Joe Bisicchia writes of our shared dynamic. An Honorable Mention recipient for the Fernando Rielo XXXII World Prize for Mystical Poetry, he has written three published collections of poetry as well as over two hundred individual works that have been published in over one hundred publications. His fourth collection is forthcoming from Cyberwit. To see more of his work, visit www.widewide.world.

Hope

On a high untouchable shelf, 
hope prefers not to be still.
Like the mind, it needs not lint,

for a dusty brain goes dull.
It rather breathe with a thrill. 

So goes the trapeze.

That is hope.

So goes the trapeze.

So much deep definition
to a word such as hope.
But,

so goes the trapeze.

Waiting to be believed.

Some words are misconstrued.
Some words mope.
Not this one when twined
with trust.
Not as wishful thinking.
Not as pie in the sky. Nope.

Hope.

So goes the trapeze.

You hold out your hand.

I hold out my hand.

Brand & Culture

Of flags and sails,
let us know our cloth
and how our campaign is weaved.
Though countless strands in design,
it is our one thread and time.
We now define its meaning
as we stitch together by being
who we are.

Bird Bath

Let me be with you on this poetic line and roll,
our busy feet peddling upon the half pencil rolling
across the looking glass parchment, all our world. 
Hold my hand, lest I fall, lest I break my heart.

And when we’ve been here ten thousand years,
bright shining as the sun, let us look widely above.
Breaks the passing cloud, a glitter sure to be rain.
Let us ever still sing our psalms of praise with love.

Amazing, sky’s face, here at our feet now alight.
Might we reach God in the depth of the shallow?
Let us splash our tired wings so to swim the sky.
All the shattered stained glass is surely hallowed.

Suffice to say, sky is so wide and must be heavy.
How else to explain all the flattening of the ripples.
The older we are, maybe, the smaller we become,
and the farther from touching our distant lead point.

Yet, sky falls to conveniently meet us even here
in this mirrored way of Keats. Here, with no less
days to sing God’s praise, this Amazing Grace, 
than when we first begun to spread wide our arms, 

and reach upward to sky, simply a poetic line, writ

in water.