peter-piccolomini
I was born in Leominster, Mass on a cold day. It was a small manufacturing town mainly made up of Italians and French. Where the river that runs through it is filthy like the worst day in hell. In the early 1970's, my family moved to Southern Indiana in a dreary and desolate town called Newburgh on the Ohio River. There was no salami or fresh Italian bread at the grocery, and the Bruins were not on T.V., so we hated it there. I realized I was a poet by age 9 on a bus ride coming home from elem.school. I discovered what it felt like to live where there was a certain chill in the air in late autumn, a definite darkness, and a countryside filled with beautiful corn fields. I loved to daydream. Originally,I had no friends, so I couldn't wait to get home and write about my displacement in life. I felt empowered, not self pity. My life is a rough draft, so I wanted to share that with you here. And no matter what happens in my life - Still, I rise.
When standing still
I can see you have arrived
Again
in such a subtle state
But thoughtful and dynamic
deeper and more frightening
Into something so uninterrupted,
in all your bright
and silent lights
I fight against
your bitter wind
I want you to know that
Your landscape amazes me
with your city lights flickering
In the background
streaks of vibrant orange
fragments of yellow
and gray
descending
and tranquil
the dampness tingling
by my fingertips
I feel your presence
So complete
And personal
I understand and
I am not afraid
of your consistency
Nor do I plan on changing this
knowing
the growing fear
That someday
everything
might turn to ice
Guided by the cold
I wait for you
I don’t expect you to answer
that frigid time when everything
is consumed by the anticipation of
complete darkness
Everything emerges
I will give you a chance
Though I am not convinced
you are in control
The world around me
makes me think
You’ll understand
no hope that you
will stay long
or why this has been created
without warning
Wandering
through time
So thankful for your energy
so pure and precise
forcing me to turn away
Jun 14, 2019
Jun 14, 2019 at 12:45 PM UTC
Usually I just shy away
In all its gut wrenching circumstances
Why would I let it hurt me
The way the soul feels when on the mend
The finality of it all
So much hope in this world,
Like love in the summer
Warm and comfortable
The constant ringing in my ears
The glow on my face
That desperate feeling
All giddy and nervous
and absent minded
Don’t I
have the power to explain
what I’m going through
I may learn from my own obvious mistakes
Maybe so
But don’t I
control when
and where
Love exists
And if it does
Don’t I
Know the outcome exists
In ways that hurt the soul
So profoundly
Don’t I control how and why
Leaving me lost
Of hope
Keeping me dragging
And defeated
shall I say
Like death
And loss
Don’t I
Get to decide
If the option is there
allowing to take part in the end
you never know
If it – and by it- I mean love
Dramatic and incurable
Astounding and immeasurable
To the heart
May never come around again.
Summer, 2019
Jun 12, 2019
Jun 12, 2019 at 3:35 PM UTC
For those who studied the great Poet from New Jersey, William Carlos Williams, and shared in his quest to write about subject matter that concentrated on everyday circumstances of life, and being passionate about the life and lives of everyday people,
I share this one. Enjoy poetry by reading aloud!
Today
Like every day
I wake
Roll over
Notice my
My wife has
left earlier than
Me for work
For a moment
I sleep on her side
Smelling her scent
On the pillow
I shower
Brush my teeth
Look in the mirror
In my
Closet I start
Staring at
My shirts
My pants
I try to
Decide
on a color
I sit on the bed
to put on my
Socks
I have placed a photo
Of my father
Down by my end table
Under a book
That shows us
Being happy
I dress
Make my
Way downstairs
Open the front
Door and
Drink coffee
I walk
To the train
wait at the end
By myself
It's cold today
I cover my head
Dream that I could be
Somewhere else
But on this train line
It seems disturbing
To see
tree limbs
Swamp land
Graffiti on concrete
Walls
downed
Power lines
And
Common
Reeds
Persist
I see shadows
I feel my soul
I know
I'm late
Again
no one cares
I figure
I will go on
Working
In solitude
And constant dredging
tired
Of viewing this
Toxic land
And grotesque
Water
Where
There is no ability
To grow
Or feel
how normal
This is
Nov 21, 2017
Nov 21, 2017 at 11:02 AM UTC
In autumn
while dreaming
you will see that
i will follow you
with chilling winds
and dark
northern clouds
surrounding me,
i evolved.
looking into my
darkness
was a reminder
of where I’ve been,
of how powerful
a season can leave
so much hidden in
the subconscious
shadow
searching
for meaning,
i have awoken
to see
my imbalance
and a heart
that needs healing.
