A Sky No More

through the gray

the fields glisten black

deep in slow moving crow

the coyote black in gray rain

lope the road fading gray gone

in these winter fields worn lost in

gypsum mist

the coyote are no more

the crow no more

the gray bleeds through me

through the rain

through a sky

no more

JPPestana

A Sky No More

2/15/18

Blossoms

say camellia to me

say bougainvillea

say the fragrance of

this cool night

is not a dream

of dreams

a piece of

uncharted  

paradise

untouched by my

blossoming

imagination

jppestana

2.3.2018

World of Art

she draws from him
what she can
tiny lines tiny 
sighs
a shy glance
a word here
and there
sometimes his canvas
speaks to her
mesmerizes her
in the room
of dusty light
particles of art
fall from the walls
brush of her
painting
touch

jpestana
2.1.2018

Water to Water

from water to water

he walks on whispered paths

scattered shattered rocks

echo of soft breaths

soft breeze

a shadow trails him 

refuses to leave

blocks his way with curses

heated words

here where there was once water

familiar tears flow to nothing

create a spring of things

that never were

jppestana

1.28.18

Life of Light

in softening air

awareness lessens

reduces to you alone

cactus scratch deeply at

a catching wind clouds catch

escaping light

he faces away

west to the fractures

of everything once easy

now it is the pecking hammering

of stone on stone

thought on thought

sense on sense

the uncertain stupor

or elation

he leans with the ancient tree

feels the tips of fingers

cool in the ghostly river

the huddled ghostly crown of crow

their jewels fading

in the life of

light

jppestana

1.12.18

-->

Torn

old truths
like mine
be mine or not
dreamless relics
in time
in rock
in sun
in wind abrading sand
a jack rockets leaps from a gone tree into the sun unafraid
and I see the tracks of an old lie
a piece of life frayed
torn at the edges

jppestana
12.30.17

Not I

so the poem
is not the poem
not to think only
not this day
not in these eerily fleeing shadows
the tears
not the cries
hearing pain
the weak voice in thin hills
not her wrinkled linen dress
worn yellow under the sun
so the poem is
not the poem
not the poem
not I

jppestana
november 25, 2017