Autumn’s Journal

 

With every breath, with every beat of dark red blood

I am more and more in sync with autumn’s journal

Clinging

then

Surrendering

then

Falling

then

Dancing

then

Encircling

then

Gathering

then

Dying

Making way for some new thing not yet even formed

Some new thing not much more than a thought

Yet a thought that is both assured and ripe

Even if my own eyes never see it

Or my own blood possesses it

 

Peace

Copyright (TZampino) 2020

Image: My Own Photo – 10/24/2020

 

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January 4, 1960*

That tree.

Standing tall.

Unmoved. Unbent.

Unbowed. Unbroken.

Regal in its silence.

Majestic in its silencing.

As if nothing had changed.

As if nothing could ever change.

No matter the words written or spoken.

Bold words of reason or doubt or confusion.

A living monument to all of this unchanging.

A deadly monument to all of this silence.

Absurd.

 

Peace

Copyright (TZampino) 2020

Image Credit: Pixabay

 

* “[Albert] Camus said that the only true function of man, born into an absurd world, is to live, be aware of one’s life, one’s revolt, one’s freedom. He said that if the only solution to the human dilemma is death, then we are on the wrong road. The right track is the one that leads to life, to the sunlight” – From William Faulkner’s Obituary of Albert Camus

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Manhasset Bay

Some of the boats on the bay are already being prepped for the colder weather ahead. Mostly it’s the older citizen-sailors that have decided that the time is right.

The younger bucks and their mates will no doubt head out for several more weeks before finally turning their attention back home for the winter. It’s harder on them to just sit indoors as they daydream about the water while planning their next escape.

But their time, too, will be here shortly. The playful days of warm Long Island Sound summer breezes will remain forever behind them. And just ahead.

I’ll be back sometime next spring to watch as they unleash their souls upon the water at least one more time.

Most of them, anyway.

Peace

Copyright (TZampino) 2020

Image Credit: My Own Photo (Manhasset Bay, Long Island)

 

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About Six

She pointed at the sun that was slowly uncovering itself from the tail end of a cloud that looked a great deal like an antique, wind up music box.

The fall breeze kindly provided the movement and the sound for the leaves that circled at our feet while we stood there together, motionless.

But then she began twirling and dancing and laughing to the music that had been painted in her head. It was loud enough for me to hear.

I joined in.

To be six is to possess the world by making it your own, conscripting everyone around you, and demanding that they forget

so that they can finally remember.

Peace

Copyright (TZampino) 2020

Image Credit: Pixabay

 

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Avalanche

An avalanche of regret followed dead on by a jagged jolt of humility.

Awareness, if it comes at all, doesn’t often allow us the gift of reconciliation or recompense. And never are we offered the chance to invert time.

But if the eyes and the ears remain open, sometimes they can find a way to breach the surface –

and clear a way for the heart’s return.

Peace

Copyright (TZampino) 2020

Image Credit: Pixabay

 

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We Are As One At Night

 

We are as one at night

for sleep upends even our cruelest disentanglements.

Our dreams are connected

our breath drawn from the same midnight air.

And so there is no chance

to avoid the pain and sorrow all around.

Until we awaken once more

to the morning’s light.

 

Peace

Copyright (TZampino) 2020

Image Credit: Pixabay

 

 

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Fine Lines

There’s a fine line between genius and disaster

And if you extend that line outward and forever

It’s altogether possible that that line curves up

Before it cycles back down, then crisscrossing

Ten or forty or one thousand twenty four more

Times between epic failure, and some outsized

Magic-laced result without ever knowing which

One was true or whether it ever really mattered

 

Peace

Copyright (TZampino) 2020

Image Credit: Pixabay

 

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Autumn’s Fall

 

The arcade music from the circling neighborhood ice cream truck has faded in tandem with the outdoor temperatures – but that hasn’t stopped me from waiting for it.

The lawn mowers and the leaf blowers have already been prepped for their seasonal take down – though there is still a fair amount of work left before the first snow.

Those of us who, with somber words and sardonic images, yoke old age to autumn’s leaves expose nothing but our own deviousness – for sleep itself rarely foreshadows death.

Still, it’s a perfectly suitable time to recall how important our lives are to those with whom we share them – and a perfectly sane time to realize that few beyond them will ever know.

 

Peace

Copyright (TZampino) 2020

Image Credit: Pixabay

 

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The Philosopher’s Rage

 

Too late have I come to this place to question all that has come before.

Instead, I will look back with empathy upon these tired bones and

Know that whatever was done was burdened with purpose if not

Keen insight. Tomorrow may well be a mystery, but yesterday

Has already turned to stone. And even the world’s latest

Outrage means nothing for one drifting, as it were, so

Very close to home.

 

Peace

Copyright (TZampino) 2020

Image Credit: Pixabay

 

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Heavy Heartedness

 

My heart cracked with a thud against the cold, dark pavement

As if bouncing some half-deflated, well-worn ball still leaking air

No amount of alchemy can revive this broken, heaving mass

Nor any mortal attempt give back its now dismembered life

Today stands alone, unadorned with yesterday’s promises

And stripped bare of tomorrow’s stillborn pride

 

Peace

Copyright (TZampino) 2020

Image Credit: Pixabay

 

 

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