I wake up
As that child
Whose been running
And out of breath

On that playground
Where my leisure
Is the illusion
Time should wait –

For this innocence
To unravel
Like my swing
Which winds from usage
Ever telling
In its motion
No new heights
Just could be reached

While remaining

Back and forth

Since enjoying
Constant pacing
So ideal if seen
As changes
Though such truth
Is simply fun,

Through each game
Of obsession
Without purpose
Or some product
Besides feeling
What love God
Must have bestowed

When our triumphs
Often fail

And good health
Expires always

After chasing
Dreams of meaning
Off that seesaw
Pure as faith

Trusting death
Is sure release
Into frolic
Without hindrance

Viewing heaven
Amid slumber

By life’s grief.

– J. Pigno

I found death
A most comfortable

Outside my
Hospital window

As that morning
Grew polluted
Where each tree
Stood oddly

Watching daylight
Imbue fog
Spread like smoke
Through each their

In what breeze
Came off that shoreline
Just besides
This island’s

Hearing patients
Down those halls
Echo sadness
I had witnessed

Since new winter
Saw them

While December
Their fears

When remaining
Soaked with sweat

Calmly trapped
And bound by

Slave to fevers
God intended
Would remove us
From Earth

For that illness
Offered peace

And its dreaming
Meant surrender

Learning life
Was passing
On this bed
No man
Should rest

Till his end
Might really come
If such silence
Should take

Plaguing rooms
Like empty shadows
Across faces

But wrong

Praying dimness
Was their

Not the sun
As once

Sensing brightness
Broke composure
Stirring naps
Forever dark

Lacking heaven
I did face

Losing sight
And breath

Waking somewhere
Barely present

Yet assured
Things weren’t

– J. Pigno

I’m not entirely sure
This is a better
Use of my time

Sitting here
Waiting on answers
From the room
Which offers

In its quiet
Turn of phrase
By an awful air
That lingers
As if silence
Shouldn’t furnish
What this dust
Would whisper well

Through old age
And stagnant breath
With such ripe
But telling odor
Speaking cruel
Yet honest wisdoms
Like this sound
Of creaking chairs

Where each ghost
Remained at rest

Though their movements
Echo softly

Among light
Dispersing shadows
Tracing outlines
Now long past

Hearing voices
In my ear
Wish each word
Were somehow faithful
To these moments
Ever fleeting
When all poems
Write themselves

And I never
Lose this line

Or find meaning
Trailing blindly
Behind verses
While those days
Go rambling on

Since I’d rather
Sit and play

Follow nonsense
Into boredom

Idly worship
Doing nothing

Than approach
My doubting pen.

– J. Pigno

I believe
That God’s not there
Each time
I die in my sleep
When fear
Is a dream eternal
Unreal as the dark
Which calls

My breath could pass
Without these eyes
Wide open
Now worried
If pain continues
Beyond this plane
Of flesh

Since rest
Should shield me not
And tranquility
Pull feet under
Into fits
With quiet weakness
Drowning peace
From further woes

Tightly wound
Around my neck
During moments
I lay praying
For what rope
Doubt often dangles
Behind eyes
Whose shore is lost

Once ignoring
Every boat
Tying knots
Though bearing reason
Treading waves
In present torment
Upon pillows
Headed back

To where feelings
Fade like sand
Before claiming
Life had purpose
Struggling wildly
Within currents
While the captain
Casts His net

So those tangles
Find their catch
Proving faith
Becomes unruly
Still assuming
Land was waiting
As thick water
Fills my lungs

Learning heaven
Shows no grace
Toward our bodies
Sinking quickly
During slumber
Stopping heartbeats
Living shipwrecks
On high seas.

– J. Pigno

My God
Is equal parts innocence
And the tainted
Spark of rebellion
Who ignites each
Charred creation
By fear
I admit must burn

And thrill which
Doesn’t concede
To a torch whose blaze
Is weakened
Where His slowest tongue
May linger
Like dancing flares
On its wick

And heart
Whose cheapened wax
Still melts from words
In smoulders
Through lights that
Carry feelings
As they express
Their warming glow

Upon this page
Left blank
Within bedrooms
Starved for worship
At the edge
Of shadowy cursive
Where these cinders
Speak out loud

Just racing
Towards completion
So such flames
May find expression
Amid darkness
Hiding phrases
Even I can’t
Always grasp

Are divine
If born of heat
Scorching hands
Who brand their message
Writing madly
While they’re hurting
Showing marks
Considered death

To the lives
Not very fair
Missing purpose
Since obsessing
Over nightfall
Lacking lanterns
But what darkness
Comforts them

Tracking beacons
Yielding fast
When forever
Begs attention
From great flashes
My pen follows
Now defiant
More than scared.

– J. Pigno

We’re prone
To suffering falls
So routine
Yet unexpected
Like that step
Which always misses
Just before
Our feet can dance

And land
What gesture yields
Like scenarios
Once envisioned
At those moments
Life seems fragile
Hearing music
Guide that crash

Every slip
Is the note
God somehow blunders
Proving errors
Being random
Are the fears
Most often chanced

If resisting
Early death
Or its grip
Upon these shoulders
Standing pretty
With its partner
While they wait

For their turn
To be less tense
Than long waltzes
Grown religious
Like disaster
Without planning
Joining marches
Called defeat

Thinking movement
Can convince
From advancing
Across ballrooms
Hushed and ready
Poised yet pretty
Treading fate

Bringing hazards
On themselves
When avoiding
Human error
Spinning madly
Lacking caution
Though this blood
Holds certain risks

Finding gaffes
Gone unforeseen
Chasing hymns
Which deafen reason
Where perception
Beckons failure
Despite warnings
Too damn late.

– J. Pigno

My frantic scribbles
True wisdom
Of the insane
As I write
Outside these margins
In a book
Which has no words

Or phrase
That shines its gift
Within spaces
Holding darkness
Like some treasure
Once enabled
By true fear
Still taking shape

Upon its page
Among lines
I mustn’t publish
If avoiding
Daily judgement
Of this sentence
Deemed unfit

Like each fragment
Spelling death
Chasing freedoms
Beyond coping
Proving art
Is merely desperate
To convey
Such rattled thoughts

Through expression
Missing faith
Ever joyless
From expecting
Certain persons
Worth believing
When they say
That prose is heard

To agree
My message speaks
And those poems
Show importance
Even though
I’m only wasting
What small talent
God could sell

Crazy men
Who grow so tired
Of their subjects
Losing meaning
Finding answers
Behind eyelids
Where new mornings
Seem absurd

Inside volumes
Of old minds
Thick as tomes
Obscuring daylight
Too exhausted
For enduring
Further torture
Life entails.

– J. Pigno