Spent

Spent by Robert R. Ciccolini

A people's conscience so moribund

that the barefoot brothers cardboard pleas

stoke barely a nickel of reflection.

That cannot exhume more than a feigned

frame of pity

from the collective cesspool of rotting

schemes.

This is what has become of America.

Perched upon the shoulders

of yesterday's pioneers of equanimity,

lip service servants to the chocolate dipped

Jesus on a stick

shrink wrapped in the kitchen jar,

bleeding.

Pastel pedagogues bourbon soaked

promises will awaken naked beside

justice, trembling.

The masses will rise and press

their boots on the necks of the

genuflecting generals

knelt before the

altar of ambition

with one hand in the

alms basket,

clenching.

There will be riots and wars and

when the dust settles

underneath will be an old

slab with the words;

"Paper and metal killed

them all",

scratched with the

spent pen of

hope.

Rain

Rain by Robert R. Ciccolini

We were a sticky love.

From the gap

in your saccharin smile

I was vacuumed in.

Into your private tornado, spinning in your pain,

stirring fast in the hot rage soup;

Your father who was never there,

your complexion,

your weight,

the friends who betrayed,

no one gets you,

your weight.

If I hear about your weight one more time.

I'm dizzy in your weather,

I'm cloudy in your sun,

and your words are all spelled the same now.

Maybe you are too heavy,

maybe you need to rain.

Reckoning by Robert Ciccolini

Don't you know that the tide

is much louder now?

And I'm a little bit angry,

all of the cries that were muffled

are sharper here.

Don't you see that your greed

has expired the hopes

of the innocent children,

Can't you see that your paper

ain't worth a damn?

Scratching promises on

the shores of sand,

just a little bit deeper,

still the tide will erase

all your lines and tell.

Mother she is a little bit sick now,

your tearing her skin down,

scratching away at her eyes

has made you blind.

Now as the seas turn black

you wanna deal,

you want an ace on your shoulder.

Didn't you know that the house

wins in the end?

Masterpiece by Robert R. Ciccolini

You hold a shell,

beside your cheek,

and then you let it

speak.

The magic comes,

the roars reveal,

the secrets of

the deep.

The muffled cries,

consoling sighs,

vie for those

who seek.

And never die,

Or tell a lie,

unless the ear

is weak.

For fortune sits,

between the notes,

inside the sounds

compete.

And when you hear,

them disappear,

your journey is

complete.

So gather now,

the shell you feel,

will sing the song

you seek.

And when it stops,

and no one's left,

you'll know

the

masterpiece.

We Were One by Robert R. Ciccolini

I wanted to leave something for my kid:

So I started to write about some of the things

I thought she should know,

some of the things that left a mark.

Like when right after she was born

how I fiddled my pinky into her

delicate hand..

And how she clenched it so

tight and I felt so big that

there was nothing but us,

and how whatever I was

thinking stopped so it

could listen to her voice-

The one before language..

Before the abc's, before time,

before all the pain, before the

first hunger pang, the first

yearning she would ever

know undelivered..

When it was like my

finger was that cord for

a second and

we were one.

Kindergarten Poets by Robert R. Ciccolini

Some of them like to use

big, shiny, esoteric words that

leave you stuck somewhere-

lost.

But some of them understand,

and coax something out of you

like goosebumps or a tear- or just

plain awe. They understand the

richness in simple things:

a hug hello, honesty,

paste.

Like the paste my son used to stick

the sun to the sky in kindergarten.

It's different than the stuff that can hold

a truck in the air. It's more soft

like the running

hug hello and

the honest eyes of my son.

There's no cunning there.

So take all your big, shiny words,

all your sophisticated rant-

all your Kant.

Just leave me alone with my son.

His hugs and honest eyes,

his kindergarten sun

will

stick to me forever.

Out of Season by Robert Ciccolini

Come take a walk with me-

come for the ride..

I just want you to talk to me,

meet me outside,

of the trap that has sprung

from the floor

of the rage we hold onto.

So many times I have stood

with my ear to the door

of our lies,

I have tallied the score

we have etched on the board,

it's a tie when we both

are deceiving.

There's a box of humility

there on the shelf,

it's not easy to reach

or so I tell myself,

or maybe it's locked by

some unknown device,

if you go first I'll go twice.

So here we stand

we're all broken,

and all of the lies

we have spoken

continue to heave,

and the signs in our windows

read closed even

when we are open.

With my staff in my hand,

with my pride on my shoulder,

my feet in your reason,

our blood on the wall,

come now I beg you

the blizzard is gone,

all that's been left is this song.

Go now

don't ever look back,

you're no fool now to act

like the dream is alive

and you know,

the love that we knew

it was true,

now it's just

out of season.