MEMORY HOUSE

Locked away
in my memory house,
behind velvety doors
of penetrating silence,
are liquid gold reflections
of limitless energy
glowing brightly,
like shards of love-light
beneath a crescent moon.

Memory is a gift;
like knowing someone
of permanent tenderness
or being loved
from the beginning;
like having a purpose
or growing comfortable
in your own skin.

Memories,
greater than the depth
of an orchid or a rose,
like the mother of my spirit
or the sister of my soul,
channel me dreamlike
to the center
of my center,
before we were enormous
together,
before I was me.

© JOHN PISCATELLA

UNCHARTED CHOICES

Better that our time here
be elastic and fully stretched
by the eroticism
of uncharted choices
and the inevitability of change,
than to be sheltered
and protected from passion
by spiritless imagination
and the certainty
of static moments.

Both the soul delicate
and the beautiful mind,
if not nurtured by
magnetically fascinating fragments
of unanticipated pleasures
that jump over the familiar,
will waste away
and dissipate,
like still rain
in hardened hands.

Perhaps,
like children,
we only remain
interesting to ourselves
when we are
on the edge of adventure,
where everything around us
is slightly enlarged,
where we chase our dreams
with uncertain steps.

© JOHN PISCATELLA