Tag Archives: poem

From Shards, a Cathedral

Posted on October 21, 2020 by John Biscello

From the absolute hovel of unlettered ruins, a crabby shard, reflecting a tasseled badge of moonlight— this, the modest origins to ceremony and marvel, as she built an outlaw cathedral of self, in which she dwelled and worshipped, vagrantly hospitable … Continue reading →

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Coils

Posted on September 8, 2020 by John Biscello

To caper at the edge, where the seething lyric happens, poetry with slits and fast teeth, where the hours of phenomena are boiled and reduced to a single quivering instant, an umbilical knot of light upon tenderest scraps and coils.

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Ravels

Posted on September 7, 2020 by John Biscello

At the wound’s core, dark luscious ravels of text, courting, inviolate measures, the fathomless brood of Beauty’s End.

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Craft

Posted on September 7, 2020 by John Biscello

How a writer, cave-timing dark and solitude, annoints an ember by crafting the small hours into a flagrant torch.

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Curse You, Red Baron!

Posted on September 4, 2020 by John Biscello

It was Snoopy’s way of living through Charlie Brown’s shame and ignominy, his low self-esteem. Dogs are sensitive that way. Snoopy co-opted Charlie’s gnawing desire for a heroic life, or at least to do something right, to feel right inside … Continue reading →

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The Greatest Job on Earth

Posted on August 31, 2020 by John Biscello

So much depends upon a red spiral notebook opened to a blank page, beside a pen’s barest volition to longing, within silence’s meted reign.

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This Word’s Life

Posted on August 31, 2020 by John Biscello

Words are wonderfully illegitimate and unhurried placeholders for psychic disturbances and vagrant quandaries. To frame it differently– Using a broken compass to navigate through a paper town on a vintage red bicycle is, in itself, immaculate. Words, in other words, … Continue reading →

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Rising

Posted on June 19, 2020 by John Biscello

Dreams, undeferred, coupled with Hope, that thing unfettered, to keep us company and warm our solitude, as we stumble bravely through a long night’s journey into the bated gospel of days rising to claim us.

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Butterfly, in Black and White

Posted on June 4, 2020 by John Biscello

Yesterday, before the fist-prints made their way onto the walls of the gallery as a show of solidarity, there was a moment, one of those small simple yet powerful moments which are easily dismissed or overlooked. Me, and my partner, … Continue reading →

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Tenor

Posted on April 19, 2020 by John Biscello

The difference between I am here and I was here is delicately slight, and not really a matter of tense but rather one of plaited tenor and climate, in which degrees, separating our ghost from our dreams, keeps us shivering … Continue reading →

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