By on

Never tell me
The night is young
As its wisdoms
Prove seniority
Lighting smokestacks
Much like cob pipes
Sticking out
From the mouth of sprawls

Lined with cities
Sharing dust
Breathing waste
And factory ashes
Over alleyways
Cast in shadows
Where these bandits
Stash their risks

Under awnings
Behind bars
Chasing cats whose tails
Curl backwards
Stalking vagrants
Fate encounters
Wishing streets
Were home at last

Having dreams
Upon that bench
Huddled still
Beneath old blankets
Watching figures
Break through storefronts
Grabbing hope
For paper bags

As this shift
Turns easy cash
Robbing graves
Some call fair living
Wasting daytime
Working harder
Since nocturnal beasts
Roam free

Knowing crime
Though often wrong
Defeats morning’s
Tampered sunshine
Playing odds
All jobs amount to
Missing masks
Or angry means.

  • J. Pigno

By on

I spot dirt
In my contact lens

Through which
My world appears
Clouded

As a strain
Of peripheral errors,

Distorted
From seeing
Too much –

And looking close
Though we mustn’t

At what blatant
Specks
Provide reason

For rejecting sight
Like sensation

Not worth
Our trust
It assumes.

Such evidence
Painted by hues
Find life
Often muddles
These visions

By chance
When discovering freedoms

While restoring
Some monochrome
Scene –

Inspiring roles
Never played

Merely felt
Or observed
Over decades

Accepting
Blemishes brazen
Enough that
Truth
Becomes blurred.

Color escapes
Blinded eyes

But meaning
Remains
Vivid pictures,

Only bright
If perceived beyond limits –

Perpetual
Though sadly
Obscured.

  • J. Pigno

By on

I’m a prop
For the theater of man
In which my role
Remains little

As its tool
Of impeccable sadness
Once thought to be
Something of use –

Whose mask
Remains terribly flawed
While each hole
Shows struggling morals
At performing acts
Most egregious
Like appearing sane
Before crowds,

Since an audience
Perceives only flesh

Rather than tears
Along edges

Sporting that half
Still accepted
But ignoring marks
Well obscured

Leaving honesty
Trailing behind

Along tired scenes
They will rotate

Thinking memories
Performed by actors
Are valid dreams
We uphold.

What monsters
Believe this play
Are desperate fools
Selling tickets
Wasting their lives
Turning profits
On agony caused
Every night,

Peddling freedoms
Drama demands
Players wish
Was improvisation

Telling jokes
Only pain finds funny

Having hope fall flat
Across stage.

No laugh
Should successfully land
If humor itself
Assumes hatred
Will inherently bring
Little chuckles
From imposing lives
So obscene,

Exploiting lines
Being read
Proving stooges pure
Can fall victim –

Like me
God’s glorious instrument

Who disrupts
Through behaving
Off-script.

  • J. Pigno

By on

There was never
A brighter sunshine
Than the days when
God seemed close
Between each cloud
On mornings
Where that light above
Felt free

Which peeked
An incredible glimpse
Through His candid skies
Unveiling
What blue proved dreams
Lay waiting
Beyond these signs
Hung low

In relative terms
By sight
Looking out upon
Motel cities
Like blemishes
Glowing with neon
Obscuring stars
Come dusk

After asphalt
Grew too hot
And then burned our feet
While playing
Lost among those cars
Left idle
Sporting plates
From states so far

Leaving honest tips
Near tables
Atop dressers
Counting scratches
Behind TV sets
Still broken
Telling news
Without its sound

Under lamps
My mom had fixed
Housing crumbs
Or wrappers crumpled
Grabbing cookies
For some dinner
Within alcoves
Humming noise

Saying junk food
Nourished souls
Passing quarters
If she made them
Often waiting
For new tourists
Rarely willing
To share change

Since they noticed
Empty rooms
Curtains drawn
And working parents
Only seeing
Swaying palm trees
Not how desperate
Dawn appeared.

  • J. Pigno

By on

I’m forever
Breaking a promise
That day
On the old white porch
Atop sagging boards
Which splinter
Creaking loudly
While we speak

Since reflection
Proves unsure
Your are even there
In spirit
After waking soon
From dreaming
Where that farm
And sunset waits

Looming shyly
Behind veils
Tinged with orange clouds
Still standing
Somehow drifting
Throughout memory
Turning dark
Before they pass

Though our shadows
Lightly singed
By long fingers
Flames can mimic
Clasp at specters
Slowly fading
Cracked like hands
Whose art is touch

Expressed only
If they split
Showing cracks
Have certain beauty
Spelling wisdoms
Sharing secrets
Only shattered hearts
Will tell

Once inspired
Without cause
Now assuming
Time has stolen
Every meaning
Visions carry
Losing subtext
Moments gain

Seeking hindsight
Via death
Or perhaps
Fate’s other poem
Turning phrases
Between blessings
Wasting lifetimes
Novels gain

Trading glares
As we had wished
Would insist
God’s magnum opus
Wasn’t swearing
Magic answers
Made success
Of failure‘s prose –

This belief
I hoped came true
Found disdain
Behind your smile
Knowing damn well
Writers struggle
Just to claim
Their final say

Buried deep
Beneath old graves
Lining driveways
Outside homesteads
Deceased idols
Long inhabit
Mocking passions
Digging graves.

  • J. Pigno

By on

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

By on

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

By on

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

By on

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

By on

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