At 4: 25 In The Morning, About True Love
you are curious about true love
and let me tell you about my love for her
twas true, yes it was,
too much moss in the stone
the river wants to
remove all the green in there
sad to say
it failed.
the stone is still strong.
and the moss too green to die.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The moss that loves the stone
It is the moss that loves the stone
Most. No matter what or when, the
Moss somehow manages to stay
Even without a why, they say.
But the moss keeps on sticking
To the body of the stone that
Keeps its nonminding stiffness.
It is cold, it is hard, it is unfeeling
At all. It is the moss that keeps its
Love. It sticks with it, rain or shine.
It rolls with it. It stays with it even
In the desert, even it if means its
Own death. It is the moss that sticks
To the stone. It is its true lover.
In the river, the water has ordered
The moss to leave. It ordered the stone
To crush it. The moss cannot be
Removed. It covered the stone.
It is loving it whole.The stone has
Become the moss, and the stone
Is gone.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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To Gather Moss And More Of Moss
to gather moss
be a stone
to gather more moss
be a very still stone
be a stone still till the end
of time
you stand still and think
you want to be the moss
rather than a stone
to be all moss
you must betray the stillness
of stone
you must even forget
the importance of
what a moss can be
then you think some more
to be completely this moss
you need to be friendly
to the water and to the river
then you decide to be the water
instead of the moss
to be more than the water
you wish instead to become the river
and so you flow and learn the rush
and become the running river
until what you want really
is just to flow
to rush and run and then
you become nothing
but the motion itself
until you are lost
and then
you become what you are now
lost but real
always flowing, rushing, running
where nobody owns you
not even the river
or the stones or the moss
you have become
this running, this flowing, this being
so real so free
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Life And Death On The Stone In The Pond
on that rainy month
a stone was so kind
enough
to let the green moss
wrap its
solid body
there was
mutual bliss in
their
company
then the drought
comes in months
the river where the stone
lives
dried and
mud turned to
cracked
surfaces
the moss knows
that this happens
every year
dies peacefully
around the solid body
of the stone
like sleep waiting
for the next rain
the stone is
undisturbed
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Reflection 0.2
when you arrive here
there is no stone not a single stone
there is no moss not a single hair of a green moss
then there was the pain of waiting
time is always delaying its coming
trains stopped and cars are having flat tires
but you are faithful you keep on waiting you entertain promises
like dear memories or dreams or wishes that come true somehow
and you waited for so long
now this place is filled with stones and moss grow in each body of the stone
the waters spread their territories and land is emaciated
and the house is covered with water and the roof is gone
and there is nobody here anymore and it is only i who remember you and
i tell them about you and they do not believe me
and i feel like i am a ship that just sunk.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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In some fields of grass under the hills (sestina)
This afternoon the peaks throw a big shade
with the black cliffs shining up on the hills,
while we lay together in the long grass,
I look in your eyes that are amber-green
while under my head there is a small stone
and you smile at me like the prettiest lady.
I had once known another charming lady;
that part of my life is now left in shade,
bad churchmen were casting stone upon stone,
while I had to flee from them to the hills
to pastures were everything is green
to find the Lord in divine fields of grass.
Under your head there is a crown of grass
and your mother is a gracious, kind lady,
around us everything is lovely green
while we are still resting in the cool shade,
we are softly chatting about life’s hills,
about walls of very hard granite stone.
Your eyes are much brighter than emerald stone
while all of your words are softer than grass,
reaching higher and beyond all the hills,
the high mountain which is dangerous lady,
while from our pain nothing gives any shade,
nowhere is a place of rest that is green.
Your summer dress is lovely, is bright green,
suddenly all our ails have turned to stone
I follow you further; see your small shade,
I am seen as one that woos any lady,
we walk past some flowers growing in grass,
climbing up higher into the foothills.
Bright streams are splashing down some of the hills,
with water transparent, sometimes cold and green,
love and lust burns like in a youthful lady
while I at that moment feel cold as stone,
we notice a deer feeding on lone grass
while our garments lie under a tree’s shade.
