Tag Archives: mother

Daughter, Mother

Posted on May 12, 2018 by John Biscello

Mother, without your touch, blood-lush access to eternity’s grasp, I am rudderless, and adrift, in a world that shits on innocence. ………………………………….. Daughter, without you to hold, a promise illumined into love’s totem, I am sunless, and moonless, a stray … Continue reading →

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Free Range

Posted on March 27, 2018 by John Biscello

Nesting, she brooded on the future of free range– No claims to hold her.   (Artwork by Izumi Yokoyama)

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Mercy

Posted on March 18, 2018 by John Biscello

Always a mother, always gentle enclosure– Between palms, mercy.

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Valentine

Posted on February 15, 2018 by John Biscello

Our Lady of Eternal Valentines, forever bestowing tenderest mercy and heart-shaped harbor to the world’s sorrowful lot.

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Gravesite

Posted on February 13, 2018 by John Biscello

  My father and I visited my mother’s grave. Nothing about it felt profound or moving. It felt like a prescribed exercise in courtesy, a bland ritual.    One thing that gave it a dramatic feel: it was raining.     … Continue reading →

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Grandfather

Posted on January 21, 2018 by John Biscello

   The only time I had ever seen my grandfather cry was also the first time I had ever seen an adult blatantly lose touch with reality. His first wife, my grandmother, Angelina, had died when I was five. She … Continue reading →

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House of Incest

Posted on January 8, 2018 by John Biscello

Excerpt from No Man’s Brooklyn, novel-in-progress.    Toward the end my mother began to open up. Of course I didn’t know the end was coming, nor did my father.    My mother, during the last several months, had become a … Continue reading →

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Peter Pan’s Jesus Complex

Posted on January 4, 2018 by John Biscello

Excerpt from No Man’s Brooklyn, novel-in-progress.    I remember the time, Anya, when my mother asked about you and me. I was thirteen. My mother’s sickness was in its early stages. She had already turned the couch in the livingroom … Continue reading →

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Mary

Posted on December 7, 2017 by John Biscello

      It was a scorcher. One of those ovenbake summer days where you feel like you’re huffing fur.    I had decided to take a stroll around the neighborhood, and re-acclimate myself.    As I walked down the block … Continue reading →

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Mother, Daughter

Posted on November 9, 2017 by John Biscello

Mother, without your touch, blood-lush access to eternity’s grasp, I am rudderless, and adrift, in a world that shits on innocence. ………………………………….. Daughter, without you to hold, a promise illumined into love’s totem, I am sunless, and moonless, a  stray … Continue reading →

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