Joe Bisicchia

There is likely hesitation,
but he takes the cross.

A voice can only say so much.
...

Having mastered complexities of math, science, and alphabet,
all that education now comes down to this:
affixing one and one together late on Christmas Eve,
hooking up latest kids' gadgets with no sense of ease.
...

And what awaits to be seen,
faraway as sky,
close by as the backyard,
ever closer to the heart?
...

And my arteries run;
they race with the streets,
my depth chasing the lines underneath,
my arms chasing my dreams.
...

Rocks have personalities
I think
maybe.
Got to get to know them.
...

My face to the morning mist,
again I misplace what I could see,
my little sailboat of dreams,
out there so close it had seemed,
...

We felt her voice lift joyous from that deathbed.
She wasn't a poet; but was. Her last poem: her final breath.
It left without a word, as if the most peaceful sound ever said.
And we wept.
...

face, face, face, face, face.
face, face, face, face, face, face, You.
face, face, face, face, face.
...

Inside my father's crown
is heaven and earth.
He wears a box.
My father's not Google.
...

We have plenty oxygen.
Every separate peace rustles in trees,
expands in breeze, and crisscrosses seas
...

And maybe it's just me,
or the clay shell of who I was,
now boxed and maybe even forgotten,
down deep as I sleep
...

Wings are intricate things,
yet simple.

So without much thought,
...

Overcome the cage,
and open the gate.
Ego is a bird;
it should fly.
...

Like awe of earthly things, science explains you,
even though I'm sure it wasn't so easy to figure.

After all, how did they go and hold you down?
...

And I eat memories after Sunday services while the worldview of larvae melts into the crows and the sorrows bounce upon this gray roof. I sense she smiles regarding those birds tall like a long night's crime, but smaller than her, and much more forgetful. We move on with a rumble, yet still.

While all that's thought sweet like tar goes crumb-to-dust, sky is faster. Every new roof soon goes old over time. Important stuff lasts ever so sweet so many stories up and forever, she says. Stories and stories, none to forget. She is smart as Mother Earth, and maybe is indeed her. And thanks to her, I am not afraid. She knows the scurrying monkeys like to toss up small things. Like prayers upon her steeple, and memories to eat while savoring my copies of assorted carbon coffees from the sudden rain, none of it regular, yet regular.
...

…patient
love is
kind love
is patient
...

Even if severed and separated, or sent far, far away like the sun,
lost and forgotten, Truth shall reappear one soon day.
For Truth is.
As begotten.
...

There's joy in believing in an Unending Being,
loving enough to be human being, heaven sharing.

All year long.
...

And so it is, finally July 25.

Feel the tide arise like eyes arriving to a party,
and like Christmas lights strung the whole way
...

We saw Santa this summer
on a motorcycle.
Like us, he was stopped at a new red.
Impressive how he seemed the patient fellow.
...