Thursday, December 30, 2021

It counts for everything, (For Kat)

There are celebrity poets who write for trophies and then there are the real poets who write for love.
Under a blanket of blue skies we hold fast to each other and dreams still unfulfilled.
I was hungry and thirsty and then you offered me sustenance with your kindness and unwavering support.

Why are so many people lackluster about their life choices when life offers unlimited possibilities to those willing to embrace the unknown?
I stared into the fire until I became the fire. Not believing in God makes no sense whatsoever because something most certainly created us.
I changed my mind in the changing room and when I looked into Kat’s eyes I knew I had finally arrived home.

There are celebrity poets who throw around the word brother like it actually means something and then there are the burned down poets who feed cheap sentiment to the dogs of war.
I’ve never been on a poetry tour and sometimes that makes me feel bad then I remember I’m on 24/7 and have no time to pack my bags or travel the many miles to another Covid bar or empty bookstore.
Doing the work is what defines us, not the accolades or chest thumping you experience once you come down from your ivory tower and meet the citizens on their own terms.

I think about the scene with the poppies in The Wizard of Oz and wonder if Kat would scratch me behind the ears if I were The Cowardly Lion?
There’s nothing to lose when life is on our side and death is mocking us from an unsafe distance.
Your loving words count for everything as I face another day of infamy in a potshot world of second chances.

I love you.

Charles Cicirella

Tuesday, December 28, 2021


We breed discontent with dreams of forfeiture
I didn’t know how to react; my bravery tattered and torn
No excuses cover the multitude of miles between us

You are a hologram I cannot process
A covenant defying logic by speaking in a language of hop bitters
Shrouded in secrecy our love making perverse as it satirizes our broken hearts

Your betrayal sickens me as I turn to the cold spaces inside my mind of deva vu and perverse rot
The storm underwhelming so I turn off the sound and watch the pictures invade our plastic wrapped solitude
Sometimes I don’t believe in rainbows then I look into the sun and the raindrops remind me I am a warrior

Loyal friends have never been a dime a dozen, no matter what we may fool ourselves into believing
Fair-weather only gets you as far as the next bout of loneliness plaguing you like a secret spilled so carelessly in the middle of another blood splattered, Sinatra night
Some believe I’m gifted while the truth is so much more ridiculous; covered in pangs of glitter and guilt

We breed disharmony when closing ourselves off to autumnal shifts
The seasons like a burial garment shelter us from the invulnerable winds of tyrannical self-loathing
No excuses will make me love you any longer as I fight from returning and escape this hell.

Charles Cicirella

Sunday, December 26, 2021

I do not understand time. 

Blasting through the stone edifice
Poisonous regret thickens the plot
I’m a lonesome, outdated pirate

The stained glass mirrors no tears
As Christ guards us like a shark
I slept with the enemy out of guilt

The clearing in the wood bleeds
An inferno of thirst beckons to us
Mary Magdalene the truest disciple

Bursting forth from this chrysalis
A new world revealed forthwith
The hoar frost befriends the fence.

Charles Cicirella

Friday, December 24, 2021

Lens (For Graham) 

The camera lens your father looked though is the same lens you look through.
Of course it’s a different lens that over time takes on new meanings and messages and still the camera is a totem, a relic of future lives and grandiose designs.
We foster breakthroughs in ourselves and others when we hold on as tight as we can while letting go of everything.

Your father went to prison because he wouldn’t give up a name because your father must have known what would happen as your father made an impossible, but edifying choice.
In the eye of the beholder lies a gift of water and stone, everything washes away or is driven to the sea.
When I’m open there is little I can do to keep the words from bursting forth like a dead man running through the moonlight.

We met on a lark, a chance meeting that reverberates as everything does; the planets and the dwarf planets too.
I texted her that I was sorry for hurting her and she replied thank you, why those words were so difficult to say to her I’ll never know.
The lens filters everything while shielding nothing from the sun. We must speak our minds before our minds quit on us and all that’s left is stardust.

Charles Cicirella