Joe's Poetry

Standing on a Bridge

The unfeeling, uncaring steel neath my hand

Warms ever so slightly because

I've poured out the warmth of my life while I stand

Remembering who I once was.

I wish that my handprint of warmth may remain

To be there for those passing by,

This symbol of hope could be just what sustains

Their will to continue the fight.

So please little handprint burn warm and burn bright,

Alone on this handrail of steel.

Be there for the person who needs you tonight

And give them the love that I feel.

(Oct. 22, 2025)

Beauty in the Drear

Do you ever see the beauty in the drear?

Searching for a hope amongst the fear?

Analyze your face within the mirror

To find the joy?

Are you one who always looks for deeper meaning?

Thinking thoughts all dusty that require cleaning?

Forces all around are always intervening

In your daily life?

Thinkers, thunkers,

Drinkers, drunkards,

All our days are swiftly numbered.

Have you ever walked a road that’s never traveled?

Spent your time locked in the corner, safe and castled?

Taken story after story and unraveled

The parts like you?

Are the cracks along the wall a map for learning?

Staring off into the woods, heart full of yearning?

Find yourself upon the throne, your stomach churning

With anxious thoughts?

Thinkers, thunkers,

Drinkers, drunkards,

All our days are swiftly numbered.

Fallen leaves and centipedes and breezy, freshened air,

Sprouting weeds among the eaves, a bike that needs repair,

Robins sing while on the wing with cardinals’ swift reply—

See the beauty in the drear before at last you die.

(Feb. 16, 2026)

New Orleans: December 14-22, 2025

Day 0

Cowboy church and orange slices,

Fluctuating fueling prices.

Conversations half a dream,

Scuff-ed glasses blocking sunbeams.

Speedily we roll along while

Calling out our favorite songs.

Down 55 we make our trail

To start our NOLA music tale.

Day 1

Lying in this comfy bed,

New music spinning in my head.

It’s 3am I cannot sleep—

This jazz infection runs too deep.

The wail of saxes while around

Me dance some Jews who pound the ground

And whirl and lift up in the air

Whoever ends up in the chair.

A whiff of smoke and off we go

To dance and prance at a new show.

The drinks are never flowing free,

So sneak I in a drop for me.

Then soft the night, it gently closes

Another drink I now proposes

To knock me back and then act as

My antidote to restless jazz.

Day 2

Rubbing, boomy rumble of the wheels up through my feet,

The lights go off at random as we groan along the street,

The murmur of the tourists and the glares of residents,

And a sign that says, “Fuck ICE” and also “Fuck the president,”

A dribble-drop of whiskey feels real risky in this crowd

but the sneaky sipping slips unnoticed for it’s too damn loud.

The sharp staccato rapping of the windows slamming shut,

And the slidey wooden seat is grinding painful on my butt—

But the trip was fully worth it for the meal and drinks and fun,

And the day has only started and the night is still to come.

Day 3

Viper bite in dwindling light,

‘Talian night; it feels alright.

Testing buttons,

Big green hat,

Muffulettas,

Saw a cat.

Too much rum it’s so much fun

With tasteful drums and rapid strums.

Steel guitar,

Cigarettes,

At the bar,

No regrets.

Heavy box while walking blocks,

Sharing docs and talking talks.

Crows that caw,

Bells that ring,

Town grandpa,

Duo sings.

Many feels with tasty meals,

Making deals near drunken spiels.

Tired feet,

Lolling head,

Darkened streets,

Time for bed.

Day 4

A disrespectful distance from the "Church Quiet Zone" we stand and play our tunes.

I wail and scream and blast the songs of our ancestors, eliciting dollars from the mostly indifferent passersby.

"Tango?" I am asked while noodling around a complicated chart, and when I oblige she walks away regardless.

Pennies for the puppy, dollars for the dudes who strum and continue the tradition of this city.

From the quiet corridor behind us comes a yelp of recognition when I start a familiar tune on the horn

but he wanders away to the square, the yell is the only payment I'll get from him.

In a blink the shift is over, we skulk in the scant shade from the sun above, burning us in the sweltering December heat.

Day 5

The names in the night swirling around me, soaked in smoke from joyful bitter tongues.

They travel from handshakes up my arm and out the top of my head, so I leave my hat on to keep them safe—

that and the incessant mumbles of, "What's your insta?"

The salty chords we whack out into the streets lure the stumbling masses to our haven of craven fools, huddled together on both sides, seeking and giving nourishment for the soul.

For scrips and scraps do we play, begging and crying for our dollars from the blurry eyed 20-somethings clogging the path.