Far into the hills you want love till dusk’s shade,
where you peep like some green moss from the grass,
are tossing me with a stone like no lady.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Drawing A River
when you draw a river
the river begins
to draw also a fish
the fish shall
sketch a moss
the moss
paints the missing
green
then you have what
your river wants
a place where you
want to
ponder about a sky
come to think again
now draw
a very white sky
take a pen and a very
wide paper....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Stone
how is it to be a stone?
how is it to be hard
and unfeeling?
how is it to be still
and immobile
rooted in
its place for years
and centuries
not growing
not speaking not listening
to the songs and sighs
of the river?
how is it to be completely
defenseless against
the moss
that invades and
covers
your body
of stone
the coldness
of the rain and
the boredom of the time
in years, in centuries?
how is it to be just being
inanimate
unmoved
untouched and
untouching?
you
you touch no one and nobody touches you
an island
of stone
you
are the stone
the rock
against
the middle
of the raging river
and i am asking all these questions to you.
oh! i am always the foolish one
petrified
facing you all day and getting
no answers
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Scotch Song
Oh, forth she went like a braw, braw bride
To meet her winsome groom,
When she was aware of twa bonny birds
Sat biggin' in the broom.
The tane it built with the green, green moss,
But and the bents sae fine,
And the tither wi' a lock o' lady's hair
Linked up wi' siller twine.
'O whaur gat ye the green, green moss,
O whaur the bents sae fine?
And whaur gat ye the bonny broun hair
That ance was tress o' mine?'
'We gat the moss fra' the elditch aile,
The bents fra' the whinny muir,
And a fause knight threw us the bonny broun hair,
To please his braw new fere.'
'Gae pull, gae pull the simmer leaves,
And strew them saft o'er me;
My token's tint, my love is fause,
I'll lay me doon and dee.'
1847.
poem by Charles Kingsley
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Travel and society polish one, but a rolling stone gathers no moss, and a little moss is a good thing on a man.
quote by John Burroughs
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Serene Love
as we step into the
clear water of the river
we create the ripples
we lose sight of the
face of the blue clouds
we find for ourselves
an embroidery of
drifting leaves
we dip our bodies to
the coolness of the water
i search for serene love
at the bottom where
you are waiting
we kiss and embrace
beside the slippery stone
the moss is green
each step as slippery as
an ell
each kiss and breath a
bubble we send
to the surface of the river
the water flows farther and farther
until we begin not to see what happens.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Swain
Life at times is like the egg dancing with the stone,
But we must be strong to carry on always;
For success is always watching us from left and right.
I came to the river of love but it was very dry,
Then i called Swain to help me with some water!
There and then i saw the joy of the river,
And true love came on it at last.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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A stone that gathers no moss will be washed away by the river.
Ode To The Green Grass Of Summer
green green grass
spreading slowly on the path
of my feet
treaded upon
such green beauty
covering once
this dust, this mud,
this plain expanse
of ugliness
i sing the song
of green green grasess
spreading thinly on
the pavement
grasshoppers
and ants and some worms
yes, the green green grasses
are still their home
patches of earth
from far
you may see
this stitches
of moss
a landscape
of this earth
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Green River Valley
Your face 'tis mirrored in the river-
Along its banks where moss and algae grow-
Shadows of the dark forests unfold slowly-
'Neath the lemon moon- your reflection- simply glows;
Evening has locked its ebony blanket in-
'Cross the rivers green-gardened theme-
Fireflies flutter their brillance and gossemer wings-
While the river unfolds unfathomnable things;
In the valley under the mountains spires-
The zenith touches the skies broken white clouds-
And the fireflies- now even in daylight-
Mirror your reflection- in the river so proud;
Oh such divine whispers you share with me-
Cupping my chin in your most loving of hands-
Moving one in a caressed sweep 'cross my cheek-
Oh 'tis magical-this green gardened river land;
Where love n'er can e'er perish...
