Joe Bisicchia


Some of this is make believe.
Or at least, it starts that way,
as a faraway dream,
a dream of all that we can be.
So it is inside every me.

Life ain’t always easy.
In fact, it’s often quite stinky
Rhymes often fail at the line,
and the splendid sounds
often drift far out of bounds.

But, let this reality be—
win or lose,
now is now.

Let us feel the glory of purpose,
of worth,
of team.
This is far more than just sport.
Or, so it can seem.

Maybe it strikes deep at our core,
underneath our seams.
Maybe it’s love of life.
That pure.
Simple as life shared,
you and me.


I am speed.

I want
to run

as if all I could do
is make earth move,
and all of its breeze
be what I breathe
down the street
toward home.

Catch Daddy!

We see each other.
Ball bounces.

Busy world
hard to hold,
hard to let go.

Me to him,
him to me,
again and again.

Again and again,
him to me,
me to him.

Hard to let go,
hard to hold
busy world.

Ball bounces.
We see each other.

Monte Carlo

In the mirage,
in sun’s bending of street,
when the racing stripe

warps wrinkled
as clouds pass as do all images,
as all ephemeral messages,

as all invitations do to inspire us to
look through penetrable haze
on the way to the sun and beyond,

we shield our face,
see our way,
and race.

Of Regret

If only this.
If only that.
If only
no regret.

Our errors,
our mistakes,
mount the cold fact.

Game never stays still.
Such is life.
It goes as it will.
And we react.

It goes.
And we make.
We overcome.
And we make.

Joe Bisicchia writes of our shared spiritual dynamic. An Honorable Mention recipient for the Fernando Rielo XXXII World Prize for Mystical Poetry, his works have appeared in The Poet’s Haven, Sheepshead Review, Balloons Lit. Journal, The Inflectionist Review, Black Heart Magazine, Dark Matter Journal, Poets Collectives Anthologies, and others. The current public affairs professional in New Jersey is a former award winning television host who also taught high school English. His website is and he is on Twitter @TheB_Line

John Grey


Pink sheets of pleasure
open like petals,
float across bare knees.

My head adrift in pillow,
yours warming my naked chest,
serenity keeps us in mind
for moments like this.

Love-making over,
I taste the wine of the results,
mouth the word “heaven”
to the lingering desire.

Can a moment be too iridescent?
Can it overtake, become the all-over mood?

I’ve heard that too much of a good thing
is as toxic as belladonna berries.
So if I grow too happy,
can sadness be my only cure?
If I have everything,
should I hold out for nothing?

They’d have me pray for an ache or two
to worry my smugness.
Or a lightning strike, an earthquake,
anything to singe or rumble
my contentment.

So have I need of disappointment, upset,
unwanted intrusion, disaster, grief, bitterness,
sickness, anger, disgrace, dementia or dread?
Quite frankly, no.
But thanks for never asking.



Her apartment doesn’t pull rank.
It’s on the ground floor
hut, from what I’ve seen of it,
it’s no bigger, no smaller,
than mine at the top of the stairs.

She always complains
that she has no one to help her
and the handymen she hires
to fix a leaking tap.
to patch dry wall,
charge prices near to extortion.
I’m always cleaning, she says.
And when I’m done,
it’s time to start over.

She’s always up when I come home,
no matter the time of night.
And she leaves her door open.
The doings of her tenants
are her only joy.

Her couch is where she collapses
at the end of another tiring day.
Her favorite programs
keep watch over her
as she eats whatever’s handy
from crackers and cheese
to frosting straight from the can.

on my way downstairs
I catch a glimpse of her
in the parlor, munching on potato chips.
the crumbs sticking to her robe like lint.

She sees me, says “this is the first chance
I’ve had to sit down all day.”
Her eyes are red, her moustache brown.
The blue glow of the television
unmasks her double chin.



You’re comfortable in those jeans,
faded blue, coffee stained,
ragged at the knees,
frayed at the ankles.

You figure you can get
another year out of them at least.

It’s different with men.
When the shininess wears off,
there’s nothing keeping you
from tossing them in the garbage.

Not that you’re delusional.
You follow the abrading, tattering,
of your face, your body,
in the mirror.

You wear the inevitable well
but how many more years
do you give it?

And those men,
picking themselves up out
of the breakfast scraps
and stumbling for the door…
how long before you whisper
that dreaded word, “Stay.”

But, for now, those jeans
make for a body-hugging denim comfort zone.
They slip over your knees, your hips.
And they don’t give you away.


John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in New Plains Review, South Carolina Review, Gargoyle and Silkworm work upcoming in Big Muddy Review, Cape Rock and Spoon River Poetry Review.



Traveling and Events


We have been on the road for a few weeks.  We went to the Associated Writing Programs (AWP) Conference and Book Fair April 1 & 2 in Los Angeles, my daughter Kiirsti joined me and we met a lot of good people.  Kim Shuck, Joe Milosch and Brandon Cesmat came by; Shadab Hashmi was on a panel and she stopped by to sign books.  We had a poster and some videos of Francisco Alarcon reading from his book Borderless Butterflies/Mariposa sin fronteras. So many people came by who knew and loved Francisco; many old friends, ex-students of his and folks who heard about his passing. Really this was the highlight of the event, just knowing how much people cared for this amazing man.

I went from there to San Diego to visit family and my 2 grandsons Connor, turning 4, and Logan 9 months.  Stayed with Tomas Gayton my dear friend, met up with Art Campbell, Joe Milosch, Brandon Cesmat; Jack, James and Ed, wonderful old friends and Chris Vannoy, master of Facebook and great poet.  Listened to Jazz, ate good food, had good lattes at Rebecca’s Coffee House every morning, listened to some good poetry.  All a good time.


Coming up in the SF Bay Area 2 great book events:

Oakland Book Festival Sunday May 22, 11am to 6pm

Downtown Oakland at City Hall and Frank Ogawa Plaza (in front of City Hall)

We’ll be there with a Booth and our books, come by and say hello if you in the area.


Also in the Bay Area:

Bay Area Book Festival June 4 & 5, 10am to 6pm both days (this is a big event)

Downtown Berkeley streets (I’ll send out more information on where we will have our booth).

We’ll be there with a Booth and our books, come by and say hello if you’re in the area.