ON A SATURDAY NIGHT

Like a hummingbird,
floating through the air,
so does the music
born in Havana.

Weaned on the rhythm of bongos
and the sound of
icy mojitos quivering
in tall thin glasses,
the night club was alive,
as interconnected silhouettes
danced in the shadows
like poetry of motion,
in search of the magic of joy
on a Saturday night.

Life shapes itself,
turning on a dime,
and joy was quickly
swallowed by grief,
for those who witnessed
the fragility of life,
in a tragic scene
taking place in real time,
in a loft,
that hovered above the dance floor.

Paramedics, exuding characteristic calm,
were draped over a prostrate body,
trying, with the utmost of urgency,
to prevent one soul
from slipping into everlasting invisibility.

Soon they all disappeared in the darkness,
through the cracks of time,
awakening memories of what
can be lost in the blink of an eye.

I was a reluctant voyeur,
but easily mesmerized
by the mystery
of it all,
the drama...
and will always wonder
if the light from a stranger's life
continued to shine on Sunday.

I was intoxicated by the surrealism,
worthy of a Dali painting,
and by the uncanny inability
of the candle of life
to maintain a continual flame,
forever subject to the whims
of an indifferent breeze.

Equally as fascinating
is what little difference
it made to most,
and how profound a consequence
it was for some, but either way,
the dancers continued
to move like a whirlwind;
the music was luminous in the darkness.

The band played on,

and the drums...

never missed a beat.

© JOHN PISCATELLA

SITTING ALONE IN THE MOONLIGHT

Everyone
has to find
his own way to survive
sitting alone in the moonlight.

A soul is either liberated
by the reflections
of an incandescent moon
awash in the shimmering light,
or adrift
between two worlds,
compelled
to surrender in silence to the night
and the demons of disappointment.

I hold my fate
in my own hands,
as do we all,
and can drift
with purified intentions,
to the safety of invisibility
and remain lost in my own thoughts,
or embrace the sweetness
of the world
she left me,
rich with the fragrance
of her passion for life,
to invent new memories
that one day will greet me
as old friends.

What drives me to look forward
is what saves me.
The music I hear in the air,
a haunting melody of
intricate simplicity,
becomes recognizable,
belonging only to her,
to her quiet heart
and gentle spirit.

I look to the future with wonderment,
but I only feel anchored
when the door to the past
remains slightly ajar.


© JOHN PISCATELLA

THE GARDEN

The garden is my salvation,
my sanctuary.

A graceful river of sun and soil,
sculpted by the waters
of time and silent motion,
where the supple shadows of life
are forgotten in winter,
but remembered in spring.

Dancing with wild abandon
in beams of crystal sunlight
once reflected from her eyes,
they ripple like waves
in an endless sea of music,
rolling onto shore
and singing only to me,
in perfect harmony,
synchronized
with crystaline precision
to the beating
of my own heart.

She is the soul of the garden.
The love of my life.
My Queen...
and I am the faithful gardener,
keeper of her unspoken dreams.

It is hard to grow old alone,
but living in the quiet beauty
of the garden,
her presence wrapped around me
like a blanket,
time stands still,
and we are young again,
drawn together
by the flowers of destiny,
and the clarity of solitude.


© JOHN PISCATELLA

I WALK WITH HER AMONG THE IMAGES

Once you have memories
they never leave,
but often lose lucidity
with the distance
of a dream.

Floating
with the filtered light of time,
they hide
in silent shadows
and appear
with umpredictable randomness,
like sudden bursts of color
moving from an artists
pallette to a patient canvas
to brighten a somber sky
or silence the scent of daylight.
Although barely visible,
I cling to those visions
like a lifeline.

Drifting away from myself,
I walk with her among the images,
as they unfold and refold,
like a fan,
to reveal a myriad of treasures,
pirated from a lifetime
of living.

Today
the ice is thin beneath me.
Tomorrow
the ground will be solid
where I stand.

In between
is the natural rythm of life,
which I will find
when it is ready to be found.

Until then,
I keep.
Until then,
I walk with her among the images.


© JOHN PISCATELLA

MY FLORINE LIVES HERE

There was stillness in the air
over the island of Mainau,
the island of flowers
in Lake Constance,
the Bodensee
to the native German.

In autumn's transparency,
sculpted with the simplicity
of a windless sky,
something new and exciting
was unfolding,
and this paradise of flowers
would never be the same again.

On the margins of illusion,
dancing between the blooms
and the shadows,
came a sudden gust of wind
that wasn't there before.

The richness
of a captivating fragrance
encircled the island,
unveiling to all
what was taking place.

An essence so rare of a flower
of incomprehensible value,
whose marrow enhances the quality
of all living things,
was in the mist,
and here to stay
in this botanical garden of Eden.

Living in an interconnectness
with the core of a pink rose,
a fragrant floribunda
worthy of her company,
her petals,
floating upward to shine
with the brillance
of the night sky,
are destined for eternal beauty.

My Florine lives here.
The name of the rose is Sweetheart.

My Florine lives here.

© JOHN PISCATELLA

LONELY FOR YOUR MUSIC

Standing in front
of Mozarts house
in the Old City of Salsburg,
under the circle
of the moon,
I felt his presence,
but I felt yours more.

I am always lonely
for your music,
but on this night,
in a concert hall
baroque in style,
where Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart
performed with his father
over 200 years ago,
a piano and a 300 year old violin
made by Antonio Stradivari,
sang Mozart's melody
with a clear voice,
worthy of your elegance
and gentle spirit
that was one with the night.

The world was silent
the day you died,
but on this night,
the sky was filled with music
of symphonic intensity,
rich with your fragrance,
anchored by your spirit,
conquered by your heart.

© JOHN PISCATELLA

THE RHEINFALLE

The setting,
the Rhinefalle to the local Swiss,
was surreal,
a fitting subject
for the classic romance novel
that you loved so well.

The rapids of the Rhine river,
wild with reckless abandon,
had the intoxicating embrace of risk.

Moving on their own axis,
they refused containment,
slipping between the rock crevasses
to give birth to cascading waterfalls
that pulsed with the rythm of time
and the purity of history.

In the distance,
high on a hill,
immersed in perfect stillness
under an immovable sky,
stood a towering castle...
worthy of your imagination.

Hovering above the misty foam
that danced like teardrops
from a broken heart,
the retreat was a mystery
reserved to itself.

Under the filtered light
of a seasoned spruce tree,
your dust was cast
to become one
with the living earth,
for time immemorial.

The novel shapes itself,
one chapter ending,
the other beginning.

The heroine
always returning home
to center stage.

My lady is home.

© JOHN PISCATELLA

WE WALK AS ONE

You are always with me...
neither arriving nor departing...
and today,
among tranquil pines
and filtered sunlight,
we walk as one
on a path through the Austrian woods.

Immersed in a soundscape
clarified by solitude
and crystal silence,
we climbed to the clouds,
high enough
to imagine flight.

We were almost lost,
but always free
like the Alpine peaks
of Austria and Switzerland,
now before us
in all their majesty...

or the German foothills below us,
inundated with varigated tints and hues
that burned like a nostalgic warmth
from a mothers soul.

As we walk on this ritual of passage,
the beauty of life does not escape me,
but...

drifting from attention to reflection,
from enchantment to reality...

all seems trivial in comparison
to the loss of your smile,
the fiery reflection of your eyes,
the sound of your laughter,
and the goodness
of a pure heart.

Truth can not be denied.
The reality is:
the world was just more credible
with you in it.

© JOHN PISCATELLA