Compelled

 

Sometimes, the hardest part of engagement is living within the silence.

Could you not absorb the scent of a rose held up against your nose?

Or avert your eyes from a cyan-blue sky after days of endless rain?

We are far too easily compelled by our senses, far too often

Aroused by our egos. But living within that silence makes

Ingenious sense once all your arguments have grown

Stale, and your heart is fully seasoned.

Such is love.

 

Peace

Copyright (TZampino) 2021

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Loosening Up

 

There are days when I still interrupt too much, eager as I am to share the consequences of my mistakes. Ones that, in hindsight, seem completely avoidable.

But if maturity sometimes feels like a class A license to meddle, no road test ever given has ideally predicted what lies ahead. Every turn, every corner, every distance is always newly traveled no matter how familiar the terrain.

I need to remind myself that turning over the wheel means relinquishing the ability to steer, to brake, to set the destination. And my way of getting there is not the only way – and maybe not even the best one.

Loosening up is never easy.

But sometimes it helps just to listen carefully, close my eyes, and trust the unfolding.

Peace

Copyright (TZampino) 2021

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Home

 

You aren’t alone in your contempt for the world for I stand with you.

But neither are you alone in your delight of the things that make a home.

The sleeping child, secure in the knowledge that we will battle any monster that might call in the night.

The absurdity of unrelenting forgiveness.

And the fiery embrace of these four walls. A place of shelter, but one primed to incinerate every unfamiliar intrusion.

Whatever hurts, whatever scars, sit at our table need not be nurtured nor long entertained, only accepted.

Thus freeing our hands so that the world might finally fall away from our grip.

Peace

© TZampino 2020

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Writing Poetry

 

The hardest part about writing poetry, at least sometimes, is not knowing how it will end and how I will get there.

It usually flows pretty easily at first – like that time I told you about the hardest part about writing poetry.

Then I might fumble a bit in the middle as I buy some time, looking for something clever to say while trying to avoid becoming self-referential.

And then comes the ending.

It usually takes even me by surprise.

Especially today, since I’ve been daydreaming this whole time, vividly recalling my younger days as a pilot flying solo for the US Post Office in Omaha.

Back in the 1940s.

The decade before I was born.

 

Peace

© TZampino 2020

Image Credit: Pixabay

 

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Enough

 

Side by side and hand in hand, neither of us sure about what comes next.

Two score years of exhaustive honesty, backhanded compliments, and salt – 

that sometimes flavor enhancer equally adept at intensifying old wounds.

 

Nothing about the walk still ahead will permit even a hint of pretense or pride.

Nothing about it will charm us into believing that we can start back over again.

Only the two of us, side by side and hand in hand, willing to just be.

 

And today, that’s enough.

 

Peace

© TZampino 2020

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Small Talk

 

How does one fully grieve for a father? One who left some time ago.

One whose memory is stirred up again as I sit alone on my front porch, remembering our last conversation when we sat side by side on his.

Words were mostly awkward between us, and always difficult to come by. But the small talk that passed for conversation on that particular day served a purpose. Deflecting big talk about big things.

Things like decaying bodies, failing minds, death.

Our meager words that day were occasionally punctuated by the clomp-clomp-clomping of the horses and buggies trotting down this rural street. We would stop and watch. Exactly the picturesque scene that he had fantasied about long before he settled there.

Another conversational deflection, no doubt.

But a deflection that had also provided some meaning after a lifetime of endless traffic, long daily commutes, grimy city streets, and constant noise.

Perhaps a taste of what was just ahead.

It occurred to me that today’s misspent grief was only partially about some distant memory. I find myself engaging more and more in small talk with those who will one day look back on my own words, porch or no porch.

Small talk that attempts to pass for conversation, that tries to deflect – not always successfully.

But small talk that still serves a purpose.

At least for now.

 

Peace

© TZampino 2020

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She, A Life

 

The lines in her face conceded a generation of secrets.

Ones perfectly ordinary yet embarrassingly withheld.

A life of chaos deemed irreparable, but always with

a handful of unused chances given over, and

silent spaces ready to restore.

 

How much lovelier would she have felt with a hint

of truth revealing just how ordinary she truly was?

 

Peace

© TZampino 2020

Image Credit: Pixabay

 

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