Tag: poem

By on

I’m okay with 
Losing my voice

And the fact
This writing falters

Where expression
Becomes misleading 
And passion proves
Unsure, 

While attempting
Redundant feats
Out of feeling
Entirely different 
Than I had
When creating poems 
From fear
My soul would waste.

Now here is
One last try
To convey that Lord 
Whose comforts
Provide these words
Through solace 
In being 
Wholly content –

Unknown
But truly free,

Gracing faithful men
Well-meaning,

Outside cheers
Or idle worship
Our now fallen world
May yield.

See belief
Sees scorn its praise
As one dirty term
Depicted
Amid twisted acts 
Most witness
On small touchscreens
Hands will hold,

Though Christ’s heaven
Knows how silence
Yields much greater fruit
Than screaming
Over airwaves
Telling stories
Every living saint 
Must bear.

I can tell you
God is NOT
How most biased crooks 
Still sell Him –

Neither racist,
Nor homophobic,

Never sexist   
Or seeking cash.

He encompasses
Every flag
While condemning
Marching bigots,

Watching zealots 
Wield their weapons,

Mourning nations
Housing hate:

Begging peace
Yet leading hearts, 

Holding tongues
Since passing judgments,

Blazing paths
By sheer example
Causing changes
Time does show. 

For I’m learning
Loudest sins
Are relieved
Through quiet gestures –

If my prose 
Should only whisper,

Then perhaps its best
Unheard. 

  • J. Pigno

By on

I don’t write anymore for love.

Love doesn’t promise answers.

It rarely even offers solace.

In fact, it gives nothing at all.

That’s the problem with selfless hearts.

Their faith is an empty addiction – devoted to dreams less fortunate than the ones which assume we can float.

Though adrift we have rightly sailed, upon comforts veiled by these hatreds, fate’s ocean widens its mysteries within struggles bluer than fear.

Askew is the charted path.

Our journey has veered more wayward, towards conclusions scarily noticed within actions claimed were a must.

Time navigates meaning eroded within days of dispassionate pleasures sold as the bargain of choices weighed down by freedoms we waste.

Our will is a clouded perspective muddled by lies called successes.

Relationships hinge on presumptions that humans are good to a point.

That’s not the approach we should take, but somehow God bemoans instinct.

His reward for imagined benevolence is a smack to the face when we pray.

There is no truth but distinction among forms of elaborate aggression disguised as smiles and handshakes, or hugs between lovers who cheat.

Each sin is a different shape. Every knife feels increasingly jagged.

Only fools could buy into penance since forgiveness is debt never paid.

Deep down, I’m afraid I’m wrong, knowing cynics are often most reckless with words that dismiss certain values once believed still alive in this world.

Ask the lost, does virtue exist, when people turn hope into weapons – placing masks upon frowns in an effort to conceal one’s disease never cured?

Stray as the boat which sails off the shoreline harboring safety, so does penance appear less likely to save souls left to drown far beneath.

Life’s undertow proves too strong – sinking seems inescapable destiny.

If there were ever a moment worth swimming, here and now is the tide we should catch.

I don’t write anymore for love.

Love doesn’t promise answers.

Yet rage could provide better chances for surviving the wave which comes next.

  • J. Pigno

By on

Through contrast
Of light and dark
Did her chamber
Appear to glow,

A peculiar
Lavender radiance
From behind
Its square-shaped frame –

Beneath my
Basement steps,

Tucked behind
That hissing boiler,

Making nightfall
Seem most ominous
Peering in
Such paneled glass.

All windows showed
Were stars
As their dimness
Pooled on carpets

With thick glares
Below high fixtures
Swinging brightly
Overhead,

While those lamps
Would flicker fast
As I paced
Toward plated portals

Soon discovering
Evil’s presence
Where this cellar
Once had walls –

Now just gateways
Breaking seals

(Yielding pain
Lost faith encouraged),

Tearing holes
Around deceptions
Wholly metal
But so sure

Shuttered hatches
Harbored rage

How fading carpets
Obscured footprints

Leading victims
Near disaster
Lurking quietly
Among dust

Since revealing
Satan’s image

Finding eyes
Believing figments:

Some old woman
Smiling wryly
Sporting wrinkles
Bearing death.

