Rita Sasiene

Hickory, North Carolina, USA

Rita has been writing poetry since before she began kindergarten. When in the second grade, her teacher took her notebook from her and later asked, "Who wrote all those poems?" Rita replied, "What's a poem? "Her poetry and other writings have been published in Proteus, Best Poems of 1960, The G.W. Forum, A Search For The Soul, All Time Favorite Poetry, Great Contemporary Poems, Amidst The Splendor, Best Poems of 1997, among other books and publications. Rita tries to give through writing, because she has received so much from so many, through words.

Alone

Sometimes I feel so empty and alone,
So yearning to reach out and hold someone,
So desperate to hear a friendly voice,
So hungry for the love of anyone,
So afraid I might be turned away,
I hide my arms from those I long to hold,
From all the strangers in the world I live,
from all the magic their strange lives unfold.
I yearn to go to them, I try,
But fears, like monsters hands appear--and then
The fears begin to pound my wounded heart
And I retreat from strangers, cursing them.

Untitled

You faded first while still before my eyes,
Then one by one the doors began to close.
Uncaring keys locked you and me apart,
Malicious fate-- so used to love disposed.

Now and then-- through key holes or their cracks,
You came, and walls of stone melted away,
And in those moments when I had you back,
Tomorrow looked with envy at today.

Last night you came in my remembering,
And all the pain provoking me inside
Just disappeared, and left serenity,
Fate grumbled and an ecstasy replied.

Reality is jealous and won't let
Remembering be in my heart for long,
So while I love, and while my heart is safe,
I want to die, to lose you just once more.

The Poet

Life has much poetry--and need to write,
And help he has from man and universe,
And over and over again life tries
To render--and to justify his work.
No poet does his best when first he tries,
Nor puts his work aside because he fails,
So life too--tears a page and a man dies,
And then life tries to write over again.
Without his fountain pen--the universe,
Without his papers, now they are dead men,
Life would not have the multitudes of words
With which--someday--he'll write his great poem.
They--the times he tried without success,
They--each of them told him something new,
And though he tore a lot of men to shreds,
He is forgiven--for all poets do.

Untitled

Intense moments grow
from roots - deep in discordant sands;
And precise thoughts propagate
from out of confusion
Hunger blooms from memories
--abundant and so sweet;
And love comes when the contents finds the empty cup --
asleep.