Tag Archives: poem

Illuminate

Posted on January 7, 2018 by John Biscello

Illuminated manuscript, The Sun Also Sets, spontaneously authored by the divine hand of light’s play on wall.

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Miracle

Posted on January 5, 2018 by John Biscello

When kissing, we initiated our tongues to slow, deep, fevered tango, wresting the rabid miracle of pink from thin, slitted air.

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Neverland Exposed

Posted on January 4, 2018 by John Biscello

Peter Pan’s Jesus complex turns flights of fancy into guilty pleasures, sacred geometry into zero accountability, stillborn freezes into high, happy fevers, starling charms into martyred alibis, deeply felt distances into shallow runs of intimacy, and yet beneath all the … Continue reading →

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Ashes to Ashes

Posted on January 4, 2018 by John Biscello

Out of the ash-heap, she imagined something new would emerge, but when the wind blew and scattered the ashes to reveal nothing but scorch-marks upon scarred earth, she understood, with a great sense of loss, that form followed function only … Continue reading →

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Cup

Posted on January 3, 2018 by John Biscello

The simpling of the heart as it pours fast light into a rimless cup.

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Quest

Posted on January 3, 2018 by John Biscello

One thing we cannot recover is time. And perhaps every writer, as a fugitive stalker, as a fool-hero on a desperate quest, sets himself this glorious, impossible task, the solvent recovery of time through the mortal fetters of a merciful … Continue reading →

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Lemonade

Posted on January 3, 2018 by John Biscello

After the deluge of lemons stopped, adults everywhere, altered by the citric downpour, carved into the future with zest and salacious glee, and set up stands on sidewalks and roadsides, selling lemonade refreshed from the heart of Childhood’s immutable lore.

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Porchlight

Posted on January 2, 2018 by John Biscello

The porchlight in one’s personal heaven is always on, solace through staid aureole for orphans wandering heartsick in the dark.  

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The Argument

Posted on January 2, 2018 by John Biscello

Reality and me have disagreements all the time. Reality is, by nature, inviolable. And a bit of an existential bully. I am, by illicit union, a child of fiction. And tender in the center. Reality and me don’t always see … Continue reading →

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Yes

Posted on January 1, 2018 by John Biscello

The tenderest means to a true center is through loss accepted gracefully and yes praised.

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