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Author: JRL

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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Any Day Now: Sicilian sestet

Beneath the whisper quiet rush of dawn
as the still sleeping earth begins to wake,
before the last vestige of dark is gone
and daylight gives its weary head a shake,
enjoying one more furtive stretch and yawn,
the chains of each new yesterday can break.

The morning of each now is always new,
its gentle glow scrubbed fresh from last night’s toil,
and with an inner light brings into view
a world not so besmirched with mud and soil,
where there is opportunity for you
to contemplate and shape this mortal coil.

Before you let such moments slip away,
examine what you plan to do, and why
the time you set aside for work, and play,
is more than hours and minutes passing by.
What’s here and now can no more simply stay
than what is born can hope to never die.

02 JUL 2025

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Sense of Loss: sedoka

How does this thing work,
living without much thinking
outside your own box?

What a little world
that makes the whole of your life,
with just your own mess.

How does that make sense,
with so much beauty outside,
just past your front door?

What a sad living
you make, trapped with just yourself
and no sense of loss.

02 Jul 2025

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The Echo Cages: rubai

You can twist and turn them round
and then pretend they are profound,
but words are just like prison bars
constructing cages out of sound

we carry with us, though we are
fine specks of dust from the small stars
flung out and free in space and time.
We dare not travel quite that far.

We seek the edges, so we climb
until no longer in our prime,
and then, collapse back into sleep,
almost like death, but more sublime.

We use our words to laugh and weep,
and waste them, thinking they are cheap.
By this illusion we are bound,
just echoes in a boundless deep.

27 Jun 2025

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The Use of Sorrow: roundelay

What’s the use in all this crying
and a slow descent to madness
because our illusions, dying,
strip away the veil of gladness
we spend our lifetime denying,
just to wallow in our sadness?

Because our illusions, dying,
strip away the veil of gladness,
give us reasons to stop trying
and give up on the whole business
we spend our lifetime denying,
just to wallow in our sadness.

Give us reasons to stop trying
and we succumb to the madness,
selling out in hopes of buying
something more than a betweenness
we spend our lifetime denying
just to wallow in our sadness.

Selling out in hopes of buying
something more than a betweenness,
we free fall but think we’re flying
through the clouds, beyond the blackness
we spend our lifetime denying
to not wallow in our sadness.

27 Jun 2025

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