Tag Archives: Poetry

Draft

Posted on December 15, 2017 by John Biscello

There are no mirrors here, yet everywhere I see myself, a bated draft of furls, each bearing the right to exist, and respire ably.

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Godot Vs. God

Posted on December 15, 2017 by John Biscello

In Godot’s waiting room, Heaven-rent, the vacancy sign had been converted into a living epitaph for people choking on bated breath: Here tomorrow, gone today.

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Missive

Posted on December 13, 2017 by John Biscello

Flown, without feathers, an unrelenting missive engaging remote hints and near heaven

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Arc

Posted on December 11, 2017 by John Biscello

It is the mouth birthing a blood-new kiss that begs gravity’s pardon and raises lips to an impossible arc.

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White Bird

Posted on December 9, 2017 by John Biscello

She, full of secret pines, shadow-limbed beneath a pale disc of winter sun, waltzing solo in snow-caked hills, blood-red quill tucked behind her left ear, just in case the urge to climb spires and trace spheres via a fierce run … Continue reading →

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Winter Adagio

Posted on December 8, 2017 by John Biscello

Nightwalk in a small town. Moonbleached adobe set against the snowglobular shakedown of flakes, as if dandruff from the itchy shaved scalp of God was falling, a phosphate rhapsody. Along the road, mudskinned snowdrifts, like albino coal-miners, crouching, or dispossessed … Continue reading →

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Winter, a Love Story

Posted on December 7, 2017 by John Biscello

Winter’s brides, wearing long white scarves of sleet and song, touching pale sky to blue lips, breathing memory and frost; their sorrow and spectral want grows hands  that enclose me, a robust crush, matrimonial in its grip, until I am … Continue reading →

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Claim for the Meek

Posted on December 7, 2017 by John Biscello

I do not want to see the face of God. I want to see her mask, where and for whom it cracked, the causal history of lines and fissures; want to trace, with blind mute innocence, the light quartered and … Continue reading →

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They Are Their Own

Posted on December 5, 2017 by John Biscello

Do you know where your children are? Or rather who, in their ripening pedigree and new language they are in the process of becoming? Make no mistake They are not nor have they ever been yours belonging infinitely to the … Continue reading →

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Night Sky

Posted on November 24, 2017 by John Biscello

Within the plum-dark consciousness of God’s mysterious mind, Stars tells stories of unsung psalms seeded piercingly bright.

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