Slowtorch

Posted on June 3, 2018 by John Biscello

Beneath the cauterized furies,

and unspent silences,

amounting to greater deficit,

there is,

and always has been,

at heart’s nimbus base,

a soft, wistful melancholy,

not unlike the adagio threads of rain

silvering the opened palms

of a small child,

or the moonbound clown,

smiling sadly

at the girl on the tightrope,

who, from a distance,

he secretly longs for

and hopes to see fall

into his waiting arms–

I,

forever the child,

cherishing lost Sundays,

premature nostalgia,

and lazy aimless walks,

know myself,

bare to the touch

and claim,

between the gorgeous bask

of slowtorch dreams

and solitary haunt.

About John Biscello

Originally from Brooklyn, NY, writer, poet, performer, and playwright, John Biscello, has lived in the high-desert grunge-wonderland of Taos, New Mexico since 2001. He is the author of four novels, Broken Land, a Brooklyn Tale, Raking the Dust, Nocturne Variations, and No Man’s Brooklyn; a collection of stories, Freeze Tag, two poetry collections, Arclight and Moonglow on Mercy Street; and a fable, The Jackdaw and the Doll, illustrated by Izumi Yokoyama. He also adapted classic fables, which were paired with the vintage illustrations of artist, Paul Bransom, for the collection: Once Upon a Time, Classic Fables Reimagined. His produced, full-length plays include: LOBSTERS ON ICE, ADAGIO FOR STRAYS, THE BEST MEDICINE, ZEITGEIST, U.S.A., and WEREWOLVES DON’T WALTZ.

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This entry was posted in Poetry, Uncategorized and tagged heart, John Biscello, love, melancholy, nostalgia, poem, Poetry, sad clown, slowtorch, tender, wistful. Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to Slowtorch

erroneouschoices says:

June 3, 2018 at 5:50 pm

Beautiful, the melancholy, the wistfulness, the fall and especially “unlike the adagio threads of rain silvering the opened palms”

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- John Biscello says:
  
  June 3, 2018 at 5:56 pm
  
  Thanks, glad the silvery drizzle gave you a feeling 🙂
  
  LikeLiked by 1 person
  
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Slowtorch

Beneath the cauterized furies,

and unspent silences,

amounting to greater deficit,

there is,

and always has been,

at heart’s nimbus base,

a soft, wistful melancholy,

not unlike the adagio threads of rain

silvering the opened palms

of a small child,

or the moonbound clown,

smiling sadly

at the girl on the tightrope,

who, from a distance,

he secretly longs for

and hopes to see fall

into his waiting arms–

I,

forever the child,

cherishing lost Sundays,

premature nostalgia,

and lazy aimless walks,

know myself,

bare to the touch

and claim,

between the gorgeous bask

of slowtorch dreams

and solitary haunt.

About John Biscello

2 Responses to Slowtorch

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Slowtorch

Beneath the cauterized furies,

and unspent silences,

amounting to greater deficit,

there is,

and always has been,

at heart’s nimbus base,

a soft, wistful melancholy,

not unlike the adagio threads of rain

silvering the opened palms

of a small child,

or the moonbound clown,

smiling sadly

at the girl on the tightrope,

who, from a distance,

he secretly longs for

and hopes to see fall

into his waiting arms–

I,

forever the child,

cherishing lost Sundays,

premature nostalgia,

and lazy aimless walks,

know myself,

bare to the touch

and claim,

between the gorgeous bask

of slowtorch dreams

and solitary haunt.

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2 Responses to Slowtorch

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