Where Now

 

before if ever the return

there is the leaving

the backward glances

clamoring doubt of

 

what should have been 

the steady drumbeat

what could could not possibly be 

 

a heart emptied in the churning burn

 

a voice strained to the point of breaking 

 

broken then innocence broken

 

the startling hard knock on

the hollow door 

 of these

placeless

separations

 

 

JPPestana

Where Now

2.19.2022

 

Sunday Until It Isn't Hungary she is the most pagan of days her newspaper spread out on her prettiest lavender bed is already pummeled beaten back to pulp she has read every line twice she screams at the front page headline those damn hungarians are back at it again! they must be stopped! she howls yells madly like well you know everyone knows hungarians are too damn gregarious! all they want to do is have fun! Isn't there something we can do? he stirs his coffee with his finger 

 

stares at his finger the swirl pokes at the hole 

 

of his donut the other her cries out her louder heart wipes away years pent up wrenching tears for here outside her only window she sees

a coatless girl rocking side to side on a tired swing she following the sunniest of wings of bluebirds returning with her earliest tenderest spring JPPestana Sunday Until It Isn't Hungary 2.16.2022

JPPestana

Sunday Until It Isn't Hungary

2.16.2022

The Blackberry Patch it is the garden within the garden that guards the gnawing craving desires locked away in the deepest denials from a faint being that speaks shouts softest in the room of blue windows lavender and lace it goes unheard the ladies with thin delicate fingers rings and bright stones scintillate smile crookedly incompletely in the flaking silver mirrors wield their sterling berry spoons like miniature swords dusted with sugar dark juice and seed a half man with dull half closed eyes is immune outside

in he absently sips his coke and rum a husband on the verge of extinction hums a johnny mercer rocks a hammock like savannah shaded flowers huddle speak easily enough to one another ponder what it all means when women in bridge whisper their hushed such terrible secrets buried in their gothic 

 

lethal garden 

 

 of small talk tea and gin JPPestana The Blackberry Patch 11.16.2022

Some Other Poem

this bareness of space

makes you vaguely undefined uncertain

it stretches out ahead to some sorry version

of eternity

you never a worrier worry now

the roadside sign broken down faded welcomes you with

a grin to the town of Creation

here (or so they claim) was the

birthplace of light

butterflies leaving their sleepy mountain trees pueblos

head north for the border

vacqueros ride under their cloaking wings

their graceful horses race thunder ahead of

the thought of starlight

monarchs stunningly drape the moon all moons

in beauty incomparable

along the way birds chirp their encouragement

you see a chickadee sitting sweetly

on a weakly swaying bough

when distracted by burning skies

floating ash of stars

silent cries

of a dying

night

JPPestana

Some Other Poem

2.14.2022

 The Burial Ground

you

of all people see through 

what's left of me a remnant

of too many lives to remember

a pen low on ink irritates you

to no end  you press harder

toss it before it 

drives you to madness

but you keep it in a drawer

with the tarnished medals of saints

crushed overflowing with all

the other used unused things

buried in a drawer now

too full to

close

JPPestana

The Burial Ground

2.14.2022

Taos

 

I am old

I am afraid there is no denying it

although those I meet on the street

over coffee socially most often in Taos exclaim

with reassuringly gleeful smiles that

I am not old at all

I am only older

apparently being old is

no longer what it once was

old has become a thing

of the past replaced

by the much younger hipper older

excitedly I thank those wiser than me

with eyes sparkling behind thick glasses

I snap my arthritic fingers imagine combing

a few strands of hair dancing on air

and hurriedly crazily race away

looking for a new

kind of trouble

that only being older

than old can 

 

find

JPPestana

Taos

2.13.202

The Sin of Things

 

indulge me

 

 I am here to confess 

 

joyfully

 

unrepentantly

I love things

the one two three of

all things -ing

beginn-ing with

sing-ing and

danc-ing

and chant-ing

believe-ing trust-ing hear-ing hop-ing

lov-ing wish-ing feel-ing see-ing touching

laugh-ing sometime cry-ing

promis-ing proclaim-ing

condemn-ing

possess-ing

 -ing upon- ing

upon -ing

upon -ing

these unceas-ing little bells tinkl-ing

l -ing er-ing r- ing within me

and when there is noth-

ing there is still always someth-

ing in this and

every

sin-g

le 

end-

ing

JPPestana

Things