Biography of Joe Bisicchia
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 various publications. His website is www.widewide.world.
Joe Bisicchia’s works have or will soon appear in:
Philadelphia Stories, Muse-Pie Press, Qua Magazine, The Tipton Poetry Journal, Torrid Literature Journal, Diversion Press, The Wax Paper, The Path, The Poet’s Haven, Sheepshead Review, Verse-Virtual, Balloons Lit. Journal, The Inflectionist Review, Black Heart Magazine, Dark Matter Journal, Poets Collectives Anthologies, Poetic Matrix Press and others.
Joe Bisicchia Poems
Trees Can Fly
They spread their wings, and let go their things, and though seem to die,
Caveman knows God covers with leaves his fallen son,
The Incredible Shrinking Man
Judging by the droplet, a rivulet down my back in sweat, not sure what's more terrifying— the sight of the mounting spider,
Soles At The Hearth
Outside, just another frigid blizzard. And so, as all our cold trekked roads run adrift, our feet have come to this.
If only this. If only that. If only no regret.
Song Of The Mime
Silent clown, you let us laugh. And to you, the music we add.
Shape And Form
We know ourselves, the backs of our hands. Perhaps
Can't remember the clothes she wore, if any, but I can still see that bright pink sofa, puffed with slender curves,
How commonplace this job has become, carrying out the basket of the guillotine. Makes it easier, or so it sometimes seems.
Tree In The Forest
Sally sang. No one savored the sound. She settled having sung for herself
Picnic On A Monday In May
I had held my insides in my hands for sunlight to see like folded flag, red, white and blue.
We Hold On
Life can be a balance beam, on a bouncing leaf,
All Shook Up
Same sun ends, soon begun. That morning,
I know Isaiah Zeker,1909-1921. Quick math. Kid was 12 when he gained his stone. He's been buried for, what, let me think, my math ain't great, a lot of years,
I know Isaiah Zeker,1909-1921.
Quick math. Kid was 12 when he gained his stone.
He's been buried for, what, let me think,
my math ain't great, a lot of years,
or about as long as I could think.
Acourse, he and I, we never did meet. Fishly, I mean.
Pass him as I walk down the street. He ain't alone.
There's a Floyd Smith,1866-1906, a baby named Joan.