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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=490748" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Max Strong, Some Notes</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">maxie, the poems are there on a silver platter<br>you do not even have to read them<br>you are not called upon to understand each word</div><div style="margin:10px 0">(thought each is carefully chosen<br>to suit a mood, a value, an image<br>to appear logical and relevant<br>reverent and working hard to appease<br>some emotions like a cool fan<br>to go with hot summer or a hot tea<br>for the rainy day under the thatched<br>roofing of the mountain hut) </div><div style="margin:10px 0">there are no hours reserved in the making<br>of a poem, but i accept there is a broken dam<br>a leaking reservoir of feelings wanting to<br>be free and claim even a whole village, <br>bizarre thoughts of a catastrophe<br>but it need not be that, could simply be<br>a beehive where each day each worker<br>goes to the flowers and get the nectar<br>for their queenbee, for the colony<br>sweet labot sweet reservoir of words) </div><div style="margin:10px 0">by then, on an impulse a poem is made<br>a quick flash of light, like thunder and lightning<br>i close some windows i open some<br>i slam the door i close gently some<br>it is simply unpredictable like some</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>(oh yes, they have said it before) </div><div style="margin:10px 0">like a candle that melts itself and <br>then like tears they always take shape<br>on the side of the body-this poetry<br>always going for something unplanned<br>unscheming to the least, it just flows<br>like thoughts after a nap, like the imaginations<br>of a child dreaming his eyes anchoring on<br>that mountain with fog and mists.....</div><div style="margin:10px 0">some clouds taking shape on the horizon<br>brooms, witches, princess, rabbits, <br>UFO'S or some flower-clouds<br>the face of God, the face of the one you love</div><div style="margin:10px 0">don't sweat it out, they mean nothing<br>but by then, when you read them like <br>you are not thinking, the thoughts come<br>like angels like some prophets with <br>drops of fire landing on their foreheads</div><div style="margin:10px 0">serendipity, aha! aha! there it is<br>your face in the mirror, like a ghost that you see<br>passing by and then suddenly gone<br>you cannot even believe that it is there</div><div style="margin:10px 0">was it there? convince yourself, there was not any<br>except your mind, there was a lapse of memory somewhere<br>a leak of disbelief, but you swear there was really<br>someone, there was this white thing this face<br>a ghost, you swear there was something in that poem</div><div style="margin:10px 0">and you read again, but you are tired, so much pressure<br>has been put to understand, sleep now, do not waste your time</div><div style="margin:10px 0">it is precious, and this one does not deserve a minute<br>of your comprehension, a second of misappreciation...</div><div style="margin:10px 0">what was there? nothing, i assure you, there is nothing<br>but just a ghost wanting to pretend that it is real</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Ric+S.+Bastasa">Ric S. Bastasa</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=490748" data-title="Max Strong, Some Notes de Ric S. Bastasa" data-description="maxie, the poems are there on a silver platter
you do not even have to read them
you are not called upon to understand each word

(thought each is carefully chosen
to suit a mood, a value, an image
to appear logical and relevant
reverent and worki..."></div>
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