Tag Archives: Poetry

Tenor

Posted on October 28, 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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Darkroom

Posted on October 27, 2020 by John Biscello

In the darkroom of your own solitude the slowly developing photographs of your life can be recollected forwards, as if chronology were a fugue, and you its vigilant timekeeper, twice removed.

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Song of Hope

Posted on October 26, 2020 by John Biscello

They kill poetsin these partsdon’t they?When I got hereI saw Walt Whitman’swizened head out backimpaled on a stakeflies buzzing round itsconcomitant rot and stenchI heard one of the locals sayit was the worst kind of tourist trapthis voodoo orbfunctioning like … Continue reading →

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Transcience

Posted on October 26, 2020 by John Biscello

Where were you last night, my dreams asked of my silence— Between worlds, I longed.

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Nowhere is Now Here

Posted on October 26, 2020 by John Biscello

“Voyages are accomplished inwardly”–Henry Miller This dreamer’s life, sentenced to passive worth and fired stillness. Cross my heart and hope to die, there is, I promise, nothing whatsoever to prove or assert or confirm, no doors to walk through (you … Continue reading →

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Icy Hot

Posted on October 26, 2020 by John Biscello

Between worlds, vying for merger, the reigning glacial celibacy of stars, and the marvelous frisson of pure mortal throb— Where you are not, find your ghost’s bluest breath of want upon a mirrored caste of longing.

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Harmonics

Posted on October 26, 2020 by John Biscello

We, the people, the portal-jumpers, re-seeding our modes of vision and being, to score the heart’s greening bounty, as if notes to a torch song, buried and nearly forgotten, and now being recalled to give Grace her due and amazing … Continue reading →

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Found Blue

Posted on October 25, 2020 by John Biscello

We do not enter the bluest hours, they come upon us, tender fugue and gallows silk, where we, in blatant trembling sheerness, are revealed to ourselves as the bated wisps between air and perish.

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Firsting Impression

Posted on October 25, 2020 by John Biscello

It happens fast, this life— the first trembling chapter of an impending sneeze, the half-slitted stutter of a lid’s ambition to wink— We are, timewise, less than these things in the gaugeless cosmic scheme. And yet beyond these words, and … Continue reading →

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Weathervane

Posted on October 23, 2020 by John Biscello

In the climate change of one’s heart, a weathervane, doubling as compass, pointing to true north, as we, the wandering homesick orphans, are called forth to brave the wilds of a new breaking dawn.

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