Tag Archives: Light

Storytellers

Posted on November 23, 2022 by John Biscello
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Proof

Posted on October 7, 2022 by John Biscello

They say that in the beginning was the word but you weren’t given the true complete sentence— In the beginning was the word, betraying silence, and this became lighted proof of the beginning of fiction.

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Fireflies

Posted on July 24, 2022 by John Biscello

All these stories– Fireflies in a garden, on a moonless night.

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Lucent

Posted on July 4, 2022 by John Biscello
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Analog

Posted on June 23, 2022 by John Biscello

Light. Like ten thousand fingers scaling the arpeggios of lives minted and scattered— the autobiography of days demanding their own masks— and we, the weepless ones, dry and several worlds removed, drown in the riptides of bass and metaphor within … Continue reading →

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Altar Piece

Posted on June 17, 2022 by John Biscello

We are the stunning brides of tomorrow, dressing up for ritual matrimony in an airless church where children laugh and hurl gulls of rice, and the candles, matching light to symmetry, never go out.

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Tatters

Posted on March 23, 2022 by John Biscello

For many years I asked Grief to wait outside my window, a peripheral guest chancing obscure, fugitive details, and lighted tatters. Have I been a poor host, stranger to my own ghost and remnants?

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Night and Day

Posted on November 26, 2020 by John Biscello

In the fasting age of the world’s lengthy night, hunger for reclamation projects, and restoration of citing visions long overdue– all is stilled to know the suture of light, moving quietly across tenderest stitches, upon which symmetry is duly derived … Continue reading →

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Choir

Posted on November 26, 2020 by John Biscello

“… even in the darkest times we have a right to expect some illumination . . . This may well come less from theories and concepts than from the uncertain, flickering, and often weak light that some men and women, … Continue reading →

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Desire

Posted on November 18, 2020 by John Biscello

Within the rounded sermon of the inanimate, a favored coursing, by which light spreads its wordless fingers upon the world’s private longing.

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