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Meta
Tag Archives: God
Arclight
Bidden by tatters, and gravity’s mutable arc, the palpitations guide me. They are subtle, duly engaged, a milk-slow run of shivers. Bracing the rim, I peer out of cavedark: everything is sudden, color-soaked, a ferocious din and melt, fringed shawls … Continue reading
Posted in Artwork, Poetry, Uncategorized
Tagged abstract, Abstract Expressionism, birth, dream, eptiaph, fire, God, John Biscello, Light, Mark Rothko, poem, Poetry, red, Yellow
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Pour
So much light poured in, so much passive worth.
Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized
Tagged celestial, child, dream, God, John Biscello, Light, love, luminous, mushi-shi, poem, river of light, spirit
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Godot Vs. God
In Godot’s waiting room, Heaven-rent, the vacancy sign had been converted into a living epitaph for people choking on bated breath: Here tomorrow, gone today.
Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized
Tagged breath, eternity, God, Godot, Heaven, John Biscello, poem, Poetry, rent, samuel beckett, today, tomorrow, waiting
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Winter Adagio
Nightwalk in a small town. Moonbleached adobe set against the snowglobular shakedown of flakes, as if dandruff from the itchy shaved scalp of God was falling, a phosphate rhapsody. Along the road, mudskinned snowdrifts, like albino coal-miners, crouching, or dispossessed … Continue reading
Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized
Tagged adagio, God, John Biscello, night, nightwalk, poem, Poetry, snow, snowdrift, snowflakes, solo, Taos, town, wandering, Winter
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Claim for the Meek
I do not want to see the face of God. I want to see her mask, where and for whom it cracked, the causal history of lines and fissures; want to trace, with blind mute innocence, the light quartered and … Continue reading
Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized
Tagged claim, God, Goddess, John Biscello, Light, love, mask, meek, poem, Poetry, spirit
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Drum
Drum over me God, I am water under the bridge, threaded with silk and sewn with bones flowing, undammed, into the percussive folds of a liquid body, my name and past ceded to babbles of foam upon a colossal, quivering … Continue reading
Awe
To walk in fields of blue lightning, to see with a child’s snow-driven eyes, is to receive awe and grace; the tasseled forks of God’s split tongues and blonde fuzzies coercing you to savor.
Supple
By exacting standards, I have held myself aloft, bated, the invocation to surrender, in bald tatters, now tags me to move, in rapport with grace, into suppler imaginings.
John Biscello 