Dr. James G. Piatt, an octogenarian, lives in California in a replica of an 1800s eastern farmhouse with his wife of 67 years, Sandy. He is a Best of Web nominee and three time Pushcart nominee. He has had five poetry books and five novels published.



On an overcast moonlit night,
muffled beams of light
echoed moans
like a grief-stricken loon
tasting mouthfuls of anguish.
A weeping umbra moved slowly
through a beam of light,
then stood silent in its narrowness
as the aromas of death vibrated
back and forth,
back and forth,
reluctantly, impatiently.
Ancient smudged pictures
on white molded walls
unfolded into diluted prayers
as eyes wept tears
onto a crimson carpet.
While Church bells
pealed bronze chords of sorrow,
anachronistic whisperings
sleeping in the murkiness
of long forgotten and lost memories,
became a strain
on the shattered edge
of my emotions,
slashing my thoughts
into unrecognizable metaphors,
until the thunderous drone
of death’s shadows
covered my mind.

© James G. Piatt





where does one go when the earth is motionless and no longer moves in other than circumfluent pulses

who knew sadistic cladistics would include rusted crustaceans said the briny claustrophobic clam as it used my ribs for a clavichord

have any of you seen my forgotten coadjutor

after my sand carpet was mowed

and my stove was watered where did the cognoscenti of my corroded iambics go

i was going to get enlightened on the use of non-combustible allegories to sway my heretical iambics but who really cares since my poem just shattered into emptiness

© James G. Piatt


Icons on a computer screen,
Flickering images of graves,
Containing gray bones

Wavering like cigar-smoke
Floating in a room filled
With the shadows of grief.

An inaudible broken bell of bronze
Peals into the emptiness of lost time,
And I sit in a forgotten room

Waiting for the wind to carry away,
Idle memories from my caches,
Of rash, rhyming ramblings.

I am sweeping away the dust
Of heated summers
Filled with remnants of
Rejected poems.

© James G. Piatt