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

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

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

I discovered him
Up and walking
After dusk
On the beach
Among stars

Wandering paths
Below moonlight
As he followed
That beacon
Back home

Claiming
These eyes of God
Were watching
At ends
Of those breakers

Where waves
Crested gently
Finding
Their peace
Between rocks

Crashing
On unknown sands
From currents
Now missing
Direction

Beneath skies
So darkly mysterious
Each wind
Meant losing
Our way –

Tracing
The midnight hymns
Of angels
Abandoned
To silence

As we ran
Through trails
Amidst quiet
Of a blackness
Thicker than death

With heaviness
Choking us fast
Upon hearts
Like weight
Of assurance

How divinity
Beckoned
Our presence
That evening
We traveled alone

Deep
Into woods
Behind stores
Far enough still
To shine dimly

Obscuring the face
Of those figures
He swore
Were then saving
His life.

To this day
Sometimes I think
Christ
Had called him
Discretely,

Leaving his room
For our journey
Which lead us
Straight
To that shore

And the forest
Sunless
Yet clear
Brimming with voice
Lacking witness –

No evidence
Of whispers or miracles
But the impact
They had
On our lives.

– J. Pigno

 

What nature
Doesn’t realize
Is that kindness
Matters less
To the proud
And winning people
Whose triumph
Offers more

When playing fate
For freedom
Regardless
Of its context
With wars
Made of decisions
By declaring
Bets are off

Now choosing
Bigger dreams
Over gains
Both small and waning
Relinquished
From their prisons
As wishes
Built on chance

Still meaning
To proceed
Despite those odds
Against them
Beyond all worth
Or measure
Of the hope
Which conquers death

Fear
Not of their loss
But a God
That means conceding
To the vagueness
Of forgiveness
Like evidence
Showing grief

As hurt
Which must propel
And drive their marches
Forward
In a wave
Of frenzied masses
Who claim each battle
Dear

Knowing
That they’re wrong
And proving
Games are vile
While swearing
Something special
Is deserved
For those engaged.

– J. Pigno