THE PATIENCE OF HER POETRY

The more I travel,
the more intriguing
a person I become,
not necessarily to those around me,
but to myself.

Although I can hardly recognize
my reflection in the mirror,
I look beyond age and gravity
to see what she saw in me,
and I like what I see
because I am a reflection of her.

As a skilled baker
with artistry and patience,
she would take organic ingredients,
often coarse in texture and hard to digest,
knead them gently without friction,
and create a symphony of flavors
to mellow over time,
and when called for,
to rise to the occasion.
The ingredients became liberally diverse,
the recipes creatively unique,
and the final product, like good art,
reflected complexity and simplicity
at the same time.

Florine, like the artist
and the traveler, had a need
to be in motion, and I had a need
to be at her side,
connected to the world
and to the circle of life
through the purity of her eyes.

With a sweetness
steeped in authenticity and natural vivacity,
her heart was open to all in need of warmth
to blanket any void lingering
between daylight and darkness.

If I am interesting to others
as well as to myself,
it is because she cultivated
the flowers within me,
and my garden,
now in full bloom
is available for all to see...

through the patience
of her poetry.

© JOHN PISCATELLA

SPINNING TO NOWHERE

Like ricotta cheese
in a manicotti shell,
I am stuffed like cannelloni
into pricey bicycle shorts
to sit on a stationary bike
accompanied
by like minded disciples
half my age,
for an hour ride
to absolutely nowhere.

Spinning,
in a choreographed IPOD moment,
to a downloaded musical beat
that was born and weaned in Africa,
my Tony Bennett feet
never leave my bike pedals,
but my mind wanders the world,
and I never travel alone.

We explored Portugal, Spain,
and the islands of the Carribean
before we drove our old Mercedes
from Connecticut to California,
breaking down, only once,
in Abilene Texas, a dry town,
where we were obsessed
with the absence of ice cold beer
for three days.

We rented a little redwood cottage in La Jolla,
a block from the ocean,
and lived with our cat, Picasso,
for two incredible years
until a patina of mildew
hovered over us
and the tomato plants,
driving us inland
to chase the sun.

Although we considered ourselves married
from the first moment we met,
we not only took the next step in 1975,
we bought a house with a view
from Mexico to Pacific Beach.
Then we adopted our dog Chagall,
surrounded ourselves
with flowers, gardens, and cats,
and lived out our dream in full color.

But today is not a dream,
and my instructor just reminded me
that I should spin faster,
from my core,
with complete 360 degree motion.

I am now in the zone,
at least I appear so,
but I slip away again,
to savor memories from,
Africa, smiles from Asia,
and celebrations of laughter
from Europe, all shared
with my best friend.

The end is in sight,
the hour nearly over,
and I return to reality;
to what is,
rather than what was.

My bike hasn't moved,
but I spanned almost forty years
in the course of an hour,
and will travel with her
again and again,
from class to class...
Spinning,
with extreme enthusiasm...

to absolutely nowhere.

© JOHN PISCATELLA

DREAM DANCE

Nothing can explain
what takes place
when I dance.
Perhaps I dance
because I dream
that I dance
into the cells of your body.

Untethered to time,
I breathe for two,
connected as one
to the high tide
of a solitary orbit.
We are united
not only by silent fingertips,
but by a seductive rhapsody,
long forgotten
but now remembered.
A consummate joy is born
and immersed
in the measureless freedom
of purified,
unadulterated movement.

The air is rich
with the fragrance of rhythm
and the tempo of youth,
jostled by memories
from another time and place.

Music unlocks my soul.
Dance unlocks my passion.
Both are poured out
like fine wine,
in a syncopated pattern
of effortless undulations
that evolve in the fullness of time,
from the mesh of my being,
beyond my body's edge,
to the core of your shadow.

I always listen for your music,
but in its absence, I dream,

and when I dream,
we are one again.

When I dream...
we dance.

© JOHN PISCATELLA

THE GIFT

She is,
and always has been,
a poem waiting to be written.

I am,
but never was,
a messenger of words,
honored to be
keeper of her dreams.

Navigating between two worlds,
I search for answers
to questions
that have yet to be born.

Pen to paper,
I feel her presence,
her face frozen in time
like her picture
on my nightstand
that I greet with a kiss
at daybreak,
and echo at day's end.

Once again,
Florine has given me a great gift.
She has expanded my boundaries.
In searching for her voice,
I have not only discovered my own,
I have found a purpose
to move forward.

My universe is no longer monochromatic.
It is richly scented
with the colors of her life,
a kaleidoscope of hues and tints,
both beautiful and sad
at the same time.

Her life is my palette,
from which I paint
words on a page,
vivid as her essence,
free as her spirit,
effortless as her love.

She is not only a poem,
a magnified prism
of multicolored images,
she is the gift
we all search for,
but few are fortunate to find.

She is the treasure
at the beginning
and at the end
of my rainbow.


© JOHN PISCATELLA