John Biscello

Sow

Posted on September 27, 2016 by John Biscello

Inviolate,
the shallow impress
of bird’s feet in snow,
or, how love,
in chronic yield,
metes time to sow.

Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized | Tagged birds, John Biscello, Literary, love, Poetry, snow | Leave a comment

Toll

Posted on September 27, 2016 by John Biscello

Winter,
tolling the climes
of Grief’s wraith,
or, how the feathers
of first snow, falling,
chasten the dead
in lasting refrain.

Posted in Artwork, Poetry, Uncategorized | Tagged grief, John Biscello, josef sudek, Literary, Poetry, prague, snow, Winter | Leave a comment

Climes

Posted on September 27, 2016 by John Biscello

Grief,
engendering the climes
of Winter’s wraith,
or, how the sound
of white fire, falling,
in reverse, encloses the dead
in penitent refrain.

Posted in Artwork, Poetry, Uncategorized | Tagged ghost, grief, John Biscello, josef sudek, Literary, Poetry, prague, snow, Winter | Leave a comment

Fetters

Posted on September 26, 2016 by John Biscello

Between worlds,
the vetted reaping
of Memory, where wings
once brushed rash pink, or,
how an angel,
ennobling fetters, loses sleep
to grievous mortal claims.

Posted in Artwork, Poetry, Uncategorized | Tagged angel, angel of grief, feathers, grace, grief, John Biscello, Literary, memory, Poetry | Leave a comment

Filigree

Posted on September 26, 2016 by John Biscello

Moonlight, a Study at Millbank exhibited 1797 by Joseph Mallord William Turner 1775-1851

And on the eighth day,
gospel and inviolate,
the Moon went on a bender,
pouring silver chaste
with salve, or, how the world,
toddling due course, filigreed
the necessary dark
by grieving jointly.

Posted in Artwork, Poetry, Uncategorized | Tagged healing, J.W. Turner, John Biscello, Literary, moon, nocturne, Poetry, silver | Leave a comment

Pearl

Posted on September 25, 2016 by John Biscello

In the shadow
of a stray leaf, the ribbed
modeling of pearlescent light,
Autumn’s plein-air portrait, in miniature,
unsigned.

Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized | Tagged autumn, fall, John Biscello, Light, Literary, pearl, Poetry, shadow, solitude | Leave a comment

Fold

Posted on September 23, 2016 by John Biscello

small hands,
immeasurable in their dignity
and brood,
folding paper cranes
as grief rises
to level tender shoots

Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized | Tagged crane, dignity, grief, John Biscello, Literary, Poetry, prayer | Leave a comment

The Ash Tree

Posted on September 18, 2016 by John Biscello

teruko

She, supplicant to none

and all, faring Heaven’s lighted

grief, boughs between silent worlds,

citing impartial Grace.

Posted in Artwork, Poetry, Uncategorized | Tagged Artwork, ash tree, grace, John Biscello, Literary, Poetry, teruko wilde, tree | Leave a comment

Catalog

Posted on September 18, 2016 by John Biscello

sudek-window

I have begun to name and catalog the different types of dark.
It helps.
Warm-dark, cave-dark, void-dark, womb-dark, sleep-dark,
Eros-dark, blank-dark, siege-dark,
and there is the anonymous dark that gets in your head
and behind your eyes and in your lungs and constricts your breathing;
curse-dark, which casts a heavy prolonged spell, a pall;
there is also lonely. Naming it doesn’t help, not in the same way.

Posted in Artwork, Poetry, Uncategorized | Tagged catalog, dark, John Biscello, josef sudek, Literary, Poetry, rain, window | 7 Comments

Draft

Posted on September 16, 2016 by John Biscello

child

There are no mirrors here,
yet everywhere I see myself,
a bated draft of furls,
each bearing the right
to exist, and respire ably.

