded street
RIC S. BASTASA
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10771.
|
sketching my face from a mirror
using a ballpoint pen i sketch my face
from the mirror
looking carefully on every line of my face
i let my pen run tracing
every year
of my past stopping
on some pores and hairs and moles
marking some
points of emptiness and hiding places
and foxholes
and burial grounds
and long boulevards
and tunnels
and plains and green fields and deserts
and mountains
they are all on my face
my eyes looking at my eyes
not completely
with disgust
the parameters and contours
of my past
on such a beautiful face as this
how can i ever fail
the next time
around
RIC S. BASTASA
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10772.
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sketchy
the shadow is cast
on the wall
such a tall shadow
without feet
against the wall it edges
itself like a huge
wormy creature
not slimy though but snail paced
is the loneliness
of this kind of betrayed
existence
a few drops of rain
actually tears fall from the sky of
her cheeks from the veins
of her heart
from a memory of a madness
that she keeps to herself
with the city on her heels
at the command of the fingertips
of the darker master
death unmasking the color of blue neon lights
light like pins and needles
of pine and silver
very much unlike the hands
of the past lover long gone
RIC S. BASTASA
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