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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 disappearing



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

For years




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.


The Crumble

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

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