Tag Archives: poem

Ferally Yours

Posted on June 8, 2018 by John Biscello

Take your own pulse, and manic rave, to the wilds springing new weather, vigorous sync-up to the unknown, where pagan gospel will re-seed feral beginnings.

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Ch-Ch-Changes

Posted on June 8, 2018 by John Biscello

Note to metamorphosizing self: every cocoon quivers and trembles, every process of change brings with it a new set of keys, and claims, every slumber implicitly contains the charge of wakefulness, and every grief minnows within a sea of holy … Continue reading →

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Prehistoric You

Posted on June 7, 2018 by John Biscello

There is, perhaps, nothing truer than the myth of one’s own innerlife, a revolution, rapt and lidless, the carnivalesque autobiography of spirit, endlessly turning upon, and twinning within, the Soul’s vanguard and prehistory, unsigned.

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Tend

Posted on June 7, 2018 by John Biscello

To be given over, again and again, to amen, upon this earth, to bind renewal, through wonder tended, by savor’s witness.

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Soulfeed

Posted on June 7, 2018 by John Biscello

You are here, she said, to take a tentative chance on the infinite, to teethe, lovingly, on the numinous zipper of a star or two, to gamble away innocence with a fortune teller’s palm, grinning stigmata, and not a single … Continue reading →

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Calling

Posted on June 6, 2018 by John Biscello

To imagine, I was here, to dare, marvel’s slow calling, before I disappear.

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Storyless

Posted on June 6, 2018 by John Biscello

There is no story greater than the one you don’t tell yourself, silence and lighted space inviting wonder and mystery to pool at the center of who you are beyond facile descriptions and prior claims.

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All and Sundry

Posted on June 6, 2018 by John Biscello

To consume, tenderest bulbs of Beauty, alighting on one’s bluedeep hunger, to swallow, whole, the garden’s rooted bounty, greenfire and all.

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Not a Sonnet

Posted on June 6, 2018 by John Biscello

I can go on. Sometimes you fall off the edge of a sentence and find another one waiting for you there, like the billowcushy arms of a cloud-woman, or keenly lighted wraith, and you can go on, holding hands with … Continue reading →

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Cask

Posted on June 6, 2018 by John Biscello

It was, in a state of psychic undress, where I found I wanted to reveal, more than to confess, scoring a litany of wounds, and bruised valentines, to the expectant cask of woman’s fired dawn, beyond reproof, and failsafe fronts.

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