Tell me God
Have I earned this dread
From which there is
No escaping,

But dreams that cause
Living shadows
Even though such threats
Reappear

On bedroom walls
Across nights
These chest pains squeeze
Like constrictions
Of blood flow
Cut from delivery
Back towards a heart
Still distressed-

Watching fears grow real
Along ceilings,

Letting terrors
Wake without ending,

Noticing webs
In each corner
As those spiders endure
Under skin.

My anxieties
Aren’t just bugs
But remaining thoughts
Always crawling
Where eyes can’t see
Every movement
Insects make
Weaving nests.

Their existence
Prevents any rest,

Denying that peace
Never certain,

Knowing agony
Presumes all happiness
Is nonsense
Hardly worth rest –

A poor pursuit
Seeking hope
Through our daily deaths
Wasting hours
Which lets each nerve
Soon unravel
Closing both eyes
To what kills.

Sometimes pain
Conquers hope
Despite how sun
Follows morning,

Murdering days
Before ending
After hurting so long
Needing change,

If believing lies
Slumber sells

Through memories
Challenging faithfulness,

Lethally felt
Since experienced
During memories
Rearing once more.

• J. Pigno

This rain has proved
Heaven’s whimper
Like the tears of God
I’ve been needing
Since discovering
Hell is conviction
By virtue
Of smiling suns

And their harshest rays
We can take
During seasons
Better off thirsty
Where droughts prove long
Without begging
Such empty skies
For a flood –

Like mysteries
Missing each piece
When crying clouds
Never answer
What puzzle endures
During daylight
Obscured much less
Than we’d wish

As heavier air
Carries words
Tasked through dreams
Seeking questions
Before each thought
Loses meaning
Just drinking from wells
Going dry –

Burdened too much
Under loads
And still asking rocks
Despite knowing
That life drinks dirt
Growing desperate
Feeling parched
If inquiring stones

How water appears
Ever rare
Even though hell
Remains vacant
Unleashing its wrath
Via beauty
Expecting dawn
Shimmers bright

But anticipates
Shifting beliefs
Subverting faith
Every morning
These changes come
Bringing showers
Cascading relief
Turning grey.

I love those sounds
Puddles make
Outside my room
Gently calling
Enough so hope
Isn’t stagnant
Or comfortably warm
Seeming stale.

• J. Pigno

Wind carries dust
Discreetly
Over bookshelves
Shrouded in dimness

Beneath curtains
Fluttering softly
Near these windows
Sharing that breath,

Where filtering sun
Barely seen
From my ottoman
Hearing such noises

When nature sighs
Getting older
As the hours seem slow
All alone –

Each daylight
Robbed of its strength
During winter’s pass
At seclusion

So peacefully felt
Sitting sadly
Wasting lifetimes
Staring towards screens

And depleting time
Seeking proof
Of existence earned
Between movies

Letting illness
Become an obsession
Still lost among thrills
Playing games.

Those toys just can’t
Second-guess
Or pine for worlds
Beyond limits –

How I struggle
Remaining important
Despite writing again
Without need

Since controllers
Replace every thought
Just hanging on hands
While they fidget

From now knowing
Tomorrow’s repeating
Forever
This grey afternoon.

• J. Pigno

There are layers
Between each breath
Of this cold
That carries your whispers,

Like winds
Whose secretive phrases
Are weapons
Which scathe like grit

And seasons
Telling their past
Knowing weather
Reflects such derision

While passively
Killing our moment
As climates
Aggressively change –

Those hidden gusts
We can sense
When trees grow blank
Over winter

Where empty lanes
Become canvas
For connected paths
Soon obscured

By snow drifts
Speaking soft phrases
Poetically caught
Losing meaning

But deliberately
Covering footsteps
Long written through trails
We had paced,

Walking once
Beneath gentle flakes
Forming beautiful shapes
Lacking semblance

Around shuttered doors
Mocking happiness
Near powdery lies
Built from ice.

Smiles just fade
Very fast
After temperatures dip
Without warning.

I keep candles
Burning in windows
Remembering how warmth
Used to feel

Since November
Doesn’t seem fair
Bringing frost
Besides yearly reminders

Some memories wreak
Stealing voices
Describing what hope
Remains left.

