IN THE COMPANY OF CATS

Heaven,
if there is one,
is where my wife sleeps.
Not just among the angels,
but in the company
of cats.

Surely,
Florine’s heaven
is a kingdom
for all catdom,
with all the cats
from our past
sharing a nap
on her lap.

Forever
is easy there,
where poetry lives
and love creates
celestial truth.

Where waggish whiskers
and gossamer wings
flutter as one
through the air
of eternal friendship.

But what of dogs
like our Chagall?
There must be
a place for her
and the whimsical hearts
of all puppydom,
to nestle evermore
at the side
of a loving friend.

Truly,
nothing less
is a just reward
for having died
never once
having lied
about friendship.

For the less
than pure of heart
there is always
a hell, I suppose,
but who really knows.

Perhaps it isn’t
a sanctuary of silence;
a far-away
netherworld
on the high tide
of the other side.

Just maybe,
it exists only
in that void
where love
no longer has
a face or a name.

© JOHN PISCATELLA



.

MASTER OF MY REFLECTIONS

Like a mirage,
nothing appears
as it is.

Neither the trace
of my face
inside the looking glass,
nor the immaculate reflection
of my father’s
undeniable image
on the facade,
can account
for the mystifying
transformation
from being
to un-being.

From pure beginnings
drifting
to incomplete endings,
we are like falling leaves
in winter moonlight,
you and I.

The unrepeatable
heartbeats
of history
beat nevertheless,
suspended
between stillness
and the unfailing actuality
of stirring shadows.

Some images,
like motionless memories,
are shapeless silhouettes
in perpetual hibernation.

Others have structure,
like sculpted clay
molded from
an accumulation
of yesterdays.

I am
where I was
before I wasn’t
stopping time
in the mirror.

You are
where you were
before
the impenetrable glass
shattered
into pieces
of delicate dreams.

Timeless
images,
like life,
stand still
when I choose
to be master
of my reflections.

© JOHN PISCATELLA