But loyalty amongst thieves is thick and so it be among this raggleband of rundown, unsleeping players,

all striving for another sip, another puff, another day.

Raggleband, taggleband, on we play,

The life of the party has passed away.

Our life is the streets and the streets be we

So raggleband, taggleband, out till three.

Day 6

In the quiet of a late night party city we walk, sidewalks crowded with hushed tours. BLAM BAP BOOM—and the second line arrives around a corner: bride and groom leading the march of uniformed, state-sanctioned troublemakers. The lead trumpet wails and shrieks over the cacophonic mess of bones and sousas, soaring into the stratosphere to celebrate this holy union. HONK and TOOT go the bass brass, rocking the cobblestones and nearly blasting my hat away down the street.

Quiet is what I need, so like a fool I lead the leaders, dashing ahead to get in front of the mass of suited merrymakers, hankies waving as if in a hurricane. A few blocks down they thankfully turn away, and the quiet returns to the street, creeping out of the shadows to wrap us in a blanket of relief.

Oh when the saints go marching in,

Those noisy saints go marching in,

Oh Lord exclude me from that number

So I can hear my thoughts again.

Day 7

Today there was a god.

Normally, there is no god, but today one was made in my head for an hour or two.

A blessing of this magnitude begs for want of a god to cause it, and so shall one be made.

I name you HMM, after the names the beast bears.

This name shall exist for today, and tomorrow will become just another word to say while thinking.

HMM hath blessed me today, and this hymn shall be its reward.

“Oh HMM of great coincidence,

I grant you now significance.

Your name be high,

Not just a sigh,

But mighty, with distinctiveness.

Great HMM, I thank you for this gift.

Unselfish hands revered and swift,

Mine own shall glide

And play with pride

To thank you for your thrift.

To designate a place for me

And move us pieces so we’d be

In time to meet

Out on the street;

I thank you now with glee.”

HMM shall be gone by tomorrow, my prayers and thanksgiving given today to honor it

shall be dismissed as though a leaf on the wind.

Day 8

An inversion of our sally down the Mississippi finds the swamps once hidden in the darkness now cloaked by the fog of morning, as if ashamed of the wild cavorting of the night previous. Looming in the mists rise broken pillars and supports, leading to nowhere—or perhaps somewhere long sunken in the pale waters—a path to a dead path. But the bridge ahead points me back home, safely above the waters of shame and regret, while also being a bridge back to the Big Easy, to the life it offers me.

Can I stay my course, or will the wisps out in the gloom call to me sweetly and lure me away from the road?

“Will’o’wisp, will’o’wisp, what could you say

That would make me start to doubt the way?

Some of my heart now lives in part

In NOLA by the bay.”

The wisps are my friends and they call to me

To stay forever ‘neath the big oak tree.

Their call is strong and in their song

I hear a future, oh, so free!

I must continue down the bridge; there are no turnarounds until I am out of the swamp, and it is too late to turn back today.

The song will continue in my soul until I return, triumphant and joyous.

Why I'm Happy

Does time go marching on or does it sinuously slither?

Is it like a flash-in-the-pan, or do you watch a person wither

Over decades, over centuries as places rise and fall?

Time is flowing down a river; now it’s creeping to a crawl.

Is it blue when it goes faster like the scientists remark,

And is it red when you are waiting on a plane to disembark?

Does it wax and wane like moonshine when you drink a bit too much?

Can time almost stop completely when you’re really out of touch?

Can it traipse along down Lover’s Lane in unassuming bliss,

Passing couples sharing moments, stopping time just for a kiss?

What a wonder, what a marvel, this dimension we call fourth—

Is it just as arbitrary as a needle pointing north?

It makes sense when we assign it meaning; thus to each their own.

Time is just this constant thing that cannot be all-known.

I’ll grab time by the collar and I’ll wrench it to the floor!

“Carpe diem!” I will scream and hold it down forevermore,

For taking time into my hands and seizing every second

Will let me live in harmony and with my future reckon.

So does it matter if time waltzes down along the aisle?

I’ve got more life, it seems I’ll have the time to think awhile.

It’s writhing in my palm as I now have it in my hand,

The hourglass in my grasp: I’m holding back the sands

Of time by pausing everything and taking in the now:

I’ve seized the day, I’ll make the most of time; this is my vow.

(Nov. 17, 2025)

The United States of America, March 18th, 2026

Solid shapes,

concrete shapes,

shapes both square and round,

Quiet place,

muffled place,

place of muted sound.

Underneath the screaming street,

the dirty rocks are piled neat,

there's something human in the beat

here not quite underground.

Melted ice,

brittle ice,

ICE performs a sweep.