• J. Pigno

I’ve left behind
Meaningless words
Thinking somehow
That would
Fulfill me,

A text of scripts
Holding dialogues
Only heard
By few
Who might read –

As landscapes change
Out this window
Where trees
Turn colors
Like fire,

Watching fall
Grow grim
While enjoying
Those branches
Burnt from decay

In ironic twists
Without choice
Much how age
Itself
Squanders beauty

Such youngsters speak
Thinking poems
Could keep them
Immortal
At best.

That dream
Has long been deceased
And old men
Sleep
Hearing nothing

But empty breath
Getting colder
Since seasons
Outside
Can reflect

These passing days
Bearing chills
Each autumn
Believes
Are just phrases

When talking winds
Bring their winter
Losing hope
Through voice
All the same.

• J. Pigno

The only way
Words get lost
Is when they are
Disingenuous –

Not by ridicule,
Hatred,
Or nervousness,

But allowing our truths
To implode.

Excuses
Come from reluctance.

Fear
Proves poems invalid.

I almost stopped
Writing for others –

In reality,
They couldn’t
Care less.

And that’s what
Makes me persist –

Fighting weakness
With faithful admission

Of this dangerous rage
Turning inward

Before ridicule
Fires these sparks

That God Himself
Turns a phrase
Before our hearts
Ever notice

His absence
Was inspired disclosure
Through an honest voice
Speaking up.

• J. Pigno

Some say
God doesn’t punish,

That vengeance
Is just human perception
Since reality
Offers no meaning
But man’s cruelty
Left in fate’s wake.

At home I was taught
Something different,

How experience
Builds our compassion
Through these hardships
Mutually suffered
At the hands of hate
Doing harm –

A vicarious hurt
Often shared
When watching crime
Ravage cities
While spoken prayers
Go unanswered
But heroic acts
Cure disease,

This plague called sin
Twisting hope
Into countless needs
Never realized
As children raised
Without parents
Learn jobs yield love
At sale price.

Maybe all faith
Remains dead,

Watching young crowds
Take their photos
On smartphones
Posing distracted,

Seeing emptiness
Grinning for likes –

But belief dies hard
Left intact
Among those souls
Bearing witness,

Worried Christ Himself
Answers vaguely
So art must speak
Now instead.

Help me find
That smiling Jesus,

True divinity
Painted with poems

Outside textbooks
Pushing religion
Not everyone thinks
Appears good –

Mortal prejudice
Often disguised
By an imagery
Mocking existence,

Knowing damn well
Heaven watches
Rather than help
Where it can.

• J. Pigno

There once were
Dreams worth writing,

Instead they are
Softly spoken

With feet treading ground
Once hallowed
Upon sacred dirt
Soon to hold
What living bones
Take their walk
Over calling graves
Being buried –

Deeper each day
While we suffer
These minutes
So tragically fast.

Those blades of grass
Only know
An existence
Repeatedly trampled
Like our own breaths
Always too shallow
Chasing distance
Never that close –

Though we push
On subsequent hopes,

Even working hard
Getting soiled,

When trailing mud
Pushing further
Through a graveyard
Running away.

This experience
Entombs us all –

Such useless lies
Offer silence

Since words
Ambitiously falter
If uttering none
After death.

But loss tells tales
In itself,

Much how rain
Creates puddles.

Perhaps poetry
Is forever conversing
Politely from hell
Here and now.

• J. Pigno

I thought there would be
Some escape
Now returning
To Sunset Beach,

Watching as dawn
Becomes morning
Seeing Atlantus
Just off her coast

During visits
Opposing such namesakes
Feeling evenings
Ruin distinction

Secluded by night
Hiding memories
Appearing more bold
When it’s bright,

Where daylight builds
Over wave breaks
And histories crash
Across shorelines

Echoing dreams
Long forgotten
But almost afloat
Like that wreck –

While my other lives
Drift out at sea
Finding happiness
Treading deep water,

Held between tides
Beneath oceans
Under storms so great
They get lost.

Perhaps no proof
Should remain
As artifacts state
There was meaning.

Childhood hopes
Along storefronts
Sipping soda with mom
Never last.

Each current
Must carry this soul
How captured sand
Within bottles

Tells stories
Of places we visit
Before shattering
After you leave.

• J. Pigno