Six Poems

by Joe Bisicchia

Available

Window store out of business

glass empty Eye may see all things

street side stronger than any dye

The night’s rain now glistens the grime

in this our framed space

this our oiled portrait of a hollow face

God cries

and we can see it in each other’s eyes

downpour

tonight's stars had been hidden like love

now the clouds shatter somewhere above

rain’s refrain and listen yes for your name

distinct as a drop and yet a rainfall same

Mercy is a fever broken

and summer’s asphalt sky has opened

sky melts us filling soles more than half full

We are blessed to laugh as we take cover

next to this shuttered storefront us truly

never empty space

these cliffs at night

skyscrapers                              lift

eyes                 small                swell

light beams      blink mirrors    beam   

a shared life     of light           neon

light beams      blink mirrors    beam   

no hiding         we are            light

a shared life     of light         neon

under bushel    our eyes           rise

eyes                 small                swell

no hiding         we are               light

skyscrapers                             lift

pull                  us                    to unite

under bushel    our eyes           rise

Chrysanthemum

All night long, this tin can I’ve driven has tunneled the tar. City’s character has pushed up its root through it, and that character now lets out its exhaust. I step out and take a long look at this flower pot on wheels, sad now as an unlit Christmas tree, or as snowflakes that don’t stick. Or as me, tired of all of this.

And yet, as the gas pours, the morning finally breezes in like Mae West no longer in an old black and white, but now finally ready to bloom.

Today shall be the day when all falls into place. Sure as the new sun. Always room for such travelers. We all have a share. And within me, so much room. Maybe for everyone.

And sunlight suddenly beams upon the worn wide open brown vinyl, now resplendent as hope should be so to rise from this small patch of earth. Tank is full and I move ahead. We move ahead. All my being, all my soul, all the universe, all my shared bloom upon the tar.

amid the seemingly dead

weeds

push up through cracks

higher than any elevated

incongruent yet aligned

not nearly possible

nor nearly comprehensible

amid all the reprehensible

yet somehow present

and phenomenal

for surely even here

kindness is somewhere near

hands in need to empty seeds

into the grime

mercy and mercy and mercy

in the bloom

see Who we shall see

for lovely are we

aside these narrow streets

hearts and hearts and hearts

of this wide neighborhood

the flesh and bone and soul

the city of we

we and we and we and we

we are still alive

amid the dead

amid the zombies

amid ourselves

Agony in the Garden

There are no puppets here in our Gethsemane,

our city park of opioids and hard to reach hot pretzels.

Yet, ropes swing in breeze. Fellow sheep, please

cut some for me. I’ll cut some for you. Slack.

We effortlessly cut loose our cords and dig deep

with no strings attached. Dig deep to search our seeds.

Find ourselves unprotected, helpless on our own.

And weak. Find ourselves each Adam and Eve, free.

And yet, we pull up abuse and effortlessly tie a noose.

There is no truce here in our Gethsemane. Satan’s

excuse for the ancient snake to arm so many soldiers.

They kill all their enemies, including themselves.

How far is Eden? How far must roots reach? See here,

all the vulnerability in us and all those around us,

as the darkness dulls our awakening. So goes our stray

here to Gethsemane, and despite our need we go numb.

And so easily fall asleep, zombies straightforwardly

to betray heaven with a kiss. Despite proximity, we slip

from peace and see how instinctively swings a sword.

So goes our supposed liberty. So goes our strangling

in all our weeds, all the precious life ever within us.   

All that said, I’ll take a dose of your kindness, please.

Make it real, even if worn and tossed as the pretzel.

Better, make it the stuff that somehow lasts. Make it

sure as love. For that matter, yes, Gethsemane, make it

Love. I know you have a stash of it in the chest pocket.

For your sake, and ours, make that heart take root.

kindling sonnets in the darkness

moon reaches out with cratered eyes

salt of the earth and to the wound

freeze bleaches the nighttime streets

numbs the digits gone the toes

hands of the clock stuck at fists

empty shoes in thick glass shop window

empty soles dangling cold by thin wire

whirl of the wind and its unshod skid

fixed time as broken light seems as dust

once knit new as the newspaper comics

but in the gust the stop sign nods its no

ephemeral goes the swept brittle headlines

and barricades too burn in holed barrel

an emptiness chased by rising neon light

breadth by the sewer lifts the flower

spikenard of spring yellow of the eyes

blooms the air thought empty never so

distant sirens horn woodwinds hello

familiar strangers despite the dangers

sleepwalking the dark two-way narrow

slow the wide skies but swift the wing

angel fishbones are here to dissipate

breeze of delicacies if only to taste it

something never to refrigerate this

kindness but to become it face to face

and more than just a dream to anticipate

one of a kind but multiplied as existent

a heavenly seraph pours hot chocolates

BIO: Joe Bisicchia writes of our shared dynamic. An Honorable Mention recipient for the Fernando Rielo XXXII World Prize for Mystical Poetry, he has written five published collections of poetry. He also has composed over three hundred individual works that have been published in over one hundred publications. He earned his BA at La Salle University and is currently finishing up his MFA track at Lindenwood University. To see more of his work, visit JoeBisicchia.com.