Motives...

at the point when minds do not mind
when you are like a haze
or mist that the morning is too familiar
with such that
when you are gone
no one notices
who comes and goes

the motives come in hordes
and ask you
which one? ahh, i pick the one for which i am sure of

it is not the money
not the fame, it is the letting go of what i treasure

it is the scratching of what itches
the releasing of what is jailed

it is freedom and compassion
the doves and the flowers

it is the road and the journey
it is not the cottage that provides temporary rest

it is the homing
that permanency that we are all thirsting

it is always there in that distance
it is not here, not today.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!