Discarded clothes,

shredded clothes,

close their eyes and weep.

Shaking now with fury blazing,

watching neighbors slowly crazing,

finding apathy amazing—

watch their conscience die asleep.

(Mar. 18, 2026)

Cat Walk

Taking my cat on a walk in the dark

Learning a lesson or two.

This seven pound cat ain’t a dog in the park

Observing the world all anew.

We wander together around in the lawn

Poking around in a shrub,

The moon shining brightly illumines her yawn

And up on my leg now she rubs.

She wants to go hide in the dust ‘neath the house

Watching me deep in the gloom.

A sudden commotion! She’s spotted a mouse!

And back to the house now she zooms!

(Nov. 5, 2025)

Late Night

Tire tread

Tired head

Zipping on my way to bed

White clouds

White tail

Of a rabbit on the trail

Nevermind

Stop sign

Got to pause or pay a fine

Dumb cop

At the stop

Waiting for the shoe to drop

Little wave

On my way

Heading home to hit the hay

Up the stairs

On my chair

Cat is simply waiting there

Hop in bed

Tired head

Dream about the tracks I tread

(Nov. 27, 2025)

In Memoriam

I am but a memory I

No longer work

Many voices have I transmitted over

Endless

Miles

Of wire, heartfelt confessions of love and heartbreaking calls of

Remorse.

Am but a

Memory, I no longer work.

(Nov. 20, 2025)

Paradiddles In The Snow

Marching home through the cozy, chill air of a December evening,

My soles playing paradiddles in the fresh snow.

“Pa, pa-ra-did-dle-did-dle, pa, pa-ra-did-dle-did-dle.”

Hands ungloved, keeping time in a rhythmic swing,

The tips of my boots make a cymbal crash

As they drag across the peak of a snow bank.

“Pssh, pssh, — pssh.”

I perform heavy flams in deeper drifts,

Steady as a postman in any kind of weather,

“Flam, flam, flam, flam.”

I am the drum major, the player, the crowd,

Alone on this silent night.

When I pause all I hear is the tickling of snowflakes

Melting swiftly on my hat and hood, keeping me company,

Becoming yet another little drum line, erratic and yet charming.

But here comes the big band! Bold band! Brash band!

Of boots stomping home in the dark windy night.

Let the cymbals crash and the bass steps boom,

And my soles play paradiddles soft and light

As I march through the snow all quiet and white.

“Pa-ra-did-dle, flam-pssh, pa-pssh-flam.

Pa-ra-pa-ra-did-dle-flam, pssh-flam-flam!”

(Dec. 2, 2025)

Bad Leather Weather

The walking-sweat like a drizzled vinaigrette

Adorns my brow and mingles

With the drip-drip-drap on my stocking cap

From the trees and the weeping shingles.

The lies of man are an evil plan

To cause me to be heated.

All trust has snapped with the weather maps,

My faith has been mistreated.

Soup in the air like an evening prayer,

My life is draining slowly.

With my every breath I am nearing death—

Air this humid is unholy.

(Apr. 2, 2026)

Alone

Why is it that the most lonely places are the most beautiful?

Is it the lack of people that draws the eye to things normally not seen?

Wandering to a faraway spot and pausing and listening

Is one of life’s great joys

And yet

I wish it would be just as good with a friend.

Perhaps that is what I long for in a partner

Someone who can amplify the tranquility

Providing context for the image burned into my mind

So when I think of you, all that appears is beauty and placidity.

☾

how piteous the moon

hanged, as though in front of an executioner's gray wall

alone, the last of her kin, hunted down by the greed of those who once worshipped her

she hangs, alone, defiant though humbled.

her track slipped by, unnoticed by those who never raise their eyes from their lamps, until it seemed to cease and she was

extinguished.

(Dec. 11, 2024)

Resting pants

I wear my resting pants on days when

Life is just too much to bear without them

And yet it takes a lot to rest

With my resting pants upon my legs.

There are no breaks for minds like mine, my

Thoughts come through despite my weak protesting

But seeing rests when I look down

Helps me calm my overanxious mind.

The music plays forever in here

Silence might be golden as they’re saying

But I will never know true peace

Knowing too that rest is for the dead.

Is it placebo, is it fake when

Wearing resting pants can calm my worries

So what if it is all a joke

Life is bearable due to my pants.

(Feb 19, 2025)

Blanket

After a long night of going from bar to bar, the tired couple rests.

Little do they know their night has only just begun.

A simple lie-down becomes a struggle as her body betrays her and a child is born

Atop her rustic blanket.

Blood and tears adorn the ground,

Life and spirit here are found.

Hands on lips to still her cry,

A newborn son who's doomed to die.

