I’ve thought about
Getting it
Over with

Of myself
In past tense

That might
Be easier

Than suffering
A morning

To shower
Or dress

My pulse
Grow erratic

While pressure
Without reason

Takes blame
From fear
Showing proof

Through numbers
But fickle

Apt for

When feeling
Your worst
Every second

Even if
Those pains
Aren’t real

Since death
Does not
Appear calm

Though peace
May follow

God isn’t

Of lying
How kings
Often do

Watching judgment
Our reward

Where forever
So elusive

Beyond this
Still waiting

Light may

One empty

His body

Can find
Off of panels

Upon lifelike
Laying flat

Now drawn
By dimensional

Between hurt
And prayer

To endure
That formless

As figures
On a space.

– J. Pigno

Isn’t facing our fear
But accepting
The fact
It’s consumed us

Or agreeing
Such nerves
Remain heightened
Knowing death
Is a heartbeat away

With air
Which mustn’t escape
For what time
These lungs
Keep breathing

Speaking their mind
In protest
Through words
That defy
This release

From suffering
Heaviest weight
Upon chests
Not privy
To burdens

Still praying
Those answers
Await them
Within lifetimes
Already passed

Like mornings
When light
Doesn’t come
But diminishes sun
Behind grayness

Obscuring day
By obsessions
Hanging low
Heaven’s fence

Seeing God’s saints
At their rest
Watching each man
How he changes

Stopping us
Quick glimpses
As children
Indignant for proof

Our existence
Beyond pain
Within that realm
So unhappy

Leaps of faith
Aren’t taken
Yet medicine
Without grace

All of them
No chance
On those who insist
They can jump it

Into yards
Containing salvation
Where souls
Find relief
Being safe

Since bodies
This belief
When Christ Himself
Appears naked

On a cross like ours
Between bedsheets
Stealing youth
Through age
Every night

One more sleep
Toward reprieve
Even if
Some hurt
Lingers daily

True resurrection
At request
Of the flesh

– J. Pigno

Even now
As I write
My heart rate
Just won’t dwindle
Or ease what racing
Lay dormant
Beneath this skin

When falsehoods
They call help
Just stave
How death impending
Hangs his scythe
Above me
Boldly calling Jon
Back home

As I’ve never felt
Such pain
Or these shallow breaths
For hours
Built of torture
By those masters
Who believe
Their answers right

While I pray
God never asks
If my actions
Warrant judgment
Thinking fear
My only weakness
And His trial
Feeling sick

Even while
This organ sprints
Stealing minutes
Hardly worthy
Of that penance
I keep facing
Every time
My pulse should skip

Being told
My nerves are shot
Or I’m anxious
Since believing
How the curtain
Will be falling
Very soon
Upon my stage

Taking bows
Before each joke
Speaks its mind
Without reaction
Where an audience
Thinks I’m faking
Being truthful
While they laugh

Never hearing
How this voice
Wanted nothing
But assurance
Or at least
A clap of comfort
To acknowledge
He was here.

– J. Pigno

A water bottle
On the shelf
Where I may perish
My bedroom window
Shuttered tightly
During sleep

To denounce
What day may bring
Though rest which
Sees me tremble
With an open mouth
Still gasping
Begging liquids
From thin air

That arid breath
Since each terror
Leaves me longing
Between these sheets
Like a bush
Of sweated death

But stirring
If I must
Long enough
For thirst to notice
How resistance
Seems indecent
Staring God
Right in the face

By His vessel
Left real close
While remaining
Ever fearful
So no hand
Or desperate fingers
Could seek respite
Out of reach

As that drink
Eludes my grasp
Amid dreams
I cannot finish
Waking often
From this penance
Feeling parched
Alone at night.

– J. Pigno

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’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