What We Write Are On The Ground Still Alive

what we write are all about those which are still alive
worms wriggling on their hollow places of the earth
mudfish hibernating on the parching, dried mud waiting for the rain
the kingfisher perched on the tree without leaves
thinking where to fly where to dive and make its beak useful
the snail pacing slowly from the rising river up to the smooth edge
of the nipa palms
this little brown boy replacing the bait of his fishing pole
waiting for the catch on the pond
these dragonflies hovering on the soft reeds where the ants
are finding new ways to reach to the other end of the pond
the frogs croaking anticipating the coming rains and hoping
to catch and swallow the grasshopper or the cricket resting on
one of the blades of a tall grass
the butterflies coming out from some cocoons taking the
first air of their new wings and then flying away
to the new blooms of flowers nearby

this is the pulse of my pen in this my heart beats
my mind remembers and then imagines
what if these are not true? what if these are not real?
what if my eyes are but another illusion not seeing
that which grows and breathes and spreads and flies away?

meanwhile, a mosquito bites me, sucks my blood, fills itself,
i hear it sing, i feel the pain, the loss, the deception, and then

i am convinced, all these must be true and real

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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