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Meta
Category Archives: Poetry
Citrus
Upon a citrus-infused sky, bright and sorry, the dance of acidic vapors and serpentine ravels, assuming the burden of a faceless woman, basking
Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized
Tagged Artwork, citrus, ekphrasis, Georgia O' Keefe, John Biscello, Literary, poem, Poetry
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Touch
It is the quiet history of touch, tendered through years of symmetry and fable, a radiant pulsing in the spaces between fingers, holy derived, charging us to mercy and enclosure.
Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized
Tagged fable, gospel, John Biscello, Literary, love, ouch, poem, Poetry
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What Remains?
If I were to go tomorrow, and by go I mean no more spells of wonder, or lines leveling a manic fate, no more ancient fireflies like safety pins fastening us to thin, thin dreams, all our hollow and chaste … Continue reading
Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized
Tagged being, death, John Biscello, lightness, poem, Poetry, rebirth, release
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Riversong
Show us where it is you’re dying, the silent ebb and roaring tides of dark, expose to us, with a scalpel’s exactitude, the finite lineage of your deepest wounds and locks, and we promise that the light’s searing of naked … Continue reading
Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized
Tagged death, God, gospel, help, John Biscello, life, love, mercy, wounds
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Thursday’s Child
Wrapped snugly in a blanket of godlight, Thursday’s child indwells the symmetry of tigers burning bright to leave tracks on empty.
Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized
Tagged God, John Biscello, Light, love, poem, Poetry, tigers
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Arc
Starstruck, and wrestling within mortal coils, God’s lucid fame overshadows the cast of our solitary arc.
Proof
With the grave mortal nearness that only distance can bring, we enter the bruised, secret heart of our childhood, a stalker’s negative proof, slow-burned to exposure and fade.
Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized
Tagged childhood, exposure, fade, John Biscello, love, poem, Poetry
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Torch
How a writer, cave-timing dark and solitude, annoints an ember by crafting the small hours into a flagrant torch.
Scripture
To be swallowed, wordless, as the worst you always feared turns lighted proof into lasting scripture.
Second-Hand
We, as time-worn saboteurs, engage the history of scabs and locks, resetting old wounds to the hands of a busted clock.
Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized
Tagged John Biscello, Literary, poem, Poetry, time, wounds
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