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Tag: Italian verse forms

What Is It: rispetto

What is it that we try to do?
It seems the same old tired song:
me being right, and blaming you
when everything around goes wrong.

What good does that do anyone,
when neither side can win or lose?
It’s not enjoyable or fun
for either team. Why would you choose

to carry on in such a way?
Who likes to play this sorry game?
It seems a waste of a good day.
If we keep going, who’s to blame?

What is it that we want to be?
That seems a tired line
tied up with some great destiny.
But it is yours, or mine?

What difference can it really make,
if we don’t ever try to change?
Instead, let’s learn from our mistakes.
Together, it won’t seem so strange.

23 Jun 2025

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Outside the Cage: Sicilian quintet

Physical confinement has its source
in some external entity that binds.
It is imposed by outside will, of course.
But slavery is not just of that kind;
your mind’s created prisons reinforce

the limitations you are taught to see,
the walls that form the edges of the box
in which you play out your brief history.
It has no doors or windows, and no locks,
but keeps what is outside a mystery.

It takes so little to remove the lid,
but once you’ve seen outside, your goose cooked.
You cannot take it back, and if you did,
there’s no way to describe what in one look
destroys all that you learned when still a kid.

Your chains you forge in life are your own brand.
The steel in them is alloyed from your acts.
There is no crushing heel or helping hand,
no unseen other twisting simple facts.
You are the ship, the ocean, and the land.

Inside the cage you build to hold you in,
there is just one sure way to be set free:
forget all that you know. Once you begin
to let that go, your eyes, now dull, will see,
and recognize exactly where you’ve been.

18 Jun 2025

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Connecting Flights: ottava rima

Against the current swims the steadfast one
who thinks to beat the ocean at its game.
What starts as just a wager made in fun
becomes, after an hour, much the same
as boasting that you could stare down the sun.
You cannot win. Admit it. There’s no shame
in realizing you are very small,
and not much worry to the world at all.

Against the pull of time, our lives spin out
and at the end, our threadless, empty spools
have sewn us neither certainty nor doubt,
but just the simple winding sheet of fools,
that wraps up both the whisper and the shout
and never bothers teaching us the rules.
That threadbare piece of cloth becomes our shroud.
It’s all the carry-on we are allowed.

17 Jun 2025

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Let Us Be Unbound: canzone

Canto I: Happenstance

It happens once, and you can act surprised;
the second time, maybe you didn’t see.
But by the third occurrence, if your eyes
don’t register it, you are either blind
or willfully avoiding it. Disguise
that as you wish, but it’s on you:
if you don’t know, you’re telling yourself lies.

You may seek out forgiveness, but the facts
are plain enough; you just don’t want to see.
Maybe you’re just too comfortable, or set
up to somehow make a profit. Honestly,
when you avoid your share or part of blame
you’re not absolved. You don’t keep dignity
or get to play the victim for your friends.

What is the point of playing at this game?
When everyone else loses, do you win?
Who cares what team ends with the highest score,
or which side live with might-have been?
We are all still connected, just the same,
and end together, just as we begin.
There’s no escape from it, my friends.

Canto II: Coincidence

It seems so obvious, and yet our eyes
deceive us if we see no malice where
the crowds around us suddenly are thinned
until we stand alone, and must do battle there
against an enemy, no longer shy
or hesitant to strike or play unfair.
What can we do, except defend ourselves?

You may believe your wounds are just mistakes,
that no one sought to hurt you. But your blood
still spills, and for each move you try to make,
you can’t pretend there is no pain or fear.
Maybe it’s just bad luck, an unfair shake,
or your opponent doesn’t realize
their actions – as they cause your bones to break.

How do you still convince yourself you’re free,
and that your life is surely not at risk?
What further evidence could surely be
enough to show you of the game afoot?
When recognition comes at last, you’ll see
the error of your ways, but far too late,
when all along, you’ve fed your enemy.

Canto III: Enemy Action

It comes at night, and never in the day,
for sunlight melts dark shadows all away;
we all must sleep, sometimes, and in our dreams,
we are equally vulnerable and brave.
There is no hiding now, we must arise,
and stand against the beast before it grows.
We cannot hesitate now, goodness knows.

You may not understand, but make a choice:
a life in shackles, mute, without a voice,
or reaching out to something else quite new
that you may fear but need to try to do.
The time is now, the hour is growing late,
and you must learn to fight. It is your fate
to stand, and not to kneel, against the beast.

What good is your compliance with a smile?
How long before the malice visits you?
While there is life, you must start to resist,
or you betray all others who exist
and understand there is a better way.
The enemy grows strong as you delay;
there is no time to simply think and pray.

25 APR 2025

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Liquid Concentration: barzaletta

Pick up that sad and ancient game;
select your poison: wealth or fame.
Thinking that we’re all the same
can make it hard to shift the blame.

No bird can fly with one wing lame;
old toothless tigers can be tamed,
but still may seek to wound or maim,
or anyway, that’s what they claim.

Look past the edges of the frame,
beyond your dying bonfire’s flame –
for in the end, the things you name
are powerless to share your shame.

19 APR 2025

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The Same Street: rispetto

The difference is, he starts to say,
between our diametric views,
is in defining work and play:
that one is waste, and one is use.

That sets the tone for what must be,
more than different reality,
two separate worlds that do not meet,
though side by side on the same street.

03 MAY 2017

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A Thing Gets Old: ottava rima

A thing gets old because it starts out young
and in the spring has little or no care;
of consequence and karma, yet unsprung
in early life, it remains unaware.
Perhaps in early August, comes a sign:
an aching in the knees on summer nights;
still youth imagines everything is fine,
and pushes ever onward, come what might.
The spring and summer can’t imagine snow,
nor feel the cold that only winter knows.

A thing starts to get old once it is born;
it yearns for growing up, and fails to guess
that once maturity arrives, it forms
an outline for a coffin, more or less,
the narrow limit into which one’s life
is slowly shrunk and whittled down to fit.
The miles and years prune new growth like a knife;
a slight pain first, then you get used to it.
So spring and summer’s sap is drawn away,
until at last the first September day.

A thing is old inside while still a child,
when talent and potential seem so vast;
thus, even when it grows unchecked and wild,
each spurt of life fades quickly in the past.
The flame burning in June so bright and cruel
it catches fire to the surrounding wood,
so quickly can exhaust its store of fuel
and leave but soot and ash where forests stood.
How gray and cold November’s earth can seem,
when March and April’s frolics are but dream.

A thing gets old because that’s what things do:
each born carries a bury in its heart;
a life is but a journey to get through,
there is an end in everything that starts.
What’s sown in spring is harvested in fall;
the rains of summer feed December’s snow.
If you would have a part, you must take all;
to miss a piece, one might as well not go.
Yet who would dance less hard or long in Spring,
just knowing the hard Winter it would bring?

10 APR 2017

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