A Handle

You live a certain number of years
With a guarantee nothing inside
Will come to devour you,

The first twenty or so,
And you can trust the body,
The ones above and before you
Do the grinding instead.

After you leave them,
The body becomes more independent too,
Until it is free of your own wishes.

Nature’s dice become weighted
Slightly more each year,
Rolling out a fate
And slowly cheating
To get the desired result.

- Ben Nardolilli

(featured in the poetry forum 03.23.09)

Words Intended to be Sung

In cultural matters,
xxxthis is a voyage,
what we encounter
must bring with it
xxxno hesitation,
no call to crimes
it must defend itself
xxxthe songs,
the lyrics
xxxthe art they inspire,

Praise to what welcomes us
xxxpraise
to what remains,
xxxwe shall celebrate
the warmth in all gatherings
and condemn
xxxall that thrives on ice
and division,
xxxthe pirates who claim kingship
those who hold up heaven
xxxwith the beams
of their own interpretation.

We are the lotus eaters,
xxxwe forget it all,
caring little for origins,
only the stories
of how infant items
xxxpass through
to become relics
xxxand yet avoid
the change to ruin,
xxxwe wish for lines
that relate directly,
xxxedges are no fetish for us.

- Ben Nardolilli

(added 03.23.09)

Timekeeping

The whole passage and ride
Takes the same energy
But I’m more efficient now
In how I use my time.

Falling in love and out again
Once took three years,
Almost as long as a president’s reign,
Too long and drawn out.

It was better to have the good times
Condensed together,
The laughter and the little deaths
Rolled into a pile.

I tuned my affections
So that I was able to reduce it all
To nine months,
Enough time to gestate a child.

But still it was too much time,
And there were weeks left
Where I wondered if I was in love
Or had lost it for good.

There was an affair I compacted
Into the neat bars of a month,
She came, we conquered,
And she left me behind.

It was a good sign and I continued,
I made a love in seven days
And then rested on the last,
Away from her in my own bed.

Soon I will be loving and leaving
In single days, perhaps
Confining my adventures
Only to nights and passing on.

Perhaps the end of this dinner
That we began with a kiss,
Will end in some small tears
And empty promises to remain friends.

- Ben Nardolilli

(added 03.23.09)