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Best Poems Written by Joe Dimino

Below are the all-time best Joe Dimino poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Baby Steps

I took a walk with God today,
His pace far more casual than
mine. His voice a bit softer,
calmer. His visions, far more
loftier, but not views to impress
me...more like, to bless me. Not
stepping to me out-stride – more like,
to lovingly guide. His tone to instill in me
self confidence, and not His awesome
dominance. I took a walk with
God today...met Christ along
the way – and together we made a turn 
toward Home....

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Drink the Kool-Aid

Chug-a-lug, Chug-a-lug – 
no matter the fly in our
President's mug, the bug in 
his thinking...my reflecting on
his ailing brain, and it's obvious
volume shrinking:

Those mindless, confusing rants, 
Bidden juices-up;  Psaki, drinking 
without blinking – regurgitating 
at deceptive White House briefings –  
propaganda validated by shameless, 
would-be reporters, were it not for 
their obvious conscription – their 
sacrificial genuflecting, having
sold their souls to the Golden Calf 
of Soros wealth and tyrannical 
influence – 

For Progressive compliance – securing
her high place of worship in a Marxist,
Totalitarian Kingdom – Pelosi suggesting
free ice-cream be given to all, in place
of Tried-And-True, Good Old, American 
Freedom –

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That's Poetry

The difference between good poetry
and great poetry – not a concentration
of words and phrases, nor meter
and rhyme...but the source, that gives
longevity its immortal time – 
It is where we begin, how we learn,
and, therefore see: it is the difference
between, those who came before,
and those who are truly Free.  One
does not go out and observe, hoping
to be inspired – it is the outing, and
then the poetry that is fired, burns
to the surface, dissolving all bone
and flesh in its way...one does not
think to write a poem – one lives,
and then perishes in the expressive
process: That is poetry!

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Spiritual Law

Spiritual law of attraction: one can only receive by giving. One has to become love, if to know love for reception. What we hold in our consciousness is who we are and what we attract. Walls are all we think we know...better to live from a clean slate. Letting go opens our hands (hearts) for spiritual grasping. We are born dying obviously. It is not for death but our only way to life. It is illusion, the doorway not empty, not a space to pass through, but, in fact, a dimension of less encumbered being~ one dies to live dies to live...there is never lives to die. No darkness in creation...if anything, there is only self keeping out the light.

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Why I Write

Birth is a war,
and death
a victory
for a lifetime
of suffering;

though, we can convince ourselves
of most anything--even
pleasure and happiness. 

I rise every morning
as much for myself
as for those who cannot--

and I write
to live....

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Resurrection

I rise from deep within the earth
out of pressured lavas

I rise above the level into
breathable realms

I rise following the risen
He who set my path and
monitors my lift lovingly
tenderly, yet such pinions
given of steeliness unpluckable

I rise for the grace of the Father,
for the loving sacrifice of the Son,
for the Spirit, all Powerful, Ever-present,

All Knowing – I rise from man's mental
coma...from delirium of his lesser ego,
from estrangement of his physical-obstinance;
climbing higher, into loftier, far brighter reality
of being...

cleanly exalted, my consciousness purified – 

I rise on frequencies of heavenly choirs...
throngs of worshiping angels welcoming, wings
fanning my once fuming soul – all the while
singing Praise to Christ, man's Conqueror Lord:

The slayer of Death; the Subduer of devils
and their throngs of whispering, shouting,
deafening demons; 
                   
I rise from out under the Master Liar...jealous possessor,
once Arc of God's Most beloved till Fallen...

I rise on a divine swell of compassion and forgiveness – 

carried yet higher, on upward, surging tide of greater purification,
resurrected with Divine momentum...a soaring sea of expanding 
spiritual freedom...

It is Easter, 

as The Risen One anointed, so shall we follow
and rise! 

“Glory to God
in His Highest!”

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Poetry

Often I harken back
to a very wise poet,
how “life is but a stage”

of tender moments
splashed and splattered
by fierce jabs of passionate 
heated rage 

such opera the workings of 
fallible human hearts~ such a 
masterful organ still an infant
unwinding with tyrannic-like 
stops and starts 

Where would poetry be

without feeling words

and colorful flourishes? 

Where? Without reckless splashes
on canvas wall and trampled over
floor – saturated flamboyant 
brushes ever mixing and dabbing
seeking and grabbing smoothing and
rubbing out fillings satisfying 
while definitions left
spatially wanting

for the poet draws as he writes

from wells deeper tributaries distant
less regulated winding streams of uncoagulated self 

seeing one's soul somewhere between ignorance
and all knowing ever greater for its never finding 
ever seeking ever flowing 

Indeed “life is but a stage,”
every breath a potential scripted
unscripted page every exhale a new dissolve
for the air to take hold of and fly with

Never cheat ambient emotion
of heights and potential lows

Never set passion wastefully adrift

let the spirit give full body a heartfelt 
push into uncharted always somewhat
perilous    yet marvelous revealing lift–

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Every Poem An Invention

Every poem
An invention
Some would say:
When a romantic
Creates a breathing rose
In the mind
For the heart of another
A far superior find
Than all
Man’s Relativities—

So—
Let Einstein rest
Of his atoms
Undressed;
And Galileo
Further divest
In some far
Distant sky,
Too far off
Even
For modern
Glass-eye
Perhaps now,
As I,
Would also decry:
That the artist, alone,
Sees and lives,
A true icon,
Beyond the grave—
A slave not to science,
But to love and beauty;
With far more inquisitive duty,
That of revealing
The Universe
The soul of it
Divine—

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The Language of Creation

When I think of poetry
I think of a child manipulating
his first steps, the wobbly nature
of his strides~that confused, meandering
toddle, and then trip and fall – the dear 
first efforts of us all. When I think of poetry,
I think of my introductory cords attempting
articulation: the naive study of lips, the spitting 
aspirations, how the throat struggles, and then the
mouth opens to the notion of sound.  When 
I think of poetry, I think of the squinting and the
rounding of the eyes first awakening to light  – 
how the heart adjusts to thought...and how, 
somehow, it is all related to love, the cooing,
caressing of a mother, before weaning. 
Then when I think of poetry, I finally think of nothing...
empty myself, letting poetry think for me –
become my sight and voice, my very direct
line to God~knowing best the language
of creation.

Details | Joe Dimino Poem

Listen To the Trees

Listen to the trees…
how dark their voices in the moonless night--
unnerving shades that only today were bright, green, sunny things;
and now their quivering leaves, remind me more
of scarecrow sleeves,
nearby not a bird would light
unless he were a terrible sight.
Listen to the wind…
storm voice near the distant eye--
Listen! Listen! Listen! Such a thunderous cry!
There!--the last ray of sunlight gone, in a fester of billowing clouds;
with the last quiet moment, in a splatter of furious sounds;
down the torrent upon us
the wind like sickles and mowing blades;
Listen! Listen! Listen!--to the trees now toppling shades.
Yet, in the midst of all madness--
the air, a hornet of frantic leaves;
wind tugging at our garments,
flapping and fluttering like scarecrow sleeves--
a quiet comes over us;
halfway through passes a silent eye;
blesses us with a peaceful moment;
reassuringly winks good-bye….