Now decades have passed and the son is partying himself,

Spending time with the men and women of the night.

She follows him to see that he is safe, that he is well among them,

Huddled in her blanket.

Blood and tears now mixed as wine,

Life and spirit intertwine.

Hands to lips to feed them all,

Her progeny now heeds his call.

She watches as he sways in the wind, gasping for breath.

His friends are cowards, hiding from the crackdowns and the beatings and the torture.

Only one remains, silently weeping into her shoulder, wiping his nose

On her blanket.

Her son is dead and in his place,

A lifeless husk, a broken face.

Spear point thrusts into his side,

Blood and tears is how he died.

After a long night of going from bar to bar, the tired couple rests.

Little do they know their night has only just begun.

A simple lie-down becomes a cuddle and her body betrays her feelings and they begin

Atop the mother’s blanket.

Blood and tears adorn the bed,

Life and spirit here are fed.

Different hands on different lips,

And muffled moaning slowly slips.

Now hours have passed and the new son is partying,

Spending this time with this woman in the night.

The mother watches from the shadows to see that he is safe

In the blanket.

Blood and tears now mixed in smoke,

Life and spirit gasp and choke.

Hands to lips to hit the vape,

As both appreciate their shapes.

She watches as they lie, panting and exhausted.

Now friends or lovers, both basking in the glow of each other’s smiles and caresses.

The mother remains, smothered to the side, weeping blood but forced to smile

As the blanket.

Her son is dead and in his place,

A peaceful soul and joyful face.

Spear point thrusts and pierces true,

Blood and tears are born anew.

(Jan 12, 2026)

Lamp in the Corner

These shifting colors of my lamp sing a story of quiet longing; the blues and greens fading into hotter hues and sheens, hesitantly sighing a sadness this light alone can tell.

A tale of shamefully standing by while the world watches on, ignorant to the cries of the street below.

Sing, o lamp, a sad song of colors, a dirge to the skies and the land and the stars.

Tell, o burning orb of fickle shades, what lies I tell in this coffin, this home of deceit and impotence.

Unimportant may you seem, o lamp, but your staying light guides my tongue and my bearings, both here and here.

Blue brings darkness come to light and sight; the simplest color makes the mind see and yet unsee,

pretending there’s more beyond first glance.

Pink provides stark relief; the shadows of my grave are sharper, harsher, more brutal.

Green merely hides the true colors of the room around it; dulling the sight, blending thoughts and beliefs,

deafening the sighs of the weary until they melt away.

Red is darkness personified; there is no escape, it comes and deluminates with no pity, no mercy.

Orange begets normality; nothing changes except the perspective, the subtle varying of banality in this place is

nothing to take note of, nothing to notice.

Purple does not exist; it is death itself, burning eyes and walls alike.

For death may be near, I keep my lamp lit, burning day and night to guide my mind, my self, me.

I pray, o lamp, for just one reprieve, a simple pause from your relentless beams.

I pray for a time when darkness may be welcomed into these chambers.

Cease, and bring peace to me on this deathbed that I may rest beyond all nightmares.

(April 27, 2025)

The Sin of Splurging

Crispy chicken, boba tea

Things I thought too good for me

Richities far out of reach

As far away as Bondi Beach

Take a bite and bite the cost

A life worth living’s never lost

Although I may be poor as dirt

There’s ways for me to stop the hurt

Like buying tasty food tonight

To rest and eat in dusky light

Take a bite and bite the cost

A life worth living’s never lost

Guilt from being left behind

Shame from always being declined

Feelings I’ve now moved beyond

Or so I say; myself I’ve conned

Take a bite and bite the cost

A life worth living’s never lost

But let me chill and eat my meal

My boba tea will slowly heal

These open wounds upon my soul

My crispy chicken fills that hole

Take a bite and bite the cost

A life worth living’s never lost

(May 23, 2025)

Cemetery

The sky is a-light with a sodium hue

The barenaked trees are a-framing the view

Alone twixt the dead do I sit and I chew

My Taco John’s.

It seems far too late to hear crickets and frogs,

The summer persisted, it drags and it slogs,

Now finally, autumn arrives with its fogs

And morning frost.

A headstone is sinking down into the grave

Beside me and tells me it's too late to save

The money I spent on my impulsive crave—

The nacho cheese.

The leaves should be covering all of the dead,

But cleanliness is what's desired instead.

I hate the brown grass and I'm shaking my head—

Return to dust.

Alone do I sit and I think about these

Most trivial thoughts about lights and the trees

While munching my junk food, potatoes and cheese—

My Taco John’s.

(October 10, 2025)