She emerged
Youth’s living shadow,

Lacking form
Yet still resembling

Every sin
I ever witnessed
Or committed
Biding time.

Even screaming
Couldn’t help,

Waking sweated,
Feeling nauseous,

Knowing grief
Casts odd reflections
Upon fate
Our panic dreams –

Metal doors
Once welded shut,
Fearing locks
Each future tells us

May just open
If we cherish

False salvation
Called success.

  • J. Pigno

By on

Poetry
Isn’t hard –

In fact,
It’s just being honest.

But that’s something
With which I struggle
Every time
These thoughts begin

Doubting terms
My cursor throws,

Spitting text
Upon this template,

Like derision
Made from phrases
Using wordplay
As disdain.

Each new image
Eludes their worth
When my reticence
Precedes passion
Best expressed
By subtle changes
Or perhaps
Repeated lies –

Now inadequate,
Though engaged,

Like an audience
Feigning worship
At two feet
Maintaining balance
Upon failure
Always poised.

Written genius
Beckons peace,

Open books
Rely on blankness,

Citing pages
Better empty
Than composed
Through hollow lines.

So forgive
What wishes spoil
Once exposed
To open spaces,

And agree
How recognition
Taints those talents
Soon confined.

Certain mysteries
Must remain
Much too beautiful
For revealing,

Leaving caution
Behind promise
Boldly claimed
Yet hidden deep.

I’m still silenced
Chasing whims,

Finding impulse
Hardly easy –

Maybe muses
Do abandon
Those who try
Instead of feel.

  • J. Pigno

By on

Even now
After I’m married
There are moments
Which cloud my feelings,

Those pictures
That haunt each memory
Catching reels
On single frames:

Turning any
Particular girl

Into ideas
Some women stay muses

Well beyond
Your time spent with them
Or perhaps
Never meeting at all –

This belief
Of irony blessed,

So wrong
In every actual aspect,

While validating
Toxic perfection
During films
We’ve always watched.

It’s obsession
Become salvation,

Appearances
Preceding essence,

Such wayward looks
Existing,

Destinations
Lost but found –

When attention
Grows inspired
By what force
Her smile conjures,

Capturing snapshots
Carrying daydreams
Still projecting
Needs not met.

Why do I search
Bad habits
Keeping reality
From exceptions,

Yet ignoring
Changes needed
For maturing
Without grief?

I’m mourning
Teenage years
Spent inside
Enjoying movies,

Wishing females
Were just angels
Who’d accept me
Lacking depth.

Knowing God
Moved highest mountains,

Finding love
Seems much more special

By this miracle
Called commitment
Trading vows
I’d hardly earned.

She has proved
Fixations pass
Learning lonely prayers
Climb summits
Above partners
Stuck near morals
Only lowly souls
Deem fair,

Soon forgetting
Steepest kisses,
Cold and stinging,
Sore like sorrows –

Meaning symptoms
Conquer fantasy,

Though my wife
Relieves their ills.

  • J. Pigno

By on

I wake
To the moaning gales,

Sacred sounds
Of a wheezing tempest,

Leaving me
Strangely comforted
By feelings so cold
They howl.

What weather
Could speak such peace
How this morning wind
Keeps whistling,

Its screeching breath
Pure solace
Through pity
Of angry storms?

For God Himself
Is shrill –

His voice
An Arctic whimper

Upon gusts
Whose frigid graces
Remain salvation
Sought.

There is faith
Among those sighs,

Where winter’s cry
Bears mercies,

When wailing snow
Earns penance
Within fearful souls
Which froze.

My sheets
Become that shrine
Shielding bones
Behind thick layers,

Much like flesh
Protects our growing
Held inside
Each mother’s womb.

