A Frozen fire is what I am.
Waiting to embrace the what of what is.
Holding the promise of all that was foretold in the clouds of time and my mind.
Once in a moment of white noise, I saw all things clearly through youthful eyes.
Sitting by the well were hope springs eternal,
I pass the time imagining life outside the bonds of emotion.
As a Wolf feels Power without guilt,
Love without doubt.
So the torch is lit and a Phoenix I become.

Nicholas Finocchio

Noel 2016

The desert wind blows and sand stings her legs.

She screams and her breath becomes rapid.

The war torn ghetto is not her salvation.

But what she carries within will be.

Her eyes dilate as she sees without eyes.

The moment is frozen Sublime.

He caresses what she brings forth and a quickening rolls within him.

The stars align echoing Redemption.

Vujá dé

Nick Finocchio

Picture this if you will a crossroads upon a hill.

It's a choice which one to travel.

Either way they both unravel.

You choose left, but then think right
Neither now will fulfill your life.

For you made that choice the day you were conceived.

We must walk the line as we believe.

For its in your heart that the way points lie.

And so you'll travel them till the day you die.

Now again your standing still
At the crossroads upon the hill.

Nicholas Finocchio

She begins as a Scherzo in the darkness.

Soft as the scent of a flower in the desert.

She manifests in your dreams with a vengence that cannot be ignored.

Her scent pervades your waking thoughts, and drives your reason.

Her only desire that you drink her in so she can fill your veins with the warmth she promises.

Like Swedish ivy she extends her hand and wraps around yours as a lover.

You move she moves your Dark Mistress of the glass relentless in her pursuit.

Lest you loose yourself in her eyes you call her name "EGO" and shes Gone!

Flamma Constringitur.

Here there were some great drag races. No Not men in heels and sequin dresses.

No here there were Muscle cars with Turbo engines, double barreled carbs, wheels of chrome and shifting gears.

Speed and smoke ruled the night and the smell of fuel blurred your sight.

Hot women in halter tops and legs to there waved checkered flags making machines take flight!

Engines roared and shook the earth.

Adrenaline was a Rush and served all night.

The race was run and money earned.

The smell of gasoline punctuated the summer heat to the point of combustion!

Beer flowed fast and talk was cheap and sometimes cars ended up in heaps.

But the thrill of speed was intoxicating and revved the night.

You'd never know by looking now but Fuel and rubber burned upon this Ground.

Nicholas Finocchio

The air is frosted with a scent of wet fall leaves, the darkness a rich abyss of espresso as we enter the forest of deer.

A mist from the swamp thickens as our headlamps cut through it.

My son passes me thinking I've lost the trail, he becomes the pathfinder, a smile appears on my face in the darkness, I'm happy.

Our steps are synchronized, as the steam from our breath becomes part of the mist.

We cross the stream and reach my stand, now we separate wishing each other Good Hunt, may our arrows be true.

I wait and watch his headlamp gently dim through the dense forest. I contemplate the gift I'm experiencing.

I climb my stand, pull up my gear and settle in ancient weapon in hand truth in my heart all expectations gone.

Time passes and dawn breaks, birds feed, sunlight sweeps away the fog. I hear my son call for deer.

Hours pass, minds clear, time ceases.
You envision what you pursue,
the forest becomes your breath as you wait for your quarry.

As what some call barbarous an unnecessary endeavor in this day of supermarkets, internet and smart phones, lest we forget from which we came, I prefer the meditation of which I partake in and revel in its ability to keep me connected to the soul of the world with reverence and respect >>>====>

Nicholas Finocchio

I sip the wine but do not swallow.
I let it fall to the earth at my feet.
Memories of warm arid air return.
A small village of ancestors.
Cellars of wine fermenting.
Near weeping barrels.
Fragrant smells of grape.
Wood fires of grapevines and
olive branches mix with the
fragrances of the evening meal.
My Grandfathers voice faint yet forceful.
My Grandmothers voice scolding yet yielding.
The dance continues.
Night rolls in off the mountains carting the souls of those who have been here always.
Young women parade before the festival.
Wolves watch.
The old men sing and play cards at the cantina.
The sound of church bells chime.
I climb the stairs to the roof.
Humid air flows as a river from the vineyards below.
A place I know and carry in my veins.
The memories intoxicate me.
In Vino et Veritas.