Tag Archives: Poetry

Yours Truly

Posted on December 22, 2020 by John Biscello

Mystery can only be expressed through Mystery– its reflection that of a feather casting a shadow upon a wind that holds forever in the lightest regard.

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The Whisperers

Posted on December 3, 2020 by John Biscello

Nothing frightens a man firmly ensconced in false power more than a whisper. Volume, shouting, roaring, these reside within his comfort zone of conflict, but a marvelous whisper, connected to the unseen river of sound where many whisperers are called … Continue reading →

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The Never-Ending Story

Posted on November 23, 2020 by John Biscello

We are, rest assured, eternity localized. You being the metaphor and axis upon which a real life is imagined and inspired by a dream story.

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Could Be Heaven

Posted on November 18, 2020 by John Biscello

No sin of which to speak, always beginnings, rogue, feral, growing wild among the greenest seasons of fire and becoming, or, siring the form of a dancer dancing in the clouds, lightning at her feet, as the rain begins to … Continue reading →

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Heart Country

Posted on November 18, 2020 by John Biscello

“Imagination certainly is an entertaining thing to have—and it is great to be a fool.” – Georgia O’ Keefe She, in painting the bones and the blue while distilling, in tenderest strokes, the interior lives and longing of flowers, applied … Continue reading →

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Toy Story

Posted on November 16, 2020 by John Biscello

“Tedium . . . it’s perhaps, after all, the dissatisfaction of the intimate soul because we haven’t given it a belief, the desolation of the sad child we are deep down, because we haven’t bought him a divine toy.” – … Continue reading →

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Walkabout

Posted on November 13, 2020 by John Biscello

“My whole life has been little else than a long reverie divided into chapters by my daily walks”–Jean-Jacques Rousseau To ground, daily, these dreams of novel origins, bracing bold contact with rounded edges, off which falling is favored and soundly … Continue reading →

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Storm Front

Posted on November 13, 2020 by John Biscello

“I think we are climates above which pause threats of storms that take place elsewhere.”—Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet What then, this weather of strange balloons and vanities engorged like blowfish bladders purpling to the point of bursting? Who, … Continue reading →

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Chekhov and the Cat

Posted on November 13, 2020 by John Biscello

“The longer a poem, the weaker the impression that it has been dictated from above: Heaven is not verbose.  The more you talk, the more you lie.”–Vera Pavlova When I am overly verbose, I am trying to convince myself, or … Continue reading →

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Cracked Plate

Posted on November 12, 2020 by John Biscello

“Sometimes, though, the cracked plate has to be retained in the pantry, has to be kept in service as a household necessity.  It can never again be warmed on the stove nor shuffled with the other plates in the dishpan; … Continue reading →

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