As 'tis strong water-'tis strong as death-
Reflections carry on our love song-
That seeps from your fervant and longing breath;
143
poem by Theodora Onken
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Blind Love
Words and music by tom waits
Now youre gone
And its hotels and whiskey and sad luck days
And I dont care if they miss me
I never remember their names
They say if you get far enough away
Youll be on your way back home
Well Im at the station
And I cant get on the train
Must be blind love
The only kind of love is stone blind love
The only kind of love is stone blind love
The only kind of love is stone blind love
Oh blind love
Blind love
Stone blind love
Stone blind love
Well the streets turning blue
The dogs are barking and the night has come
And its tears that are falling
From these brown eyes now
And I wonder where you are
And I whisper your name
(I whisper your name)
And the only way to find you
Is if I close my eyes
And find you with my blind love
The only kind of love is stone blind love
The only kind of love is stone blind love
The only kind of love is stone blind love
Oh blind love
Blind love
Stone blind love
Stone blind love
Oh its blind love
The only kind of love is stone blind love
The only kind of love is stone blind love
The only kind of love is stone blind love
Oh blind love
Blind love
Stone blind love
song performed by by Bob Seger
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Here Comes Life
the rolling stone
sliding past
following us
the rolling stone
now ahead of us
here comes life
and there it is gone
we are still the moss
catching no stone
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Sestina
I have come, alas, to the great circle of shadow,
to the short day and to the whitening hills,
when the colour is all lost from the grass,
though my desire will not lose its green,
so rooted is it in this hardest stone,
that speaks and feels as though it were a woman.
And likewise this heaven-born woman
stays frozen, like the snow in shadow,
and is unmoved, or moved like a stone,
by the sweet season that warms all the hills,
and makes them alter from pure white to green,
so as to clothe them with the flowers and grass.
When her head wears a crown of grass
she draws the mind from any other woman,
because she blends her gold hair with the green
so well that Amor lingers in their shadow,
he who fastens me in these low hills,
more certainly than lime fastens stone.
Her beauty has more virtue than rare stone.
The wound she gives cannot be healed with grass,
since I have travelled, through the plains and hills,
to find my release from such a woman,
yet from her light had never a shadow
thrown on me, by hill, wall, or leaves’ green.
I have seen her walk all dressed in green,
so formed she would have sparked love in a stone,
that love I bear for her very shadow,
so that I wished her, in those fields of grass,
as much in love as ever yet was woman,
closed around by all the highest hills.
The rivers will flow upwards to the hills
before this wood, that is so soft and green,
takes fire, as might ever lovely woman,
for me, who would choose to sleep on stone,
all my life, and go eating grass,
only to gaze at where her clothes cast shadow.
Whenever the hills cast blackest shadow,
with her sweet green, the lovely woman
hides it, as a man hides stone in grass.
poem by Dante Alighieri
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To Know Without Knowing
Red moss, crimson as blood of a slaughtered calf,
I knew I had seen it before but could not recall
where or when. Like seeing a landscape painting
knowing I had been there before, long time ago.
In the valley of cobblers children ran barefoot on
summer grass and they scented of wildflowers
unpasteurized milk and healthy, innocent laughter.
I know this to be true but don’t know why?
I think of reindeers would they eat red moss used
as they are to the grey variety? Sun keeps shining
like Spanish blood orange with a wicked cold.
The good earth is dry, waits for rain…plenty of it.
The red moss is a forgotten love story and perhaps
if I sit still long enough and wait I will remember it.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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128
Always dissatisfied with what one has,
The power of nothingness
Engulfs
Whatever you also engulf
Or take as a possession,
What comes into you
Goes out of you and everything
Goes in there only to
Go out later,
There is nothing you can hold,
It is simply meant that way,
The flow
Life, birth, life, death, rebirth,
And then back to Nothingness
Unless you believe
In something Else
To cling to
Like a moss to an old stone
Albeit,
The stone rolls just the same
In an ancient flowing river
Then while here
We do not really know
What happens
There are many stories
That the bird outside us
Cannot yet sing.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Dissatisfied
Always dissatisfied with what one has,
The power of nothingness
Engulfs
Whatever you also engulf
Or take as a possession,
What comes into you
Goes out of you and everything
Goes in there only to
Go out later,
There is nothing you can hold,
It is simply meant that way,
The flow
Life, birth, life, death, rebirth,
And then back to Nothingness
Unless you believe
In something Else
To cling to
Like a moss to an old stone
Albeit,
The stone rolls just the same
In an ancient flowing river
Then while here
We do not really know
What happens
There are many stories
That the bird outside us
Cannot yet sing.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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