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When standing still  
I can see you have arrived
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
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
the growing fear
That someday
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
through time
So thankful for your energy
so pure and precise
forcing me to turn away
this poem is from the forthcoming publication called "Under the Sycamore," a collection of poems by Peter Piccolomini and book cover design and illustrations by New York Graphic Designer & Photographer Anastasia Wingate
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
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!

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
on a color

I sit on the bed
to put on my
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
Power lines

I see shadows
I feel my soul
I know
I'm late

no one cares
I figure
I will go on
In solitude
And constant dredging
Of viewing this
Toxic land
And grotesque
There is no ability
To grow
Or feel
how normal
This is
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
was a reminder
of where I’ve been,
of how powerful
a season can leave
so much hidden in
the subconscious
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.
to make it right,
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
Would a voice in heaven
sound beautiful
and inviting
or serious,
and still
maybe sounds of a harp
possibly playing atop
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  
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
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
Life changing events like a death can be more difficult to share but easy to write about. Many late nights staying up thinking that you can truly believe in the memory.  It is so vivid that you have to let it be - but it is in the description and disbelief that is so real to me.  A matter of Will.
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
To be selfish
And lonely
Through hills
of the surprises
in a melted state
bewilderment of
why I even cared about the
after it rained
and after it
open access  
to death
a dream
or my future
noticeable and
and unsure
run through my veins
and aching bones
of the likelihood of this
To these hills
hands held high
look down now on
empty streets
broken and mended
like details of a
and out of respect
for the view

©copyright 2016, Peter Piccolomini
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
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
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