The Projector

the projector flickers away

in the mystery of home movies

of lakes and bays 

deserts and mountains

the great wonders

lesser places

a plymouth wagon

with its innocent pilgrims 

cheery souvenirs

cheese sandwiches

young 

hearts

explored

and in the darker room they pace

where polar worlds collide

cross the lines

of unmapped borders

crossing the unearthly depressions

untraveled states 

mad gorges

of river dragons

manic angels

the projector continues
clicks to the dim music

evokes the heavens on earth

the unheard world

turned on its ear

in the dead stares

buried words

out of focus dance

of a handsome man

twisting cheerfully 

in the sparks

of a dancing

fire

JP Pestana October 31, 2016

I Thought Not

in awe of not

I thought a thoughtless thought

existing anonymously

annihilating in its intensity 

it brought me to my senses until 

I thought not

JP Pestana October 30, 2016

The River Never  Far

the river never far

slips through his fingers

eyes him below sun filled hills

swims away in its swimming blues

muddy creeks 

sleeping ducks

brilliant oppressions

his permissions 

of the child

sent to the river to catch

what he can catch

submerges within sight

of the entirety

of what to him was known

permissions given

with a summer wave

loving smile

in his staring mumbling walk

cloudy impairments

he chalks things up to 

things lost 

clearly he would rather be 

with the old dog old woman

in the green park 

by the river

by the sun

to be with the pumpkins 

the chummy mums 

in sunny rows

staring back

in their sworn promise

to say nothing 

JP Pestana October 30, 2016

Otto's Pond

breathe easily

otto desperado that he is 

is stealing scarlet leaves 

scarlet streets from no one

lets the treasured scarlets be 

beauty is what otto believes

only beauty is needed for this 

precious theft

from his hideaway

scarlet trees own the shifting sky along the sea

lets the sweeping leaves spread the chilling wind

lets the bracing color race through the graves gray grass

listens to the praying willows 

otto sees it is the pond too close to the sea 

it is a drop in the sea in its scarlet ripples

it is the wreck of sea and pond 

that come together in her soft scars

that lures you from me

the memory she never was

JP Pestana October 28, 2016 Sea Girt

Spice (RB)

the salt colored remains

of shaken clouds

leave little to the imagination

then suddenly peppered 

in the sounding flight

broken lines 

of loud and 

angry

crow

JP Pestana October 26, 2016

Purple Rose 26

the late october rose faces west

its smooth skin cold to his touch

shies away from his mortal hand

bothered ever so slightly

by the last breath

of mourning

light

JP Pestana October 26, 2016 (2:27 am)

Ascent

in seconds autumn winds encompass him complete him

everything moves in every direction

there is only at once air

swirling he emerges in his own currents torments

airily a pair of young hawks chide him

turn from him

 play away in their shared 

delights

JP Pestana 

October 24, 2016

  Harrowed


in willows oaks 

sparrows stillness

calm jittery leaves

nervous words blurred

in the chilling birth

of an unfeeling sun

JP Pestana October 21, 2016

Until

the boy's dogs are barking
into the void
morning has no beginning
the dogs well meaning
do their job
keep barking at phantoms
locked behind the dark veil
impostor that is the sun

he is caught in
helpless in
lost in
the fast moving saturations
the melancholic folly
steep

ly
de
scend
ing
steps
to
help
less
ness

he sees in you each day
as if for the first time
lives of day and almost lives
he sees in you the quiet nights
the train leaving his high desert
its whistle ever forlorn
absorbed into all that is
almost gone

the clouds are black
the moon is black
the sky is black
the mountains looming
black
everything is behind
nothing is coming back

the roadside flowers
are wild and haunting and troubled
they clutch at each other
some brown without petals
some with few petals some desperately
holding on to their full glory
they are all friends together
in their colorless deaths

in the time when time asks for forgiveness
pauses to reflect on the truth of its unenviable chore
the sun returns turning inward
pouring its liquid rays down in a steady stream
the flowers revitalized drink deeply
count the days certain
endings are never certain
until

