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Tom Pescatore

Tom Pescatore grew up outside Philadelphia dreaming of the endless road ahead, carrying the idea of the fabled West in his heart. His work has been published in literary magazines both nationally and internationally but he'd be just as happy having them carved on the Walt Whitman Bridge or on the sidewalks of Philadelphia's old Skid Row.
  
Tom's blogsite, A Magical Mistake

 

 
 
 
 
 

Tom's Origami micro-chapbooks & selected poems are available below.  Just click on the titles to activate.

Origami Micro-Chapbook 

Selected Poem(s)

Meetings    
 
Cover: Picacho Peak, AZ
by Tom Pescatore
*
 

{mooblock=Past Year}

a backlog of memory
to sift through,

an open bottle, empty,
left out in the sun,

tinted shadow
green and long
thrown over
wood surface

faded imperceptibly,
like years, now gone.
Tom Pescatore © 2015

{/mooblock}

{mooblock=Meetings}

Met an Amish girl on the subway.
She was drinking coffee.
Had on a white bonnet.

We didn't say a word to each other.
Spoke in glances.
There weren't many of those.
Maybe none.

She got off at McPherson Square.

I stayed on.
Tom Pescatore © 2015

{/mooblock}

A Hundred Million Memories

          

Cover: Author in the Rockies
 

{mooblock=WV Stars}

At edge of road
big dipper casts points
down on you and
awww you gotta look
up, man, up
into those stars & focus,

you'll see it
moving toward us
Heaven,
I mean, and know

Every star is older than me,
and I am older than the universe,

I've gone too far tho
too far to call back, to be heard,
and my voice is frail now,
human.

who watched the stars before
we were born?
Why have they drifted so far
away?
Tom Pescatore © 2014

{/mooblock}

{mooblock=The Unpublished Poem}

At edge of road
I worry about them,
scratched in pencil,
sitting still, marks fading,
written in short hand,
edit lines, circles,
little notes aging,
meanings lost to time,
 
what was I trying to say
two years ago, where
was I when I was walking
Passyunk as the sun set,
where have I gone since then?
 
I'm afraid they've lost their meaning,
that I've traveled too far
to go back to them, that they've
been wasted on nothing,
left to die anonymously,
left to die ignored,
on my book shelf,
alone.
Tom Pescatore © 2014

{/mooblock}