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Tag: Italian verse forms

Let Us Be Unbound: canzone

Published on April 25, 2025

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

Published on April 18, 2025 
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

Published on May 3, 2017

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

Published on April 10, 2017

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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Don’t Worry, Be Happy: canzone

Published on January 30, 2017

Canto I. Don’t Worry

There is no cause for worry or alarm.
The world will carry on despite your fears;
true love will never languish in the arms
of its emotions’ mirror once there found,
though those who seek destruction may surround
and threaten to destroy the cause of life.
Who cares what fools decide to rally ‘round
this tired and jaded banner of deceit?

There is no cause to fear the coming storm:
at least, that’s what the pundits tend to say;
and who, believing their opinion best,
would dare to contradict such acumen?
Believe, believe, and trust your overlords;
it serves their common interest to thwart
what thoughts of revolution might ensue
should you and I begin to doubt and think.

There is no cause for worry, for no harm
will come to those who meekly bow their heads;
the cannon fodder used to fire loud guns
is manufactured from the irksome weeds.
What good is it to argue, in a rage,
against the great inevitable truth?
What difference does it make that a great lie
has molded us subservient since youth?

Canto II. Just Believe

Who calls this thing for what it is? The truth?
In whose inane philosophy of life
does anything not bite that grows a tooth
or fail to cut whose hand may hold a knife?
Where is it written that all men are just,
that goodness lurks inside the human breast?
We see an enemy because we must,
and separate our good from all the rest.

Who when they are attacked, turns either cheek,
or answers with meek love the fatal stab?
There is no place in this world for the weak;
and doubtful, much space there beyond the slab.
When mirth and goodness fill the world, at last,
when virtuous and kind men rule as kings,
perhaps when that great loaded die is cast
will anyone care much for these fool things.

Who reaches out for what they think divine,
and moves and acts according to the good,
forsaking lustful urging for what’s mine
that makes no sacrifices, even when it should?
What men believe reflects in how they move;
their words mean next to nothing, if their acts
would they and their vain gods, both liars prove.
This is not my conjecture, just the facts.

Canto III. Be Happy

Is ignorance of evil really bliss,
so any knowledge can bring only pain?
What kind of life is made from thoughts like this,
that would eschew all sunshine for a rain
to wash away all purpose and desire
and in its place leave just some bland ennui,
that keeps just above freezing, with no fire,
the heart just barely beating, almost free?

And what is happiness, in such a place,
without an individual life-spark,
a gray and dismal world without a face
with eyes only accustomed to the dark,
whose hope is but a pipe-dream, with no point,
the vain illusion of childhood and youth,
who seek some strengthless victor to annoint
who conquers without battle, strife, or truth?

But still, no cause for worry, friends of mine;
the world is not designed to pass away.
what wills itself to live, will all be fine,
and can survive all trials, come what may.
The crucible you’ve called for has arrived!
Rejoice! They have now standardized the test,
and soon, there’ll be no need for shuck and jive
to separate the chaff from all the rest.

30 JAN 2017

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What is Beauty: cancione

Published on January 27, 2017

So what is beauty, really?
As a requisite to love
it seems far too subjective,
just some desire’s beguiling
design to snare a victim.

So what is beauty, really?
A figment caught by the eye
(or nature-made to seem thus)
to overwhelm reason’s care,
let loose the reins and run wild?

So what is beauty, really?
One sad half discovers whole,
making the universe sing
a melody so haunting
its croaking voice sounds lilting.

So what is beauty, really?
The eye knows only deceit;
the ear, a fading echo;
the mind, pale comparison;
the heart, hopeful delusion.

So what is beauty, really?
A single moment’s passing,
that folds future and present
up into both shroud and veil
for wedding, and funeral.

So what is beauty, really?
The weak, finite majesty
of illusion stitched in time,
the knowing of unknowing
that is a thing in itself.

27 JAN 2017

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Teach Your Children: canzone

Published on November 26, 2010

Canto I.

To educate for revolution’s sake
requires a willingness for martyrdom,
the sense to learn from every small mistake,
and fortitude enough to take what comes
when nay-saying begins; and start it will,
the moment you step from the comfort zone
where history and status quo lie still.
The one who makes the change, makes it alone.

To teach in such a way, one draws from life;
here, leading by example is a must.
Without at least some evidence of strife
you’ll never gain a single student’s trust.
Each lesson is a battle for the will,
to gain an inch of ground against a world
that teaches, at its core, how best to kill
the oyster, for the sake of some small pearl.

If you would learn from teachers such as these,
first empty out the vessel that you bear;
relinquish all desire or need to please,
and first and foremost, decide that you care.
Once that commitment’s made, the lesson starts:
no homework, no “pop” essays are required,
no slogans or mnemonics learned by heart,
except “to be inspiring, be inspired.”

Canto II.

The truth is never taught to us in schools;
what good is knowing why a thing is so?
Much better to accept the way it is,
than to upset the known, the status quo,
in vain attempts to try and understand
some purpose beyond doing what you’re told.
Shut up, keep to yourself, and mind your tongue:
the best way to survive and to grow old.

Beyond the simple texts we learn by rote,
the facts we’re told are sacred and pristine,
we fall and yet imagine that we float
above a ground far down below, unseen.
There is no golden parachute, my friends;
believe in what you will, to no avail:
no paradise lies up beyond the bend,
the gears will stop, the power will soon fail.

When learning stops, who still admits to teach?
Who, once they know it all, says “I don’t know”?
What good to grasp in space beyond your reach
if what is underfoot you can’t let go?
The time spent cultivating self-esteem,
instead of just performing worthy acts
can never be returned; you can’t reclaim
a pointless life by coloring the facts.

Canto III.

Break down the doors, release these fettered minds!
Let love of beauty rule each student’s heart.
Who knows what new advances they may find,
when nurtured with some kindness from the start?
For truth, though sometimes bitter, does not kill;
reality is harsh, but bears no ill.

Break down the walls of that familiar box
we reinforce with history and fear.
Let go of petty cowardice; unlock
the upper reaches of the atmosphere,
where muffled by a misspent sense of pride
the dreams of humankind are waiting still;
the future can be ours, if we decide
to say, not can’t or won’t, but shout, “I will!”

Break off these chains that bind us to the past,
to staid traditions of no further use;
in truth, they were not ever meant to last.
Let stale ideas suffer disabuse!

Commiato.

Disruption and upheaval cannot be
the means by which the world is made anew.
By violence, nothing ever is made free;
it simply tilts the scales, always askew,
toward a slightly different fulcrum point.
No measure of success is ever found
in wanton, mad destruction. We annoint
new martyrs when each century comes round,

and sacrifice to progress our ideals.
We spend long hours in pointless, wild debate,
believing that reform, a fresh appeal,
will somehow, save us from ourselves, our fate.

What would you teach, if you no longer learn?
What would you learn, if you know everything?
The tune that Nero played on, as Rome burned?
Together, or apart, we all will swing.

26 NOV 2010

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