Liminal

Posted on August 20, 2023 by John Biscello

There are

tunnels at

the end of the light

leading back

to passages

marking our

long day’s journey

into night.

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Sea Change

Posted on August 18, 2023 by John Biscello

At a distance,

sea changes,

while the wind sings

an elegy for the effaced.

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Sanctum

Posted on August 18, 2023 by John Biscello

From the series, Japan Poems.

In the humid haunt

of vinyl heaven

one man’s canary soul

vaulting in quarter

and half-notes

slotted between rapier motes

and circular motions of dreaming

worn down end to end

to play on.

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Updated Bio

Posted on August 17, 2023 by John Biscello


Hailing from Brooklyn, NY, author, poet, playwright, perfomer and screenwriter, John Biscello, is the author of four novels–Broken Land, Raking the Dust, Nocturne Variations, No Man’s Brooklyn–two volumes of poetry–Arclight, Moonglow on Mercy Street–a collection of stories, Freeze Tag–and an illustrated fable, The Jackdaw and the Doll. During the pandemic timeline (2020-2023) he completed three new novels-The Last Furies, No One Dreams in Color, None So Distant–which he regards as his Blue Star trilogy. His produced, full-length plays include: LOBSTERS ON ICE, ADAGIO FOR STRAYS, ZEITGEIST U.S.A., THE BEST MEDICINE and WEREWOLVES DON’T WALTZ. He is the founder and director of the Taos Youth Ensemble, an independent theater program for youths ages 5-18, and many of his original children’s plays are available through dramanotebook.com

His books are available through Amazon and other cyber-outlets, and his soundcloud page offers an inventory of his spoken word tracks.

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Claim

Posted on August 16, 2023 by John Biscello

From the series, Japan Poems.

To be found

wanting

is the favored

and persistent urge

of longing’s desire

to know itself

as a distant calling

toward the siren of intimacy.

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Vanishing Point

Posted on August 15, 2023 by John Biscello

From the series, Japan Poems.

Until I can see you,

the cities will vanish,

effaced mutely in swaths

of white on white,

a glaring monopoly

and divide—

alone these distances

prevail to hail symmetry,

its pageants and faults,

the legacy of runes,

every movement

preceding solace

and respite

to one whose lyrics

have outlived its song.

Artwork by Miyu Fujita

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Window

Posted on August 14, 2023 by John Biscello

From the series, Japan Poems.

Rainy day,

through the upstairs window

at the café,

framed within the wrought-iron

railing enclosing the stone ledge

on which the potted plants sit,

women in summer kimonos

carrying closed umbrellas.

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Noir

Posted on August 12, 2023 by John Biscello

From the series, Japan Poems.

Screen black.

The sound of waves

lapping against the shore.

Fade in

to three police officers and an unshaved man

gathered around the empty boat

carried in by the sea.

The poem ends,

the movie begins,

a mystery seeking direction

and the right kind of detective.

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Strangers

Posted on August 11, 2023 by John Biscello

From the series, Japan Poems.

We are all pretending

here.

Hoping not for the best

but for not the worst

to claim

unsettle

or overtake us.

The young girl

in the rented summer kimono

taking a selfie with the misty

Kyoto landscape in the background

the middle-aged man

filling up his empty water bottle

with the sacred water spouting

into the stone fountain

the man skipping the iron ladle

they put out to collect water

in favor of something his own

that he can hold and take with him

his own disposable source of holy

the throngs streaming to and fro

a hydra ravenous to devour

a culture’s prized offerings

while preserving through an inventory of photos

the memories of absorption

the hungry ghosts

never appear in the photos

only us

so we remain fooled

able to go on pretending

where emptiness glares the most

and the worst feared finds evasion through hope.

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Passage

Posted on August 10, 2023 by John Biscello

From the series, Japan Poems.

If only in trespasses and glimmers,

if only

the passages within

possessed lasting value—

What is that thing,

at the edge of waking,

that thing

without agenda or the burden

of always moving freight?

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