JP Pestana October 20, 2016

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Moon of Day

the lightless moon of day
is no less so
the moon of love 
haunting lore 

displayed for all to see
in morning's brightened sky
she goes unnoticed
undesired maybe
somewhat shy 

vaguely he wonders if
she feels the loss
her china face
pale blue

hung and long forgotten
faded portrait
on cobwebs
attic wall

JP Pestana October 19, 2016

Moon of Day

the lightless moon of day
is no less so
the moon of love 
haunting lore 

displayed for all to see
in morning's brightened sky
she goes unnoticed
undesired maybe
somewhat shy 

vaguely he wonders if
she feels the loss
her china face
pale blue

hung and long forgotten
like aunt laura's faded portrait
on the cobwebs
attic wall

JP Pestana October 19, 2016

The Rose

stuck in autumn's drumming sun

strongly drawn to the coward's

awkward song

and dance

he dances

dances the clowning

dance for no one

but one or

the other

busily he picks the thorns

from his roses last days

pricks a finger

in the separating day

peeling away

believing it to be

the petal bleeding

from the rose's

crying eye

JP Pestana October 9, 2016

revision 1

The Rose

stuck in autumn's drumming sun

strongly drawn to the coward's

awkward song

and dance

he dances

dances the clowning

dance for no one

but one or

the other

busily he picks the thorns

from his roses last days

pricks a finger

in the separating day

peeling away

believing it to be

the petal bleeding

from the rose's

crying eye

JP Pestana October 9, 2016

revision 1

The Peach Basket

mister robito grows his sunday tomatoes
in the hands dark earth of his own making
softly enthusiastically sings italian love songs 
to his loving wife rose
smiling in her yellow roses
smiling tomatoes

from rusty cages
the luscious weight
ripeness
of the fruit red
red green
green
fight the august sun
pull the vines back to earth
back to his smooth and
choosing hands
each one
gently set into
the peach basket

in the humidity
of everything tinton
incongruously cat birds do what they do
moving deeply into the honeysuckle
humming bees linger with each new sweetness
the thin iron stream flows weakly to the falls
maple leaves stick together
shade themselves
the sun seems to sweat
dressed in heavy clouds

in all of this
mister robito retreats to his shaded place
drinks the young red wine made
from neighbor's grapes
pulls the smoke deeply
releasing it from his lungs
to the wet air
considers the sweet tartness
of him and rose and the garden
the chance of rain softening
his earth

listens to the radio from the window
the yankees are winning
he imagines yogi here with him

with rose

his tomatoes

JP Pestana October 18, 2016

Tea and Sweeties

the shadows of his former selves

have gathered over tea

they speak about him glowingly

eating sweeties as they please

not much is said detractingly

about his current self

but if there was unpleasingly

he'd argue with himself

JP Pestana October 19, 2016

Piercing the Flame

left behind by the others
an abandoned star
is early to night 
possesses the dwindling shadows
hangs over his shoulder waiting
for the comfort distractions
of strangers

follows him closely
around the sharp curves
through junipers
gravel hills
traces his mindless curiosities
settles down with the downed sun
the white mountain
white waters
virgin moon

chamisa give themselves to wind rocks
full thick mockingly golden they weave
sway touching in the music

acknowledging the horizon
he stands at its blinding edge

crooked spears of quenched blues

piercing the flame

JP Pestana October 18, 2016

The Peach Basket

mister robito grows his sunday tomatoes
in the hands dark earth of his own making
softly enthusiastically sings italian love songs 
to his loving wife rose
smiling in her yellow roses
smiling tomatoes

from rusty cages
the luscious weight
ripeness
of the fruit red
red green
green
fight the august sun
pull the vines back to earth
back to his smooth and
choosing hands
each one
gently set into
the peach basket

in the humidity
of everything tinton
incongruously cat birds do what they do
moving deeply into the honeysuckle
humming bees linger with each new sweetness
the thin iron stream flows weakly to the falls
maple leaves stick together
shade themselves
the sun seems to sweat
dressed in heavy clouds

