Sound of a name may dissipate, and thorns can spike
the hand. And roads are lined, melted away, remembered
or forgotten, or never known.
Snowmen have come and gone.
Snow globe is shaken in a flurry, maybe fallen and done.

This I hear, somewhere through the falling snow, a name.
While you hold all your heart upon the grain of fingerprints,
even though this dark night you shall release a dying hand
like a petal, know by mercy there is much more to a soul
than what a hand could ever hold.



The ocean runs,
it runs
through our backyard
as a highway,
four lanes.

I keep my eyes closed
and just listen.

I just open the blinds
to that glisten.

I just take my raft
against the tide
like Tom Hanks
and paddle into the surf,
just to get to the store
for more suntan lotion.



Just a flat wall, that is all. But all of you make it a window. And we let you.
You may not be pied pipers, but rather you are like the makers of roller coasters,
all the while secure on track. There is risk, on your part and ours. After all,
will we show up? Will we stay? And if so, where will you take us? Will we let you?

Moviemakers, you are poets, painters, symphony conductors, voices, eyes, and ears, living the make believe. May you see the lives we entertain, the lives that are real.
Be here and sit with us. And we shall let you. Then, at the end, as your names run,
we would do it all again, and cast our hearts upon a flat wall.


Joe Bisicchia writes of our shared dynamic. An Honorable Mention recipient for the Fernando Rielo XXXII World Prize for Mystical Poetry, his works have appeared in numerous publications. His website is His works have or will soon appear in: Revue Post, Aji Magazine, Chronogram Magazine, The Paragon Press, Sentinel Literary Quarterly, Dark Wood, Writing Knights Press, Gimmick Press, The Wire’s Dream Magazine, FIVE:2:ONE, and Vox Poetica.