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Tag: #BookofForms

The End of the World: sonnet (English)

Perhaps the world will end tomorrow night.
With so few sane in charge, that would make sense.
Besides, if the Cassandras have it right,
it’s way past time for sitting on the fence,

pretending that our waking up at last
can make a whit of difference to the tide.
What opportunity we had has surely passed.
Our only hope is to survive the ride.

And if the planet stops its steady spin,
it may be just what Mother Nature needs.
Once it’s called as a game no one can win,
who cares for a scorecard none can read?

If everything is ending, what’s the fuss?
There’s no more worry for the two of us.

08 JUL 2025

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A Soul in Cement: sonnet (sonetto rispetto)

I will not live my whole life just to spite
one more imagined evil at my door,
some cloud determined to block out my light,
or leave my spirit destitute. No more.
Why be a tool for either left or right,
when a binary choice is still piss-poor?
You’re always wrong when you pick just one side,
and where you end depends on how you ride.

The truth that can be shown in white or black
is just one more illusion, just a trick
that gives you hope for something permanent.
Reality is change. Stop holding back.
Your life is not cement that will grow thick
and make your purpose more self-evident.

08 JUL 2025

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The Ears Have It: sonnet (envelope)

Watch the eyes. It’s said they never lie,
and yet so much deception starts with seeing,
building illusions that soon end up being
so real to us we never question why
we do the things we do, and act as though
there is so little choice but wait to die,
imagining some future by-and-by
when life no longer simply tells us no.

Instead, we should rely more on the ears,
for what we hear brings in the world to us,
and even in an echo of a thing
its essence can be understood quite clear.
Behind all the cacophony and fuss,
there is a song we can all learn to sing.

08 Jul 2025

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The Fire Game: sonnet (Italian)

The fire may turn to embers as we age,
its bright hot essence slowly turned to ash.
Our brave ideals disintegrate so fast,
and our youth’s passion melts to smoldering rage.
Perhaps that’s how we see beyond the cage
that we dismissed back then as balderdash,
imagining our noble, rebel clash
as more than just a temporary stage.

Now, hard against the wall, we find the flame
a gentler reminder of those days
when not to burn at both ends was a shame,
and looking out into the growing haze
we see there is no scoring in this game,
no matter which position someone plays.

08 Jul 2025

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Talking Heads: sonnet (Sicilian)

Who in the world do we believe we are,
imagining our words alone suffice
to change the future’s course or shift our stars?
How much can you expect for that small price?
So little fuel will take us just so far.
What’s worth achieving takes some sacrifice;
the answer is never a lower bar,
unless your goal is a fool’s paradise.

There is no evolution of the mind
without some kind of action made out loud.
It’s not enough that a thing is conceived,
a mere equation with all terms defined.
So you can talk – no reason to be proud.
It’s only by your acts you are believed.

07 Jul 2025

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The Unbound Wheel: sestina

The wheel has come unbound, our heading lost.
No one is in command who knows the way.
What good is it to offer thoughts and prayers
when power tells us action is no use,
and only seeks to satisfy itself.
The ocean does not classify its dead.

And when the last vestige of hope is dead,
who will be left to measure what is lost?
A treasure cannot ever spend itself,
nor can a map discover its own way.
These tools that we accumulate for use,
are pointless as more idle thought and prayer.

Who is the object of that fervent prayer,
the ruler of somewhere we go when dead,
a place while living that has little use
except to frighten those we claim are lost?
We do not know, but claim to know the way,
despite not having seen the spot itself.

Yet that is not so great a sin, itself.
Despite the efficaciousness of prayers,
the wayward soul may quickly find its way.
Still, no one profits from a slave that’s dead,
or can recoup what profits may be lost.
Mere punishment alone is not much use.

So what is to be done, and what’s the use
ignoring those who speak for God itself?
The road is straight ahead. We are not lost.
This is the answer to our whispered prayers.
Excelsior, it’s forward now, or dead.
All options narrow to a single way.

There surely must be more than just one way,
a myriad of different tools to use.
We worship, but don’t listen to, the dead,
who tell us means define the end itself.
We talk too much about our thoughts and prayers,
but in this great confusion we are lost

The wheel has come unbound along the way,
which is not all that troublesome itself
but with just maps and charts of little use,
we seem to be dependent on some prayers
that only seem to help you when you’re dead,
or when you make believe you are not lost.

03 JUL 2025

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The Great Pretender: sestet

Can you pretend that all is going well,
that your imagined life is here and now,
and what you picture in your mind as hell
strikes only those you hate and fear, somehow?
What will it take to break that noxious spell?
How much injustice can your soul allow?

Can you pretend you have nothing to lose,
that your life is secure and safe from grief
thanks to the privilege of luck? Here’s news:
what happiness you have is sweet, but brief.
When you protect your self alone, you choose
a private hell beyond help or relief.

Can you pretend to be so without thought
that what may happen doesn’t cross your mind?
It makes no difference what result you sought.
What matter then is eyesight for the blind?
You proudly made the trap in which you’re caught.
It won’t be a grand paradise you’ll find.

03 JUL 2025

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