Tag Archives: poem

Time and How It Got That Way

Posted on October 9, 2026 by John Biscello

Old folks bend over backwards to become curious children again breathing in the sepia fragrance of roses long since dead and revived nightly to bless time’s testing of reaping to sow.

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Freight

Posted on September 28, 2026 by John Biscello

Red notebooks. Blue. Black. Yellow. Never green. I don’t know why not green, maybe some autistic glitch or allergy. Just never green. Over thirty years’ worth of notebooks, in which sketches and impressions have been dutifully registered, recorded, preserved. Mind-breaths … Continue reading →

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Turning of the Screw

Posted on September 28, 2026 by John Biscello

Memory as defiant neverland where cryogeny is the norm and no one grows up only inward. We bore into ourselves, screws to a tease.

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Torchlight

Posted on September 28, 2026 by John Biscello

She turned longing into a form of religion, effect to the cause of a martyr raised to exact scorch from quenchless tender.

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Hot Coals

Posted on September 25, 2026 by John Biscello

Firespeak sing n swing. This is a mode, a chariot and vehicle of expression. Bardic in its yawping and hot rod in its bebop turbine. Whitman revved it. Coltrane. Kerouac. Ginserg. Bird. Riot, blues and jazz rolled into self-sung nuptials. … Continue reading →

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Window Dressing

Posted on September 25, 2026 by John Biscello

Out the window worlds come in, flashing in doses and quarters  and nickels and slices and geometrical swaths. Out the window is wealthy in examples and suggestions. When looking out the window, when sailing, we become a pair of eyes … Continue reading →

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Fool’s Play

Posted on September 25, 2026 by John Biscello

To take the plunge is, or can be, an act of willful trespass, courting the Fool as you merge with his flagged archetype while plunging down into a ravine, your life tomorrowless in its abyss and calling. The plunge is … Continue reading →

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Post-Scriptive

Posted on September 25, 2026 by John Biscello

Something about the air of absence, its titillation and gravity. Ghosts are highly seductive when revealing their apparent lack. Beck sang about gravity shackles going wild. Genius is childhood endowed with virile maturity. Baudelaire said that. Or something to that … Continue reading →

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Autumn in F-Sharp

Posted on September 24, 2026 by John Biscello

In her long distance gaze, unblinkingly chaste and running, the bayonet plunges between a rock and hard place, and I, gasping, to air on the side of trespass and empathic fall.

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Jazz

Posted on September 24, 2026 by John Biscello

The work as in the dreaming, as in the dreaming-doing, as in the beat drumming at the core underscored by silence and dark spooning. In the dark we bump into walls, clumsily grope, and tell ourselves stories, sometimes all at … Continue reading →

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