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
Squanders beauty

Such youngsters speak
Thinking poems
Could keep them
At best.

That dream
Has long been deceased
And old men
Hearing nothing

But empty breath
Getting colder
Since seasons
Can reflect

These passing days
Bearing chills
Each autumn
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,
Or nervousness,

But allowing our truths
To implode.

Come from reluctance.

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

Dear WordPress family,

It is an honor to announce the publication of my newest poetry collection, A Fear For Every Dream. A compendium of my most recent pieces, this chapbook has been an idea of mine for a long time. Now, thanks to the help of my wife (Dani), my desire to finally release my work officially has been realized once again. You can purchase a copy at Proceeds will help me continue to create further compilations and support a fellow artist. 

I want to take this opportunity to thank each and every one of you who continuously follow, comment, and like my posts. I know there are quite a few of you, and trust me, I notice. You truly help me survive and inspire me in ways you don’t even know. 

May God bless all of you, and please stay safe during these dark times.


J. Pigno 

What kind of life
Means silence
Out of worrying
How pain will follow –

The voice which fails
Despite pushing
Empty air
From heavy lungs?

I can’t confide
In my friends,

Or tell Danielle
How this feeling
Persists despite
Begging these doctors
For an answer that
Just never comes.

Andrew says
Hope is a scam.

Perhaps he’s right
Being angry,

At every god
Worshipped with money
Promising help
Soon to fail.

Things fell apart
So damn quick
As growing up
Piled on ignorance.

We watched our childhoods
Over families
Disputing their share –

Left behind
Sorting those lies
Around storefronts
And hospitals crowded
While viruses cursed
Long before masks
Were still used.

Home betrayed us all
Pushing work,

Believing such greed
Offered safeties
While allowing plagues
Full dominion
Like bigoted fools
They elect.

Was freedom’s ruse.

Love rests
Alongside memories
Buried deep down
Below symptoms
Killing each joy
Fear has lost.

Getting better
Never will happen.

Hurt finds doubt
More appealing.

Faith sleeps
Since agony wakes me.

Accepting death
Matters more.

  • J. Pigno