Tag Archives: John Biscello

Moonstruck

Posted on October 29, 2020 by John Biscello

I never learned the secret delicious recipe of making a poem from moon, or the bluest glacial moon-cheese from any of my teachers. It wasn’t their fault. They might have regarded the moon as something distant, something belonging to astronauts, … Continue reading →

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Send to Returner

Posted on October 29, 2020 by John Biscello

At the edge of a weathered postcard, the faintest glisten, by which memory holds true and offers proof—There were people, a trip, a sea, clouds, fragile patterns, mist.  There was this life, where we dreamed, and so this postcard, this … Continue reading →

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Rising

Posted on October 29, 2020 by John Biscello

Dreams,undeferred,coupled with Hope,that thing unfettered,to keep us companyand warm our solitude,as we stumble bravelythrough a long night’s journeyinto the bated gospelof days rising to claim us.

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Music

Posted on October 29, 2020 by John Biscello

To the call of light, Music, unending, beckons you to harmonize.

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Wonder

Posted on October 29, 2020 by John Biscello

Ask a child, any child, what the difference is between Monday and Thursday? No matter how they respond, look them in the eyes and tell them how wonderful they are.

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Seeds

Posted on October 28, 2020 by John Biscello

The other day I met a monk who juggled watermelon seeds with his tongue. When I asked him how he did it, he spit the seeds at me, a staccato stream of seeds as if the monk were no monk … Continue reading →

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This Way In

Posted on October 28, 2020 by John Biscello

Between passages, a dark pause to recollect the lighted means home.

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Martian Lore

Posted on October 28, 2020 by John Biscello

The Martians, in their conscious longevity, stamped our passports and immigration documents long before our legacy of amnesia broke and we came to realize that everything, including our sense of planetary privilege, has been a sham, a lost man’s desperate … Continue reading →

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Storytelling

Posted on October 28, 2020 by John Biscello

Void is boring, a dull throb. It has no stories to tell. And yet, from the gaping orient of emptiness arises every story imaginable, a turning to peaks and sea-changes galore. It seems void is the company we are destined … Continue reading →

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Tenor

Posted on October 28, 2020 by John Biscello

The difference between I am here and I was here is delicately slight, and not really a matter of tense but rather one of plaited tenor and climate, in which degrees, separating our ghost from our dreams, keeps us shivering … Continue reading →

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