Tag Archives: wind

Metrics

Posted on November 20, 2025 by John Biscello

Dust is time’s response to dreaming. Dreams–desolate, unmade, spectral—wafting as winds carry out the ceremonial twitch of pallbearing.

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Viewfinder

Posted on January 5, 2024 by John Biscello

Go to hell. Stay there. Take sensual inventory of what there feels like. Go to hell. Don’t stay there. Imagine wind born of vacancy. Go nowhere fast. Call it hell. Go nowhere slow. Call it heaven. Mix heaven and hell … Continue reading →

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Holes

Posted on December 20, 2023 by John Biscello

Cut a hole in the wind and sing through it. Put your ear to the ground. Listen for the echo of what you sang. Cut a hole in ground and sing into it. Listen to the wind and hear your … Continue reading →

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Wind

Posted on December 17, 2023 by John Biscello
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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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Kite

Posted on August 23, 2018 by John Biscello

If I were a kite, and you a cloud, I’d milk wind for a stolen kiss.

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Kite

Posted on June 26, 2018 by John Biscello

My desire to feel God is the same as the child’s dreamlipped desire to kiss the red kite bobbing and arcing far and away tethered to his wrist a wordless prayer given over to wind and sky.

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Petals

Posted on May 20, 2018 by John Biscello

The white rose, impaled, knows itself beyond nomenclature and perish, inviolably Pure, a longing to feel the spring wind, and its alluvial fingers, upon bruised petals, fallen.  

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Ashes to Ashes

Posted on January 4, 2018 by John Biscello

Out of the ash-heap, she imagined something new would emerge, but when the wind blew and scattered the ashes to reveal nothing but scorch-marks upon scarred earth, she understood, with a great sense of loss, that form followed function only … Continue reading →

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Duende

Posted on November 14, 2016 by John Biscello

“The duende . . . Where is the duende? Through the empty archway a wind of the spirit enters, blowing insistently over the heads of the dead, in search of new landscapes and unknown accents; a wind with the odor … Continue reading →

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