Tag Archives: Poetry

Exult

Posted on March 8, 2018 by John Biscello

At the pinnacle, hallelujah knows no bounds– To exult, boldly.   (Photo by Anne Brigman)

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No Runway Required

Posted on March 7, 2018 by John Biscello

How come no one ever asks, What are you metaphysically wearing right now? Are you basking in translucent skivvies, rocking spangled self-awareness, dream-dropping golden drawers and grace-lace in multi-storied tatters, are you so flagrantly naked right now, candle-wax-drip in a … Continue reading →

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Fate

Posted on March 7, 2018 by John Biscello

Patience, ennobled, paused on the cusp of fate — Death waits in the wings.   (Photo by Henri Cartier-Bresson)  

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Turn

Posted on March 7, 2018 by John Biscello

Nowhere else to turn, restless child seeking lighted way, shadows hold court, monopolizing space and time.   (Photo by Henri Cartier-Bresson)

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Quartet

Posted on March 6, 2018 by John Biscello

On this side of the mirror, it begins with a light, courtesy kindling promise, yet on the other side, the smoke is already mood-thick and rising, suggesting second lives engaged in the slow burn of mutual arson.   (Photo by … Continue reading →

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I’m Here

Posted on March 6, 2018 by John Biscello

Day after day after day modeling ripe, fugitive blankness, to the siege of passers-by who smiled sweetly and pointed at the coat, the dress, the bow, yet none of them saw what wasn’t blatantly advertised, the age-old curse which kept … Continue reading →

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Owl

Posted on March 5, 2018 by John Biscello

Owl, owl, burning white, your gaze, peerless, and sublime, bearing braised volumes of silence within fathomless archives– Who dares to confront the suddenness of history, all at once, unblinking? Who dares to initiate the sorrow of millennia, in a single … Continue reading →

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Twins

Posted on March 5, 2018 by John Biscello

Side by side, dress by dress, stitch by stitch, cuff by cuff, we will respire as echo, endlessly, in the funereal symmetry of one, Diane Arbus.   (Photo by Diane Arbus)

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Georgia

Posted on March 5, 2018 by John Biscello

The fingers, shroud and baffling, in temper and Sphinx, the hands, workmanlike, choreographing majesty in sync with the eyes which saw and praised, in rapture, the inner lives of flowers.   (Photo by Alfred Steiglitz)  

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Mercy

Posted on March 5, 2018 by John Biscello

She, unmoving, has remained the same for millennia, mercy on a tether. As for the tombs, the plots, the names engraved on headstones, those are always different, change, the truest source of sorrow replenished.

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