No temple
Besides birth
Would ever yield
Such pleasure
More devoted
Than rare whispers
Spoken only
Through short bursts –

Holy gusts
Describing fate
Beyond windows
Peeking daylight,

Hiding now
Beneath old blankets
Soon exposed
If getting up.

Forgive me
While I bask,

Listening still
For faintest traces,

Always weak
Though oddly freeing

Cheating death
So often warm.

  • J. Pigno

By on

Expression
Lacks real substance
Falling fast
In colorless words,

A distilled
And quieted anger
Like cold droplets
Caught from rain
On that pale
New winter’s morn
Where this wheeze
Called frozen drizzles
Spills past clouds
Whose subtle weather
Offers weak
And meager snow –

Hailing tears
Once blue as lips
Before God Himself
Kept coughing
Over open skies
So dreary
Only silence
Seems more pure
Than raw voices
Shouting claims
How old dreams
Became despondent
Among shadows
Clothing landscapes
Hung by illness
Heaven makes.

I’m speechless
If not bored
Wasting time
Since watching flickers,

Teasing screens
Which tell me stories
Lost between
Those pages scrolled –

Serving single suns
Observed,

Flashing smiles
Forced but vivid,

Leaving scenes
Of digital brilliance
Lighting pathways
Through each day.

My world outside
These windows
Is what truth
Eludes all senses –

Deceives
Though time keeps passing,

Darkens drifts
When white seems wrong.

Some feelings
Gasp for air,
While most others
Fade entirely.

Such faith melts
Much too quickly.

I’m still only
Seeing gray.

  • J. Pigno

By on

I keep opening
Empty doors

Behind old dreams
Like curtains

Which hide those stages
Darkened
Beneath thick cloaks
Of red –

Where drama
Plays its ghosts

Hearing actors
Echo madness

Held inside
These phantom theaters
Plaguing silence
Rife with fear,

Knowing scripts
Have reached their peak

Much how God Himself
Intended

Posing questions
Leaving stories
Open-ended
Sharing grief.

Though His audience
Does applaud

Some refuse
Such adoration

Watching spotlights
Taint experience
Fade each rose
Between both feet –

Still just words
Whose frequent praise

Authors tears
Through honest readings

Only gained
By shedding wisdoms
After learning
Books can lie.

All dialogue
Seems absurd
While depiction
Precedes essence

Urging frowns
Around exposure
To what art
May hollow souls.

Every dogma
Betrays meaning

Digging access
Below courage

Finding pain
That secret entrance
Among gates
When faith should close

Broken latches
If they swing
Letting hinges
Draw attention

Deeming noise
Another vessel

For expression
Soon obscured.

  • J. Pigno

By on 3 Comments

There’s a set
Of crystal stairs
Upon which my feet
Seem weary
When ascending dreams
Translucent
Like this wish
To be more heard

Gaining fame
By eyes who pry
Before morning
Lays its silence

Through that gentle sun’s
Disruption
Where each daylight
Sees me fall

While I climb
These spoken steps

Playing fate
Without much effort

Treading glass
Above these dangers
Through ambitions
Well-preserved

Letting hearsay
Become truth

Spreading rumors
Weaving gospel

Growing lives
Beyond old whispers
Wayward souls
Could only tell

Proving meaning
Tears new cracks
Over lengths
Once nearly shattered
From defeat
At seeking notice
Or existing
Past our deaths,

Failing heaven
Frail as mirrors
In defeat
No poet utters

Daring words
So uninspired

Only plunging down
Has depth.

  • J. Pigno

By on

Believe
All possible outcomes
Now that lies
Have become our gospel

And whispers
The loudest of voices

Allowing their hate
To be known.

We’re complicit
Not only in ignorance,

But accepting
These deeds by silence

Like a country
Once bent on kneeling
Towards those hands
Which smack its face.

This siege
Shows every symptom
Through society’s
Selfish lifestyle –

Money,
An enabled illness,

Like pride
Some killer disease.

Deadly,
Though rampant still,

How similar themes
Remain telling

Even when nature
Expresses
Germs are also
Despicable men.

  • J. Pigno