MY WONDROUS WORLD

My walls
are filled
with miles
of moon-bathed
dream smiles
that embrace me
dawn through dusk.

My doorways
with wall-to-wall whispers
of silent footsteps
that walk with me
sooner or later.

Her rhythm,
like the phases
of the moon
or the truth
of tides,
is a labyrinth
of subtleties
imprinted
on my memory
like an unfinished story
that writes itself.

Though
only a brief sunbeam
shimmering
in the warmth
of fused destinies,
the inner light
of the energy
she fashioned
fashions me.

Ever the voice
of a single
Siamese soul
floating
beneath words
wound round
with poetry,
the love she molded
molded me
from the depth
of a heart
to the heart
of perpetual adoration.

Such
is the nature
of my wondrous world
too soundless to hear
by anyone
but me.

© JOHN PISCATELLA

SOMEWHERE IN CHINA

Like a character
in a play,
I am a fragment
of my memory.

As the day
draws new images
on nomadic canvases,
I sculpt galleries
of timeless faces
in the motionless spaces
between entering and leaving
the unmistakable transparency
of an unknown world
as beautiful as the moon.

Listening with my eyes
to the essence
beneath the surface
of every turn,
from nowhere
to somewhere
in China,
I exchange secrets
and sweet memories
with the poetry
of the streets
and the words
in my pen.

Like threads
from which it was woven,
we are all a part
of the same blanket
that covers the earth
and warms
miles and miles
of infinite smiles
with a trickle of sweetness,
like jasmine
in a summer garden.

This is a world
of exquisite warmth
that is mine
for a little while
before I hear her voice
among the angels.

© JOHN PISCATELLA