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.

Whole by Robert R. Ciccolini

Just one more grasp is all you want;

One more teacher, one more jaunt.

One more glass, more tonic

mass deception.

Morning tide won't rub

it off. You dug too deep,

you killed the only

moth left blind

attracted by your

burden.

Now you know

the way to hell

is riddled with

what preachers sell,

it's hallways are

adorned with

sacred burglars.

Now that you've matured

a bit the litanies

become the grist for

lions in the alters of

your temple.

And you know you

can't go back-

the bridge collapsed

into the gap.

You kneel amidst the

dust there, weeping,

whole.

Mind by Robert R. Ciccolini

Sacred clowns are dancing

on the stage when no one's watching. They are caught between the

darkness and the crack under the curtain.

Silly colored faces they arrange in paint and

pencil. They consider all the crevices and fill them in

your honor. They ignore the insurrection that sits

glaring in the corner, and continue carving smiles

under your eyes.

Riding in the shadows, they sneak in- no invitation.

They bring cocktails and pajamas and then party on the

doorstep. Holding hands with broken angels, breaking bread

with all the guests who were so kind..

Crazy clowns cavorting they run screaming in the hallways-

tossing smiles into the air and dashing to

the arms of demons. Crackling in the fire,

they smirk inside the smoke and mirrors

of your mind.

Fumblefingers Waltz by Robert Ciccolini

Heaven sent beams, stained

glass streams were dancing on the

penguins and ladies in lace.

Gossipping reds and I heard someone say;

"I give 'em two years".

Blinding aisles of obsequious smiles,

chewing hard on the cud of

tomorrows bills and,

"How much you give 'em, ya

think he'll ever hold a job?

"Poor girl could have done better".

I fulfilled the prophesy with a

note saying; "You can have this

and I'll take that and we'll get

on with our lives".

But I can still hear them.

And I wonder if mere banter

can conjure a truth,

or if the real magic is

being in it so long

the time melts into space,

and the clock gets stuck

somewhere between

"I do"

and the frail,

trembling hands

fumbling for a grip

on the banister of

life.