Monthly Archives: December 2018

Puddle

Posted on December 6, 2018 by John Biscello

Find a puddle after a rainstorm. Close your eyes and dream yourself as a six-yr-old dreaming yourself as a magnificent and shimmering work of art. Or as a happy goldfish. Whether as shimmering art, or happy goldfish, open your eyes, … Continue reading →

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Bubbles

Posted on December 6, 2018 by John Biscello

Imagine an old wooden bathtub filled with rainbow bubbles set in the middle of a grassy meadow on a sunlovely day. Imagine that you are one of the bubbles. Feel the colors coursing through you, feel the sun warming your … Continue reading →

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Autumn

Posted on December 6, 2018 by John Biscello

Find a yellow leaf, a golden leaf, a leaf that’s mourned its own falling. Name it. Whisper its name to it, kiss it. Unname it, whisper silence to it, kiss it again. Fling the leaf and watch it dance in … Continue reading →

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A Winter’s Tale

Posted on December 4, 2018 by John Biscello

Satyr Stardust was ready to undertake the quest for which his whole life had been a ritual initiation, into and through the hidden heart of dark mysterious woods to the liminal edge of What Dreams May Come.

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Nightwatch

Posted on December 4, 2018 by John Biscello

Kin to symmetry, dreams, like roses, flare the course– Stalk your own wild seeds.

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Do You See What I See?

Posted on December 4, 2018 by John Biscello

In the lighted cursive of stars, she finds herself, coursing, a glaring speck of cosmic language, a flickerflash dot yellowing in a deluge of night-sea, tethered to distant moons and Memory, of who she was, and is, tenderly traced and … Continue reading →

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The Door

Posted on December 3, 2018 by John Biscello

The green woman from my dream handed me an ax, told me to break down the door. I held the ax limply, hesitating. Break down the door, she insisted, an overbite to her tone, this time adding the word goddamn. … Continue reading →

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Turn

Posted on December 3, 2018 by John Biscello

How fragile we are, how marvelous in our turns to matter, in love.    

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Bask

Posted on December 2, 2018 by John Biscello

Every last star ghosts its own holy rapture– we, a part of, bask.

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In Stars

Posted on December 2, 2018 by John Biscello

Behind starry veils, embers crackle blue and gold– You were there, dancing.

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