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January 16, 2022 / Samuel DiPaola

Immortality

Why are people dying? Apparently, all these drug commercials I see, have people living immortality.

January 11, 2022 / Samuel DiPaola

The Apple Tree

I walk the Royal forest
and see the apples down.
Rot and worms and nibbles
scattered all around.
I ask a bird to marry me
and sit upon a tree.
The fragments of my broken life
scattered before me.
The tree is shook –
by some clever crook –
and we come tumbling down.

December 31, 2021 / Samuel DiPaola

Shadows of my Dreams

She watches
from the shadows of my dreams
and cries.
Lost in a fog of regret.
Never to fly.

November 26, 2021 / Samuel DiPaola

Life Goal

The goal of any life is getting to the end before anyone realizes you don’t really know what you’re doing!

July 31, 2021 / Samuel DiPaola

The Secret

I have a secret.
Do I tell?
Yes!
Let’s spread it to the world.
I love you!

June 23, 2021 / Samuel DiPaola

The Charlatan

I know not what I do.
But for some reason, I’m allowed to keep doing it.
A charlatan.
A fraud.
Just like you,
and everyone around us.
What knowledge do you boast?
Pretense of authorship.
Plagiaristic fool!
Conspiracists would have us believe in secret knowledge.
Scientists. . . the scientific method.
We bathe in a cosmic consciousness
and pretend to discover truth which has always been.

June 18, 2021 / Samuel DiPaola

The Olive Grove

I close my eyes and listen to the space between.
Much larger than the measured volume.
A universe within a box.
Contained, yet unbound.
Eyes can be deceptive.
Pluck them out and break the bonds.
I have lived near 60 years.
But I am timeless.
Older than the Sun.
Younger than my mother.
She is older than the cosmos.
But younger than an olive grove.
I think I’ll make a martini.

June 12, 2021 / Samuel DiPaola

Naked

My mind is blank.
I’m in a prison.
No family.
No friends.
No relationship.
No purpose.
Past interests fade.
And lackluster memories reflect an endless series of meaningless events
that waste time and produce the illusion of importance.
When you die you can say, “Look at all I’ve done.”
But over time those events will be forgotten,
and future generations will care less.
Believing they can somehow reach immortality through cleverness and action alone.
If you manage to die with one friend by your bed,
holding your hand as you gasp your last breath,
you will have succeeded more than if you climbed Mount Everest.
Who will be by my bed when I die?
And will all that I care about fade away with me?
My few belongings given to Goodwill,
or thrown in a community dumpster.
I realize now how foolish I have been,
attempting to carve out my place in society.
As if fancy clothes and dinner parties have any purpose other than to illicit transient pleasure
that can never be a substitute for true fulfillment.
The birth of my children remain the sole pleasures of life that I consider extraordinary.
Nothing in life compares.
Were my parents as happy the day I was born?
That moment when a life is brought into the world. . .
A feeling of hope.
Hope that this new life will somehow figure out the riddle and transcend beyond the ordinary.
But that moment of excitement fades.
Only to be replaced by struggle.
A life of struggle.
I’m tired.
And all the meditation, centering, positive thinking, or prayers to God won’t fix it.
I just want to be left alone.
When I die, my version of heaven is a small cottage in the woods with plenty of firewood,
and an endless supply of all the books I can read.
Don’t look for me.
And don’t try to visit.
There will be no one around to yell at me, criticize, or make fun of me.
While God has an endless sandbox universe, I only need my solitude.
And I will treat my friends as they have treated me, and walk away.
My thoughts echo in my head.
A chamber.
More like a chamber of carnival mirrors.
Reflecting a distortion of nothing.
Emptiness.
I look around.
The entrance, a vanishing point in time.
The exit, unknown.
Unavailable.
Are there others here with me, staring into the same void?
I stand naked in a crowded room and wonder why the rest of the world is wearing clothes.
They say clothes make the man.
I say, men make the clothes,
and man is still naked.

March 28, 2021 / Samuel DiPaola

I am Secure

There was a strong wind last night
I always feel secure when a strong wind threatens to blow down my house
Howling from the depths
The feeling of sitting inside a cocoon
Akin to being back in the womb
I listen for a secret message

The shutters bang
I convert it into Morse code but translation evades me
There must be a meaning
Mathematicians always look for order out of chaos
Proof of intelligence
Because chaos is cruel
And meaningless

My life must have meaning
Surely, I am different from the rest
Or am I?
Just like the four seasons
Civilizations come and go
Empires rise and fall
I can no more control my fate as I can a coming storm

So, I listen to the wind
And know that we coexist
Order, not out of chaos
but from within
The wind may howl
The shutters bang
But I am secure

March 27, 2021 / Samuel DiPaola

Point of View

I see red and blue, but not purple
Green, but not tan or brown
I see you, but you don’t see me
It’s all about point of view and interpretation
The stars are out tonight
Do they look down on us and judge our incompetence?
I look up and see perfection
Is up preferred to down or vice versa?
Gravity should be considered an inferior force