My sleep
Is the change
In cadence
I fear will invite
Its dance

By a heart
Whose beat
Seeks rhythms
Which believe
Each nightmare song

Holds tempos
Screams can’t break
Even when
These eyes
Should open

Still closed
After suffering
Silence
Upon mornings
Come too late

Between concerts
Death will play
Within chests
Like tambourines
Banging

Hitting drums
Through skeletons
Rattled
Thinking flesh
May soften blows

While this brow
Bleeds angry sweat
Beneath bedsheets
Warm
From turning

Switching sides
As harmonies
Shatter
Left disturbed
Since ears who ring

Always hear
Such roaring veins
Hoping noise
Should claim
That body

Now enduring
Palpitations
Choosing rest
For practiced
Tunes.

  • J. Pigno

Some families
Beg for
Doctors

While others
Work
As teachers

Though most
Agree
These children

Should exert
Their efforts
Earned

Being raised
Beneath those
Wings

Failing still
Yet gaining
Wisdoms

Carried once
Below
That blanket

Swearing safeties
Yield
Such dues

Never paid
Before they
Learn

Freedom means
That broken
Tether

Speaking out
Against our
Service

Never asked
When soon
Imposed

Now enforced
Beyond such
Means

Art agrees
Is worth
Detaching –

Mom or dad
May always
Love you

But no parent
Wants
A scribe.

  • J. Pigno

That booth
In the far left
Corner –

It’s where
I last felt
Special,

Amid days
You’d take me
Shopping
And buy us
Lunch
For two.

Back then
There were no
Words

Or lies
Of gifts
Which spoiled,

Just dialogues
Sharing existence
To narrate
Love
They implied.

But, mom,
I’m an old man
Now
Whose prose
Means less
Than silence
Between these lies
We’ve fashioned
If fantasies
Dreamed
Could talk –

Soon imagining
Death can’t come

And joy once lost
Should linger

Among those
Memories cherished
Where sunshine
Still seems
True,

Coming through
Such windows clear
Looking out upon
Parking lots
Empty

In brightness
Showering strangers

That walked
With bags
Towards home.

My mind since
Seems so full

Obscured too much
By answers

While your smile
Wide
Holds questions
Like sun
During times
Long gone.

Only age
Proves solace
Awaits
Within tears
Wrinkled eyes
Might glimmer
Reflecting
Apparent divinity
Inside souls
Youth stays
Left behind.

I’m your little boy
Who sits

Eating fries
Yet savoring
Moments

On forever
Our afternoon
Journeys

At a mall
How heaven
Will look.

  • J. Pigno

He’d find
His faith in boxes
On the stoop
Where dreams
Would languish

Like proof
Of childhood wishes
Left behind
Since days
Grew long

Handed over
With no words
Ringing doorbells
Loud
In silence

Watching shadows
Walk off slowly
Through that entrance
Closed
By glass

When tomorrow
Came too soon
Inside cardboard
Shrines
He worshipped

Housing solace
Gone so easy
After praying
Things
They sold

Were redemption
Bought online
Or true need
His itch
Had promised

Was important
If uncertain
Any item
Could quell
Fear

Always present
Within mind
Tearing tape
Each hand
Would fasten

Thinking someone
Touched this parcel
Hoping joy
Should last
Much more

Than an object
Might provide
For salvation
Hawked
Yet fleeting

Finding God
Delivers answers
Bringing shame
From empty
Gifts.

– J. Pigno

He’d woken from
His dream
That was filled with
Fallen ashes
Of a winter dark
And frigid
Showings futures
He had feared

Huddling closely
Behind logs
Tightly holding
Hands which trembled
As he heard
His father whimper
Catching fallout
On his face

Watching snow
Bring end of days
As his mother
Left their shelter
Soon exposed
To die besides him
Knowing hope
Had long been lost

Startled only
By that scream
While the motel lights
Had flickered
Come this morning
God revealed them
Like bright signals
Flashing sun

At a brick
And mortar chimney
Near the roadside
Not too distant
From his window
Glazed with moisture
While November
Howled its winds

Catching glimpses
Of that fate
In the early dawn
Emergent
Sniffing scents
Of burning wood chips
Smelling griddles
Sizzling meat

Stepping out
Upon new routes
Where his nerves
Had left him stranded
Along 209
So quiet
Among cars
Who barely passed

Strolling gently
Towards that path
Amid houses
Dark like ruins
Braving leaves
And fallen branches
Finding plaster
Smeared with blood

Upon lime
Which seemed untouched
From such fingers
Frail or mortal
Hiding age
Beneath each detail
Proving art
Had taken life

Seeing Mary
Shed her tears
Crimson red
But oddly gorgeous
Yielding gifts
No man desired
Learning marvels
Carried doom

Humbled still
Before his God
Taking heed
Of truth apparent
Feeling prophesy
Revealed purpose
Beyond omens
Sleep disclosed

Dabbing stains
Below Her cheeks
Asking questions
Sobs had answered
Without peace
But gore indignant
Easing sins
His heart contained

Gaining foresight
From its source
Chasing grace
Through Pennsylvania
Now discovered
Between shambles
Life delivered
Everyday

Getting back
Inside that truck
Thinking nightmares
Meant forgiveness
Driving off
Without that sculpture
Never mentioned
Once again.