in all of this
mister robito retreats to his shaded place
drinks the young red wine made
from neighbor's grapes
pulls the smoke deeply
releasing it from his lungs
to the wet air
considers the sweet tartness
of him and rose and the garden
the chance of rain softening
his earth

listens to the radio from the window
the yankees are winning
he imagines yogi here with him

with rose

his tomatoes

JP Pestana October 18, 2016

The Pass

Revision thought- a crow leaves the sound  of water
sound of life

The Pass

the crowing wind has found its way
to the cochiti

strips away the husk
of late day

red silk
of ripe
corn

pushes the moon eagle
deep into the jemez

cottonwood drop their polished gold
the wind takes it from them
scatters it to the river

the wind becomes its forbidden dance
sacred chant heard in life
before life

one crow hovers

above the sound

of water

JP Pestana October 16, 2016

Saturdaze

I am uneasy
with today
imagined
in my errands
I think
unsettled
in thoughts
unopened
like week's old mail
rolled up newspapers
in precariously sloppy stacks
by the stuck door
I know there is more
but in line
I am a blankness
without a list

I try my best
in their quick visit
to hold these thoughts bent on leaving me
as soon as they arrive
chunky white pumpkins
like suns with spires
of ribbed light
sit contentedly with their sinless
orange cousins
I am sure they are not sure about me
I am most sure of it

a man in line says I look like
I should be in GQ
I guess I do
unclear why
he says I am coordinated
in my colors
proudly I brush away the dust
on worn blue jeans

walking senselessly to the car
under a noon sun more pumpkin
than not

I become again

mostly

unimagined

JP Pestana October 15, 2016

Left of the Mountain

her champagne

holds the fuller moon

folded flat in thin

tissues of cloud

he weaves between

her nervousness

in arroyos purple hills

his stratifications like the hills seem more certain

compete with the little blushes

of leftover clouds

bubbles in her 

crystal flute

twilight has arrived in all of its neither

proving the existence 

of everything

and nothing

in between

JP Pestana October 14, 2016

Lisbon

the palace gardens
are lush enough for a marquis
slow time to imperceptible ticks
lull the tongue into dull stupor
the wine is earthly sweet
speaks its own ancient tongue
surrounding flowers
bigger than flowers should ever be
fill the fragrant imaginations
tower over below more towering palms
their exotic shadows cling
hide him from who he was
when to be

away from the tagus traffic city talk exhaust
the opium poet in his blazing red speedo
dives into the still blue pool
every pigeon in lisbon circles above him
sips from its overflowing waters
struttingly know they own this creation
of sky water trees

eavesdropping he knows
speedo knows the talk in portuguese
intimately knows the
noite e dia
sol e lua
beijo de amor
what more

he leaves the young girls fussing mothers
old woman smoking her turkish cigarettes
snoring belly vodka
of her once
young lover
to speedo

rolling over

he barely hears her beating heart

wanting breath

JP Pestana October 13, 2016

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Perilous

rumors abound

that somehow

he has stolen

the moon

pulled it to him with a reckless promise

slid it into his coat pocket

stuffed with borrowed stars

taken from its rightful place

certainty of night and day

they share in their perilous loss

selfishly he feels its smoothness

perfect roundness

whiteness

eternity

in the curl

of his hand

it is the warming charm

delicate elations

caressing curse

awe of others applauding

the thief of all time

that fosters

his surging guilt

wistfully he reaches into his pocket

to release his prize

only to find it empty

escaped with

the help

of stars

JP Pestana October 12, 2016

Above the Park

go ahead

throw me the high heat

fever pitch

crowding shouts screams

give me the sign to swing away

miss by a mile

maybe more

or maybe I'll get lucky

make contact

beat out a slow roller to first

steal second

third

maybe I will stare into blue clouds above the park

rub dirt in my hands

move off base

feel my body leave me

racing straining diving with outstretched arms

hitting the ground with the force of gods

exploding suns

truth in the call

of safe

at home

JP Pestana October 12, 2016