Joe Bisicchia Poems

Even as seeds have already come true, maybe there are more to dreams than what is only found at the bloom. And it is far more than just anticipation. It is the ongoing locomotion from the root. Sings the poem without the words. In that way, hope moves along, ever present on its way as moment to moment goes on beyond any aberration of rhythm to the last stop, and back again, ourselves as we are, an undeniable presence, beyond a poem's last word penned, but written within along, underneath.
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Since this stay I've come to feel at home in this infested hotel room where, as the only jockey brave enough, me aboard Lady Luck, I win the roses in the daily run for the roaches.

Life's a human race where Truth is lost by blinders. I win what is real.
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I don't know how far anyone's blood can run.
But we all will go, sins and all, and in so many ways
face our fate and ask for mercy.
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We orbit the floodlights of Acme above abandoned shopping carts. Granted, we all share a universe. And she, the human below and ignorant to us, flashes a selfie. Sees later in the photo an angel above her head and so thus shares it viral.

Quite a photo I might add. Some disbelieving followers then soon debate whether it is indeed an angel or just a serendipitous, up close blurred moth in the foreground, which it actually is. I should know. It's me.
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I don't know the present others by name.
We don't quite speak that way.
But spoken words don't differentiate what another life means.
They are to me, as me.
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We wondered life over a wart that summer night, soon talking of forever and how the bugs reemerge. I had perplexed if maybe the kiss was reason for the wart, as if you were the frog and I the prince. All soon flew away as time is wont to drift. But maybe all lives come down to this.

We live most of our time far underground. That summer night in the forest, our large eyes were wide and our well veined wings went transparent. So goes the skin of a heart when all is clicking, when emotions forget to be afraid. If only that rare time in life had stayed.
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We labor up and off our green beach chairs, the lady and I, for the true, precarious view at ledge, there at roof's edge, so many feet above street, to see little beings push and shove and make their own way about. She's first to notice it. There had been a sprite broccoli sprout in the past, now gone. Poor tree. So nature lovers that we are, we burrow down elevator eight floors to see what is left there of nature now.

Tree, your roots had pushed up curb nastily and now you exist like this, to be so flat a stump so level down here upon concrete earth. Axman had determined this as deserved.
Ants now climb your altar, and we wonder, we wonder what they may wonder of you, of your lost height, of their lost green tower. But their job still works with current power. They climb as if no treason defeats them.
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Lady Bug followed calling. Was as if she was searching beyond life's inadequacy, beyond life's deficiency, for heaven's sufficiency, if indeed there could be such a place.
Saw comfort in a holy, quiet cave. Looked down long dark aisle. Couldn't see a thing, but felt it. Sanctuary.

Kind voice seemed to say, "Trust me." And Lady Bug did. Voice then enveloped her being, shooting her onward.
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Quite the ballet of bugs with long legs, graceful the Ront de jambe,
the grands battements upon the surface as if the lake a trampoline.
Royale, petit Jeté, the glide along floor until demi-hauteur.
Assemblés are complete petitor grand, even en tournant,
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I ponder if I'm a star to them. Or just unnoticed. Or ignored. Can they even see such a star being from wherever it is they are in the green forest of blades far beneath me?

I lift my lid to cotton candy clouds as this issue I size up and allow my thoughts to marvel at heights. How high up the Green Monster can I arise?
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