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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Related quotes
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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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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The River Flows
The river flows and moss grows
And I dangle my feet in the water
The water is cold, but so is my heart
As I sit and just watch time goes by
No place I have to go, no place to be
Time has passed too fast, as fast as the river flows
Who else has sat here and felt this way
Felt pain in their heart and soul
They don't understand, did they ever?
All the hurt down deep in my soul
The leaves sway with the wind
And the chill sets in
I know I must leave, I don't know where
Guess I'll find my way down the road
With tears in my eyes and a broken heart
I'll find my way back to somewhere
The river flows on and the moss will keep growing
Till someone else sits here
And remembers things like I do
And wish I had them all back
I leave in the night, goodbye to the river and moss
May each persons who comes this way
Find a peace inside like I did but on the way
I'll always remember that the river flows on and the moss grows.
Written by Jo Carey
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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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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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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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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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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A stone that gathers no moss will be washed away by the river.
If God...
if god had wings
he'd be a sparrow,
and fly the vast expanse of sky.
if god were water,
he'd be a river,
and forge new paths
through stone and moss.
if god were fire,
he'd burn away all the hatreds,
and leave us to build again on ash.
if god were stillness,
he'd quiet all the fighting,
and the world would sing
the songs of peace.
if god were flesh and blood,
he'd be the man in the mirror,
doing the work
that brings life to the living!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Hammock Upon The Winds
there lies sadness like patches of green moss
sticking upon a rock half covered by the clear water of the river
one may think that sadness will always be there as patches of
what we have always wanted to get rid off like peeling them off gently from
an old sharp and rugged edged rock
sometimes you become so tired planning and doing and then surrendering into the helplessness of a fallen leaf that floats and is carried slowly by the current of the river early morning on a Sunday
when people are not around spending holidays on places that they miss for the whole week
and so one lays its tired body on the side of the river's bank
wades his hands and feels the coolness of the water and then starts to flow and release what he thinks must be given away
one feels the restfulness of finally giving up
of not minding about what cares must be done in order to make
life smoother
flowing and easier like the way the brown leaf floats
like the way the blue clouds drift
like the way we let the moss grow
upon the side of the rock
having more wet times with the clear water of the river
having a clearer view of the orange fish within and the shiny pebbles
beneath them
words lull me like i were carried by the hammock upon the arms of the unseen winds....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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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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In A Garden
Gushing from the mouths of stone men
To spread at ease under the sky
In granite-lipped basins,
Where iris dabble their feet
And rustle to a passing wind,
The water fills the garden with its rushing,
In the midst of the quiet of close-clipped lawns.
Damp smell the ferns in tunnels of stone,
Where trickle and plash the fountains,
Marble fountains, yellowed with much water.
Splashing down moss-tarnished steps
It falls, the water;
And the air is throbbing with it.
With its gurgling and running.
With its leaping, and deep, cool murmur.
And I wished for night and you.
I wanted to see you in the swimming-pool,
White and shining in the silver-flecked water.
While the moon rode over the garden,
High in the arch of night,
And the scent of the lilacs was heavy with stillness.
Night, and the water, and you in your whiteness, bathing!
poem by Amy Lowell
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Spanish Moss
Let go darlin
I can feel the night wind call
Guess Id better go
I like you more than half as much
As I love your spanish moss
Spanish moss hangin down
Lofty as the southern love weve found
Spanish moss
Keeps on followin my thoughts around
Georgia pine and ripple wine
Memories of savannah summertime
Spanish moss
Wish you knew what I was sayin
So Im rollin north thinkin
Of the way things might have been
If she and I could have changed it all somehow
Spanish moss hangin down
Lofty as the sycamore youve found
Spanish moss
Keeps on followin my thoughts around
Georgia pine and ripple wine
Kisses mixed with moonshine and red clay
Spanish moss
Wish you knew what I was sayin
So Im rollin north thinkin
Of the way things might have been
If she and I could have changed it all somehow
Let go darlin
I can feel the night wind call
The devil take the cost
I like the way your kisses flow and I love your spanish moss
song performed by by Gordon Lightfoot
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Viewing Cac-Co Cavern
Heaven and earth brought forth this rocky mass
its face cut by a deep crevasse
crack's dark mouth shagged with moss
pines rocking in wind rush.
Here sweet water spatters down
and the path into the cleft is dark.
Praise whoever sculpted stone
then left it bare for all to see.
Here is another translation of the same poem:
Yin and Yang created this chunk of rock;
A deep and dark crack split it into two blocks.
Moss covered openings expose themselves with impudence
Wind enhanced firs produce sound of rhythmic cadence.
Drops of romantic water fall with splash
Roads to nowhere lead in dark labyrinth.
Praise to the scuptor inventing this distortion
Indecent exposure invites lots of observation.
poem by Ho Xuan Huong
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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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No Moss But Still Life
no rolling stones anymore
gathering no moss
laundary service on moment to moment mental motion
dependent origins of happenings in life
no home is attached to a space in heart
only the zero-moment of change
no ying and yang
no satory
only zero-moment of change towardss the realization of nothingness
no moss for a voyager of stillness
Moss Hanging From Sunset Trees
I love the beauty of nature
I love the quiet of a still river...
I love the beauty of rare pristine nature
I love the quiet tranquil flow of a still river...
I love the sparkle light on sunset water
I love moss hanging from sunset trees...
cool breeze blows across cool river water
sounds smells infuse senses river lover sees...
poem by Terence George Craddock
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