– J. Pigno

And now there is
No more sin
As your kiss
Still pains me
Most

Even though
Our mouths
Hold answers
Even God Himself
Can’t speak

Said between
These earthly drills
Like long trials
Hard
But telling

Shedding reasons
Skin confesses
From before
Both lives
Commit

Over decades
Lost on lips
Seeking partners
Fair
If willing

Feeling wrong
Besides connection
Or devotion
Faked
By choice

That despises
Mortal need
When indulging
Quests
Which linger

Building friendships
Fallen victim
While these hearts
Grow bored
So quick

Fumbling solace
After thrills
Thinking real
Means joy
Too fleeting

Always fighting
Hoping futures
Break those fears
Such bonds
Create

Banking fate
Upon decisions
Merely forced
Where love
Seems errant

Trading lies
Since every promise
Beckoned rings
Their hands
Won’t wear.

Now I see
This truth is harsh
Pledging death
Should part us
Only

Simply gorgeous
Once intended
But in hindsight
Marred
With use

Proving pleasure
Honors men
Yet destroys
What soul
Pursues it

Giving vows
That sacred purpose
For redemption
Flesh
Can’t ruin.

– J. Pigno

The man
Whose talent dreamed
That his life
Might be important
Has now
Discovered failure
Offers so much more
Than shame

In poems
Left unsaid
And their values
Learned through silence
With each meaning
Lost on answers
Only words could prove
Are wrong

Chasing Hell
Between those lines
Finding flesh
Shares common phrases
Touting death
As human triumph
Best expressed
If gone for good

Gaining secrets
God won’t share
Always passing
Precious pages
Down to sinners
Still intruding
Upon nothing
But such peace

Where my heaven
Quiets speech
When tomorrow
Remains honest
Before breathing
Feels so empty
Even dialogue
Stifles air

Stealing days
I just don’t have
Wasting winds
Time often carries
Across decades
Deaf from waiting
Every moment
Chances scream

How forever
Bores this soul
Facing judgments
Come too early
Loudly claiming
Tranquil wishes
Never tell
Of true success

But diminish
Present gifts
We exchange
By staying vocal
Despite fearing
Insignificance
Blunders prove
No mind escapes.

– J. Pigno

A controller
Left unplugged –
This relic of
Short-term freedom,
Sits on top
Old carpet
Where each stain
Proves patches
Speak,

From these hands
Which fumble cups
Sipping cola
Laced with sadness
As its flavor
Mocks such sorrow
Leaving sweetness
Like some
Curse

On my tongue
That tells what’s fake
Quicker than
Those memories
Perish
Watching decades
Dance through shadows
Flipping channels
While I stare.

They invoke
Synthetic light –
Stations summoned
By my choosing
Through thin fingers
Struggling gently
Against buttons
Hard
When pressed,

Where resistance
Seems absurd
Since my sanity
Grows distracted
Facing levels
Beyond dangerous
Losing lives
I can’t
Repeat

Every evening
Fate ignored
Becomes leisure
Duly challenged
By existence
Feeling futile
Amid games
God often
Plays.

– J. Pigno

The beautiful thing
About words
Is the way they
Prove
We’re living

Through a phrase
Which keeps
Enduring
Despite what eyes
Should grace

Or believe
That page which
Turns
And bemoans
Those quiet judgments

When readers
Choose
Such meaning
Despite how ink
Can change

In time
Not always sure
Their opinions
Have much
Reason

For condemning
Faded margins
Still imbued
By God’s
Right hand

Bleeding souls
On empty space
Trading paper
For art’s
Sickness

Swearing fires
Spread His message
Atop heads
Whose passions
Burn

Scribbling text
No man escapes
Leaving lines
Like age
Incarnate

Now immortal
After chasing
Fame as hollow
Found
Near death.

I am proud
My verse exists
But alone
This need not
Matter

Learning flesh
Prohibits glory
Playing roles
While feelings
Last.

– J. Pigno

The privilege
Of losing sleep
Bears splinters
Which pin
My soul

Against what flesh
Feels rotten
Sweated
To death
In this bed,

Like a shell once
So inspired
Which is now
Just vomiting
Phrases

Giving me
Countless wishes
For words
That actually
Speak

Without much thought
Or need
While emphasis
Seems less
Sacred

When expression
Forcibly rendered
Cuts fists
Since handling
Wood –

Those sharp
And pertinent dreams
Tearing skin
Through days
Expired

After years
Of juggling faces
Sporting masks
From terms
Unsaid.

These lies
Show fallen logs
How each verse
Hides precious
Timber,

Shedding bits
Beyond description
Housing needles
God
Might touch  –

Rather than
Idle threats
Missing points
Sharp angles
Threaten

At times
Our fear
Smooths edges
Among knives
Called life itself.

– J. Pigno