Tag Archives: Poetry

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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Doll

Posted on March 4, 2018 by John Biscello

She keeps strict vigil over Childhood in action, every fragrance and nuance, every lost tooth and blown-out birthday candle, every romp in the grass and Goliath slain, she keeps conscious watch, so later, when the box and the dark come … Continue reading →

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Symmetry

Posted on March 4, 2018 by John Biscello

It is the filigreed static, and effluvient roar of the water nymphs choral concert, which numinously orders the light and stones to conspire, and function as delegates of symmetry.

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Remainder

Posted on March 4, 2018 by John Biscello

Sometimes, the children who have gone underground, the chance orphans who choose spelunk or burrow or blackest pitch out of necessity and survival instinct, leave behind tangible remnants of their former lives, sacrificed to sights and gods unseen by morally … Continue reading →

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Not Nietzche

Posted on March 4, 2018 by John Biscello

If you gaze long enough into a lighted window at night, eventually the lighted window goes dark. (i.e., Common Sense for Uncommonly Complicated Philosophers Who Hang out at Starbucks and Read Immanuel Kant While Hoping That the Nerdy-Cute Barista Finally … Continue reading →

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Playground

Posted on March 4, 2018 by John Biscello

In the end, as in the beginning, we shall find that the whole cyclical shebanga was a mischievous riot, a fool’s paradise of child’s play upon fluorescent plasma, or to parrot the enlightened pearls of Mister Voltaire, “God is a … Continue reading →

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Distance

Posted on March 2, 2018 by John Biscello

Fringing the stark shadow of a lucid twig, two fallen leaves court from the distance of metaphor.

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Opaque

Posted on March 2, 2018 by John Biscello

Rebirthing, within fathomless hues, beyond the opaque rim, and vanishing, someone waits to claim your life anew.

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