Monthly Archives: March 2018

Fate

Posted on March 7, 2018 by John Biscello

Patience, ennobled, paused on the cusp of fate — Death waits in the wings.   (Photo by Henri Cartier-Bresson)  

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Turn

Posted on March 7, 2018 by John Biscello

Nowhere else to turn, restless child seeking lighted way, shadows hold court, monopolizing space and time.   (Photo by Henri Cartier-Bresson)

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Weight

Posted on March 7, 2018 by John Biscello

It gets cold out there, the weight of shadows pressing on her lonely heart.   (Photo by Brassai)

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Tryst

Posted on March 7, 2018 by John Biscello

Kiss me one last time, a Trinity collapsed– blown smoke and mirrors.   (Photo by Brassai)

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Wonder

Posted on March 6, 2018 by John Biscello

She wonders, nightly, nothing specific, just stray thoughts leaking old dreams.   (Photo by Brassai)

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Quartet

Posted on March 6, 2018 by John Biscello

On this side of the mirror, it begins with a light, courtesy kindling promise, yet on the other side, the smoke is already mood-thick and rising, suggesting second lives engaged in the slow burn of mutual arson.   (Photo by … Continue reading →

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I’m Here

Posted on March 6, 2018 by John Biscello

Day after day after day modeling ripe, fugitive blankness, to the siege of passers-by who smiled sweetly and pointed at the coat, the dress, the bow, yet none of them saw what wasn’t blatantly advertised, the age-old curse which kept … Continue reading →

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Owl

Posted on March 5, 2018 by John Biscello

Owl, owl, burning white, your gaze, peerless, and sublime, bearing braised volumes of silence within fathomless archives– Who dares to confront the suddenness of history, all at once, unblinking? Who dares to initiate the sorrow of millennia, in a single … Continue reading →

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Twins

Posted on March 5, 2018 by John Biscello

Side by side, dress by dress, stitch by stitch, cuff by cuff, we will respire as echo, endlessly, in the funereal symmetry of one, Diane Arbus.   (Photo by Diane Arbus)

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Georgia

Posted on March 5, 2018 by John Biscello

The fingers, shroud and baffling, in temper and Sphinx, the hands, workmanlike, choreographing majesty in sync with the eyes which saw and praised, in rapture, the inner lives of flowers.   (Photo by Alfred Steiglitz)  

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