Category Archives: Poetry

Lovers

Posted on November 11, 2020 by John Biscello

Between true lovers, a throbbing flight of totems, carved from moon and ash.

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Crow Talk

Posted on November 11, 2020 by John Biscello

I close my notebook, and everything that goes with it, and listen to the crow cawing outside my window. I get confused. Is he saying Winter is coming soon, or, It’s time to dream rightly, as I do, with zero … Continue reading →

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Swoon

Posted on November 11, 2020 by John Biscello

In the small hours, and secret world, where nocturnal flowers call for tenderest glances and esteem, blooming occurs at the inevitable pace of dreams, and swooning resolve.

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She Weeps

Posted on November 11, 2020 by John Biscello

Victory is the epilogue to squabble. And its prelude too. That is, when your bayonet plunges into the ribcage or spleen of another version of you, the moon weeps slow silver rivers of tears, unconsoled by the glitteringly indifferent stars, … Continue reading →

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It’s A Moon Thing

Posted on November 11, 2020 by John Biscello

Here, then, is the poet’s most holy and vocational duty– to clarify, beyond the rabble and ill communication, something flowingly equivalent to the reflection of the moon on dark rippling waters, sated, briefly, in savvy communion with what lies beneath.

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Comic Relief

Posted on November 11, 2020 by John Biscello

“God is a comedian playing to an audience too afraid to laugh”–Voltaire Philosophy, like the proverbial weasel, goes POP, as God, sporting a Groucho Marx get-up (you know, the glasses, the eyebrows, the cigar) delivers gags and zingers, turning the … Continue reading →

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Come Wander With Me

Posted on November 10, 2020 by John Biscello

At the break of day, wandering softly within– you, from a distance.

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Redemption Song

Posted on November 10, 2020 by John Biscello

“We are strangers and exiles here.  I feel it now more certainly than ever—and the only home a man ever has on earth, the only moment when he escapes from the prisms of loneliness, is when he enters into the … Continue reading →

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Impossible You Say?

Posted on November 10, 2020 by John Biscello

“Literature is an exaggeration, a dramatization, and those who are nourished on it (as I was) are in great danger of trying to approximate an impossible rhythm.”—Anais Nin Leave the impossible to the fishes and the stars, to packed suitcases … Continue reading →

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Hunger

Posted on November 10, 2020 by John Biscello

“Writers do not live one life, they live two. There is the living and then there is the writing. There is the second tasting, the delayed reaction.” How many, committed to their record of days upon the earth, crusade with … Continue reading →

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