Tag Archives: poem

Winter Adagio

Posted on December 8, 2017 by John Biscello

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 →

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First Love, Winter

Posted on December 7, 2017 by John Biscello

Boy and girl, sledding tongues, no words— Winter, gloves off.

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Winter, a Love Story

Posted on December 7, 2017 by John Biscello

Winter’s brides, wearing long white scarves of sleet and song, touching pale sky to blue lips, breathing memory and frost; their sorrow and spectral want grows hands  that enclose me, a robust crush, matrimonial in its grip, until I am … Continue reading →

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Zuzu’s Petals

Posted on December 7, 2017 by John Biscello

  A father’s pocket, containing secret petals— the meaning of love.

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Claim for the Meek

Posted on December 7, 2017 by John Biscello

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 →

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They Are Their Own

Posted on December 5, 2017 by John Biscello

Do you know where your children are? Or rather who, in their ripening pedigree and new language they are in the process of becoming? Make no mistake They are not nor have they ever been yours belonging infinitely to the … Continue reading →

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Night Sky

Posted on November 24, 2017 by John Biscello

Within the plum-dark consciousness of God’s mysterious mind, Stars tells stories of unsung psalms seeded piercingly bright.

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Astro-Erotic

Posted on November 23, 2017 by John Biscello

Orion’s numinous belt undone on the sly by Cassiopeia’s nimble, flaring digits, as he proceeds to enter her whorling sphere of glacial fire spread lightly to produce cosmic aaaaaahs and oooohs, while the green-eyed Moon, papal and robust, records the … Continue reading →

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Retreat

Posted on November 23, 2017 by John Biscello

Perfectly still dog, robed in dust; birds, choral and bright, flutter and thrash in needle-comb trees; I, this side of dream, trespass lightly.

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Creed

Posted on November 19, 2017 by John Biscello

As soon as your pen makes first contact with the page you have done yourself the great and holy service of destroying that viral boogeyman, Perfection, which has buried far too many acts of expression and faith, a dream-life darkened … Continue reading →

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