To A Young Writer

i surf the faces of young writers

this one: bites his pencil and wanting to smile at the same time
(how could he do both?)
the other girl on the right side of the hall
with bangs is fat, chinky eyed,
wearing blue jeans
and collarless white shirt
she stares at the PowerPoint

four stones above each other
and on top a butterfly, a metaphor for transformation
each stone is a virtue
to achieve a pillar
soon,

the guy wants time to have wings
the girl breaks into laughter

he says he imagines feathers around his body
she breaks into laughter again

her point is: birds are not metaphors anymore
his point: she is numb, and she does not think anymore

awareness, silence, stone silence
pointlessly thoughts are useless with what is there

it is there already and all we can do is just see, feel, observe
and be touched by the hands of time

the body of language, the fingers of compassion, the strangled hair of doubt
spangled stars and running stripes
the eagle that ate all the stars
the apple that did not like the eight rays of the sun

i am tired this early morning.
Breakfast is served.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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