Forgotten Things

morning is a forgotten thing

her whispers color river waters

almost waves break in sand

find their tender notes

the river rightly fills with diamonds

shards of escaping flashing light

hills collapse into an unfamiliar warmth

vanish into a place that could never exist

night is a forgotten thing

and everything between

that happens

happens

JPPestana

Forgotten Things

12.3.2021

 

Galaxy

is this

this collision

of we what matters

the earth shudders

shudders again

stars born burst before our naked eyes

planets resurrect

children that once were

run races to their proxy suns

light betrays them

they wither die in the blow dust

of their own creation

is this

this collision of we

the dark galaxy

islands of feelings

that have no

home

Galaxy

JPPestana

11.28.20

Unclearly

crow slow to follow starling

starling following crow stir him

all these wings confuse suddenly converge

bitterness seeps through

dying leaves another burst

of an untidy breeze

there are too many birds

the sky swirls like so many before

clearly he sees there are

no answers here

crow following

crow

Unclearly

JPPestana

11.8.2021

The Curiosity

A blue flower grew through a worn fence to see if

I was true to myself.

If I knew what I was. Or,

more importantly, what

I was meant to be.

JP Pestana

9/8/2021

The Orange

today I peeled an orange more perfect

than I ever deserved

tasted it with tightly closed eyes

there are angels here someone shouts out

heavens gates are open waiting

in the shimmer light spreads unevenly

deeply in huddled roses

in the blur wretch of pain

a taste of her many small deaths

lingers in the salt

of one choking

burning

tear

JP Pestana

The Orange

7.28.2021

Sunday Drive

the sycamore's quiet embrace surprises 

maybe nothing more but the deep shade shadows

limbs over limbs little street close below 

this is nowhere in particular everywhere

a piece of someone's dream many dreams

insects misting to bits of cloud

soft slap of rhythmic flags

a mostly whole sky

from somewhere the solemn march of men

in pressed white shirts proceeds

they sing in Italian sing of weddings love death

point the way to a sun clawing

at a cold and waiting heaven

JPPestana

Sunday Drive

6.15.2021

The Red Gate

what does the bullfrog know

when the wind spins so green so vast so certain

in its existence

when it grasps at the edges 

of the secret pond  

its black clouds carelessly skimming

reeds bending to their knees

broken leaves trapped in thick mud

the deep throated frog calls in echoes to me

I look away 

in the distance 

the red gate remains 

as it always 

was

jppestana

The Red Gate

5.18.2021