The Light That Shines and Other Curiosities
A book of poetry by L. Masaracchia
To My Son
I aim to get you into the woods
As much as possible
So that you can Be
Because these lights and sounds
Are lost digits, floating
And, although their trace is solid
Their meaning is fleeting
But the trees do not lie
And the red finch always returns
To her nest to feed her offspring
And sing her sweet song
I don't want you to become
A hollow shell of humanity
One that used to feel and think
But lost his mind and soul
In the jumbled mess
Of images and data
And so I'll work hard to make sure
That you're deeply rooted
In the woods and the winds
So that those fires and sparks
Give you a love that smolders
And I'll take you on journeys
So you can see there's more
Than this and the touch
Of that moving screen
We'll walk untamed dirt paths
So that it's crystal clear
That you exist in the world
and can dig your feet in
But most importantly
So that you don't get lost
Becoming wild to yourself
Like so many others
Do you ever get that sinking feeling that you're repeating the past?
That everything you've tried so hard not to replicate has flung itself around and is now staring back at you like a wild hyena?
It happened to me this morning, as I stacked pristine coffee cups and considered the life I was creating.
The Ending (101st Edition)
To have something means to not have to hold it, but instead to feel it gravitate to your side effortlessly, like wind whirling in a tunnel, the rain falling softly to the leaves, sun showering the forest floor with glistening light, or snow grasping onto even the smallest twig and holding its place.
It's immediate. It's palpable.
If it falls away, I have learned to let it flow to the river's edge and gather there.
Maybe that is its home.
If silence ensures, it may have already been cold--a mere brushing of ice upon the frosted ground.
Maybe it fits best there.
Prove it, I say, looking you in the eye
While you respond,
"There is no such thing as fact"
As if proof hung on a dandelion seed
Fumbling on to explain, in your limited understanding, that "existence is a figment of our collective imagination"
Rum da da dum, da da dum
And as you speak, you fade
Into that temporal cognitive state
Where everything is full of cotton,
and even bones cease to exist
Yet, my feet are planted firmly
In this great Mother of ours
And I can vouch for the mud I feel between my earthly toes
The longer I stand, the more I know
About what is and isn't so and,
Of my hours, those spent on this,
I've grown to understand gravity
There are truths that can be trusted:
A love, a song, a whisper and kiss;
A missed one, a death and forever
But none is so true as this exact time
Rum da da dum, da da dum
And there is one fact that is constant and it's Now, Here
The observer becomes the witness and the ego is muted