Tag Archives: poem

Closer

Posted on March 11, 2018 by John Biscello

You said you knew me, but really, what did you know? Closer, I dare you.   (Photo by Man Ray)    

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Lodge

Posted on March 11, 2018 by John Biscello

Hell, according to Sartre, is other people. When I arrived, god knows where, silence, dust, clouds, a time-scarred sign and not a soul anywhere to be found, I began, in earnest, and jest, to wonder if Sartre was right, heaven, … Continue reading →

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Beach

Posted on March 11, 2018 by John Biscello

Life, give us a break, Love, the loafer’s paradise, childlike in its reign.   (Photo by Henri Cartier-Bresson)

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Footsteps

Posted on March 11, 2018 by John Biscello

Every last kiss, a rupture in her psyche– Unsteady walk home.   (Photo by Henri Cartier-Bresson)    

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Noveltease

Posted on March 11, 2018 by John Biscello

Tuesday afternoon, blowing off work to find his lover, in bed, fondling Madame Bovary’s text under the covers, literary flint and tease sparking his novel request–May I read between your legs?   (Photo by Henri Cartier-Bresson)

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Whirl

Posted on March 9, 2018 by John Biscello

Whirling, to net wind, Nature, ordained to coerce, gives breath to poems.   (Photo by Henri Cartier-Bresson)

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Wither

Posted on March 9, 2018 by John Biscello

From morning to noon, the roses gathered to grieve the loss of their bloom.   (Photo by David John Lotto)

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Kind of Blue, Too

Posted on March 9, 2018 by John Biscello

Spiders to Mozart, what luminous webs and notes we weave, snot-strands from God’s blown brass, tapestries of the eternal boombox, breakbeats to spacefolk to bebop within a deep forest kind of blue, the music, recorded or un, plays on and … Continue reading →

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Bulbs

Posted on March 9, 2018 by John Biscello

Incandescence, how bulbs aspire to fragrant gospel.    

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Keen

Posted on March 9, 2018 by John Biscello

Her secret refuge, at childhood’s keen edge, flirting with grace on the rim.

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