I chose to run
once lost at love
knowing there
is hatred in the world.
Forgiveness
to make it right,
searching
for meaning
in definition
i will heal during
life-changing events,
confirming that
i will not break
in a world made of glass.
© Peter Piccolomini, 2016
Oct 6, 2016
Oct 6, 2016 at 9:52 PM UTC
Would a voice in heaven
sound beautiful
and inviting
or serious,
constant
and still
maybe sounds of a harp
possibly playing atop
pristine
waters
or Pavarotti singing
up in the mountains
or would it be a moan,
with intention
and focus
maybe just a recording
over loud and annoying
speakers
with instructions
and a schedule
maybe if I am lucky
I would hear
My father’s voice
telling me how great it is
but sounding nostalgic
and homesick
a plea for his soft leather chair
wearing his hounds tooth hat
smoking his hand crafted pipe
if death could speak
what issues would it bring up
rehashing troubled times
would this voice
guarantee pearly gates
willing
It beckons me,
conflicted with temptation
when your soul knows
that this is
a voice not
from any place
but from
the best place
where Jesus takes us
to reach
for something
knowing doubts exist
that you would rise
to be with us again
July, 2013 (RIP Dad) In memory of C. Dan Piccolomini
Sep 15, 2016
Sep 15, 2016 at 6:05 PM UTC
I wrote this after reading some John Ashbery and James Cavanaugh, because well, I wanted to-- and they are different writers offering many options and feelings or no feelings at all.
“I am one of the searchers. There are, I believe, millions of us.
We are not unhappy, but neither are we really content.
We continue to explore life, hoping to uncover its ultimate secret.
– James Cavanaugh
Solution to a View
What does it mean
To wander into
concrete places
or an open field
To dangle time
like the wizard of waste
something floats
all around me
and is serious
but it could be
nothing
To be selfish
And lonely
Searching
Through hills
And
unsure
of the surprises
in a melted state
over
discouragement
And
bewilderment of
why I even cared about the
View
after it rained
and after it
displayed
open access
to death
or
a dream
or my future
noticeable and
unwanted
and unsure
chills
run through my veins
and aching bones
of the likelihood of this
memory
To these hills
hands held high
look down now on
empty streets
broken and mended
like details of a
mirror
and out of respect
for the view
©copyright 2016, Peter Piccolomini
Sep 2, 2016
Sep 2, 2016 at 1:49 PM UTC
I would hope
that no one would read my mind
or hold on to a grudge
But what is left
not in final meaning
but in my explanation
of my open wounds
My heart floats
on ice
in hills
Basking on spreadsheets
And analysis
I am not wanted
Knowing that
Something
Ominous
Hangs
above me,
and confides in me
I am unattached
Just like death
Or when autumn
Dies quickly
Or your soul
stays around
Without warning
my hands held
to open skies
I turn and walk away
soaked in my own memory
Aug 29, 2016
Aug 29, 2016 at 2:49 PM UTC
When trees out in the open field
Become covered
From heavy snow
Limbs start to droop and
Break
And some how speak to me
When blue/gray shadows emerge
When the weeping begins
and ends
So I Stop here now
and stand still
Frozen
It’s dark
Blackbirds sit and stare,
It’s not time
Though I climb over high walls
Wanting,
To pass this time again
When unchartered roads are taken
When white woven pearl doors open
I am sunken
Yet saved
able to dream
With no Regrets
Of this sudden defeat
When the ocean accepts my ashes
Aug 28, 2016
Aug 28, 2016 at 8:18 PM UTC
Our Sycamore is 90 years old, but comforts us
Dark shadows appear
In odd places
Winter lingers in
Unfinished space
Where the area is damp, glib
Raw and slippery
The dining room sits and waits
For someone
Walls are painted a different color
I am in the wrong place
I stand
Waiting for nothing
This house, too still
Quietly mourns the loss
I can't see the light
I can’t communicate
I can't walk on water
I can see but I can't feel
I lock the door behind me
And share nothing,
And wait here
in this dark shadow
Awkward and powerful.
Aug 28, 2016
Aug 28, 2016 at 9:10 AM UTC