Tag Archives: poem

Endangered

Posted on May 13, 2026 by John Biscello

The author in me died a lonely long-time-ago death. He was too singular to adapt and stay alive in this new-moving world of word-species and endangered text.

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Bough

Posted on May 11, 2026 by John Biscello

At day’s end, the bough breaks, the cradle falls, the songbird returns, and the dreamer watches it all spiring in neutral.

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Domain

Posted on April 20, 2026 by John Biscello

In the latent vernacular of gist— mind breaths in space time crystallized as rapt intimacies give the dreaming voice its human due and proof of residence— Fading tracks the ghostly course of diminishing returns within a poem’s lasting domain and … Continue reading →

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Glaze

Posted on April 15, 2026 by John Biscello

Solitude waxing blankly in the company of words— Moon’s forecast: warm, gospel, and fuzzy.

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Vigil

Posted on April 15, 2026 by John Biscello

Clouds, fleecy in glaring mass, softly, softly, the words tender themselves to silence in passing.

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Compass

Posted on April 15, 2026 by John Biscello

It could be called Variations on Love, how we find each other again and again, in different modes and phases, nearness teased out of growth’s grinning desire to story and multiply, to bring lives into exquisite sync and pulse— This, … Continue reading →

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Enclosure

Posted on April 15, 2026 by John Biscello

Her body, her body breaking in time, a vivid stutter and scratch, repeated in my mind’s amateur attempts to braid or grasp what amounts to sand in wind— Life, oh life, a series of manic shutters and twitches, threaded to … Continue reading →

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May-Day

Posted on April 15, 2026 by John Biscello

(Buon compleanno, Nonna Maggio!) As a wounded bird,forever hesitant in flight and gamble,a parable unto your own tender cause,your eyes gave watery wayto a trilling warble,a brave and weary tunethat spoke soundly of hearts breakinginto smiles,never too soonor wasted. (Mat … Continue reading →

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Hymn

Posted on April 14, 2026 by John Biscello

In her body, her body, repeatable as scorch and given grail, I come blindly into words, so many words, a stunning slate of Braille and seductive run-on— my fingers, dodo in their impossible flights, stutter and fail to reach the … Continue reading →

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Micro-Film

Posted on March 5, 2026 by John Biscello

Modeling tense pause in a suspended sentence– noir, titled: Breathless.

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