Posted in Artwork, Poetry, Uncategorized | Tagged child, epitpah, John Biscello, josef sudek, Literary, Mirror, Poetry, window | Leave a comment

John Biscello

Sow

Inviolate,
the shallow impress
of bird’s feet in snow,
or, how love,
in chronic yield,
metes time to sow.

Toll

Winter,
tolling the climes
of Grief’s wraith,
or, how the feathers
of first snow, falling,
chasten the dead
in lasting refrain.

Climes

Grief,
engendering the climes
of Winter’s wraith,
or, how the sound
of white fire, falling,
in reverse, encloses the dead
in penitent refrain.

Fetters

Between worlds,
the vetted reaping
of Memory, where wings
once brushed rash pink, or,
how an angel,
ennobling fetters, loses sleep
to grievous mortal claims.

Filigree

And on the eighth day,
gospel and inviolate,
the Moon went on a bender,
pouring silver chaste
with salve, or, how the world,
toddling due course, filigreed
the necessary dark
by grieving jointly.

Pearl

In the shadow
of a stray leaf, the ribbed
modeling of pearlescent light,
Autumn’s plein-air portrait, in miniature,
unsigned.

Fold

small hands,
immeasurable in their dignity
and brood,
folding paper cranes
as grief rises
to level tender shoots

The Ash Tree

She, supplicant to none

and all, faring Heaven’s lighted

grief, boughs between silent worlds,

citing impartial Grace.

Catalog

Draft

There are no mirrors here,
yet everywhere I see myself,
a bated draft of furls,
each bearing the right
to exist, and respire ably.

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Meta

Categories

Hours & Info

Inviolate, the shallow impress of bird’s feet in snow, or, how love, in chronic yield, metes time to sow.

Winter, tolling the climes of Grief’s wraith, or, how the feathers of first snow, falling, chasten the dead in lasting refrain.

Grief, engendering the climes of Winter’s wraith, or, how the sound of white fire, falling, in reverse, encloses the dead in penitent refrain.

Between worlds, the vetted reaping of Memory, where wings once brushed rash pink, or, how an angel, ennobling fetters, loses sleep to grievous mortal claims.

And on the eighth day, gospel and inviolate, the Moon went on a bender, pouring silver chaste with salve, or, how the world, toddling due course, filigreed the necessary dark by grieving jointly.

In the shadow of a stray leaf, the ribbed modeling of pearlescent light, Autumn’s plein-air portrait, in miniature, unsigned.

small hands, immeasurable in their dignity and brood, folding paper cranes as grief rises to level tender shoots

She, supplicant to none

and all, faring Heaven’s lighted

grief, boughs between silent worlds,

citing impartial Grace.

There are no mirrors here, yet everywhere I see myself, a bated draft of furls, each bearing the right to exist, and respire ably.

Archives

Meta

Categories

Inviolate,
the shallow impress
of bird’s feet in snow,
or, how love,
in chronic yield,
metes time to sow.

Winter,
tolling the climes
of Grief’s wraith,
or, how the feathers
of first snow, falling,
chasten the dead
in lasting refrain.

Grief,
engendering the climes
of Winter’s wraith,
or, how the sound
of white fire, falling,
in reverse, encloses the dead
in penitent refrain.

Between worlds,
the vetted reaping
of Memory, where wings
once brushed rash pink, or,
how an angel,
ennobling fetters, loses sleep
to grievous mortal claims.

And on the eighth day,
gospel and inviolate,
the Moon went on a bender,
pouring silver chaste
with salve, or, how the world,
toddling due course, filigreed
the necessary dark
by grieving jointly.

In the shadow
of a stray leaf, the ribbed
modeling of pearlescent light,
Autumn’s plein-air portrait, in miniature,
unsigned.

small hands,
immeasurable in their dignity
and brood,
folding paper cranes
as grief rises
to level tender shoots

There are no mirrors here,
yet everywhere I see myself,
a bated draft of furls,
each bearing the right
to exist, and respire ably.