I Believe in Miracles

I am learning,
or perhaps unlearning,
to believe wildly
in the fresh crop
and siege of miracles
that are happening
right under my eyes
every day.
If I fail to see them,
if my self-limiting perspective
narrows into a myopic squint,
that’s on me,
and I shouldn’t blame
the miracles
for my dearth of vision
and lack of imagination.
an orange poppy
when drops of rain
and silver
its petals.
A child bumbles
along a carpet of fresh grass,
its cherubic face
lit up like a Mardi Gras
as she journeys newly
into the world of toddling.
A wrinkled hand,
roped in vines
of blue veins,
another vine-veined hand,
husband and wife
of sixty-four years,
this simple gesture of
you are my home
repeated over and through
many moons, laughs,
and tears.
Gulls bop-ambling along a shoreline
as a fishmongering choir,
the thousand broken azure
fingers of the sea
reaching toward
a glittering bounty of washed-up shells,
clouds as wooly prayerbeds
holding the incalculable breadth of God,
an anchored ballet of lotuses in a pond,
autumn winds turning stray leaves
into golden migrants,
stones nobly
carrying the true history of the world
in their gray silences,
the riotous joy of children
playing in the park,
a religion of its own
with no pulpit
or doctrine required,
that person
passing you in the street,
or standing next to you
in line at the supermarket,
who is you,
how they hurt
and struggle
and dream
and wonder
and worry
and grow scared
and want to be loved
just like you,
the simple common denominator
which is infinitely greater and richer
than the big-budget, whiz-bang
special effects, spectacle-scope,
form of miracles
that so many eyes
are turned toward,
breeding the skinned, reflective laments
that our souls, brute
in their divine, unrelenting wisdom
and foresight,
pose to us repeatedly
as inner screams,
sometimes as rippling whispers):
How much you missed today,
my love, there were miracles
right under your eyes, your nose,
at your fingertips,
but that’s okay, today is today
and it’s never too late
to embrace the wild gospel
of revolutionary seeing.


Optional Post-script: After you finish reading this, play the song “You Sexy Thing” (I Believe in Miracles) by Hot Chocolate, and wherever you are, the car, your living room, your office, the supermarket, commit a simple, joyous act of revolution and start dancing.



About John Biscello

Originally from Brooklyn, NY, writer, poet, spoken word performer, and playwright, John Biscello now lives in Taos, New Mexico. He is the author of three novels: Broken Land, a Brooklyn Tale, Raking the Dust, and Nocturne Variations, and a collection of stories, Freeze Tag. His fiction and poetry has appeared in: Art Times, nthposition, The Wanderlust Review, Ophelia Street, Caper, Polyphony, Dilate, Militant Roger, Chokecherries, Farmhouse, BENT, The 555 Collective, Instigator, Brass Sopaipilla, The Iconoclast, Adobe Walls, Kansas City Voices, and the Tishman Review. His blog--Notes of an Urban Stray--can be read at johnbiscello.blogspot.com. Broken Land, a Brooklyn Tale was named Underground Book Reviews 2014 Book of the Year.
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6 Responses to I Believe in Miracles

  1. Look at that beautiful you. ❤️
    Why does everything you write theses days evoke such emotion? Lol. My silly self

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Welcome says:

    Hey, Soul Brother … and father of our child (some may quease at that intro):

    Thank you. I got to reading it, in this bizarro-land mind I’m in. Appreciate the words. Yeah, maybe the girls and I will read it outloud and put on some Xanadu and dance in the rain and moon.

    Much love, my old friend. Thank you, again. The targeted nutrients sweeted on in.


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