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Three Short Poems

Number 5, 1948 by Jackson Pollock

The Feast of Life

Swallow the anguish.
Extract the juice
of this bitter fruit,
and expel the residue
upon the already
splattered canvas.

Train at Night (Shutterstock)

The After-Midnight Express

A train whistle at 12:40 a.m.—
steel wheels screeching against the tracks,
a speeding thunderbolt passing
through Rome, New York,
cloaked by the cover of night,
hauling freight to the West,
or passengers en route
to another town,
while I recline in bed, awake,
traversing a picturesque landscape
inside my head.

Datebook

August 9th, 2000:
This date chosen for no reason.
Just an absurd desire,
serving as a simple reminder,
to stop on occasion,
rewind the clock and remember.

©2017 Francis DiClemente
(Sidewalk Stories, Kelsay Books)

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Bag in the Breeze

Photo by Kate Ter Haar (via Flickr).

Bag in the Breeze

Thursday morning, 9:47 a.m.
White airy clouds
painted against a pale blue sky.
Whipping sounds like
baseball cards spinning in bicycle spokes
call out to pedestrians
moving on the salt-crusted sidewalk.
A medical helicopter zips overhead.
You look up as it flies out of sight.
And with your head still raised,
you spot a plastic shopping bag
tangled on a leafless branch,
stuck at the top of a tree,
flapping in the breeze.
The bag waves its white flag
in an overture of surrender,
hinting at submission to the chill of winter,
while struggling to break loose,
straining to be released,
and waiting for a new wind to set it free.

©2017 Francis DiClemente
(Sidewalk Stories, Kelsay Books)

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The Hawk

Photo by Sarchia Khursheed.

The Hawk

With wings outstretched,
A hawk hovers overhead.
I look up, admiring its flight.
The bird remains aloft,
As a gust of air carries it along
In the stillness of the afternoon.
The hawk soars between the campus buildings,
Then disappears from my sight,
As it pursues a quarry or
Scans the horizon for a perch.

But “no,” I think:
That’s not the way to end the poem.
The lines fail to capture the
Majesty of this creature.
And I realize any words I write
Are doomed to fall short,
As poetry can never improve
What nature has made perfect.

Sidewalk Stories (Kelsay Books, 2017)

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Winter Walk

Winter Walk

It takes one fall
on the icy sidewalk
for your life to be ruined.
That’s right, just one tumble—
arms flailing,
legs scissoring in the air,
back parallel to the ground,
eyes looking up at a gray sky
unable to intervene—
in a brief suspended
moment before wham—
skull meets ground and blackness ensues.
Traumatic brain injury follows,
and you slip into a coma.
Your family huddles bedside,
waiting for you to rouse,
to wake up and rejoin the living,
like a grizzly bear stepping out
of its den after hibernation.
If you do come out of it
with some brain activity intact,
you may be a shell—withering
in a long-term nursing home.
And while you exist inside,
the costs mount for your family,
and the world outside your window
drags on, unaware of your predicament.
All this because some ice tripped you up.
So don’t be surprised if you see me
walking gingerly on the
glassy surface of the sidewalk,
digging my heels into a
pile of rock salt near the curb,
spreading it around on my soles,
strapping on a pair of
Yaktrax over my boots,
or cutting across the snow-covered lawns.
I guess I don’t mind dying,
or being knocked unconscious,
but I would feel awfully foolish
if a patch of frozen moisture does me in.

Sidewalk Stories (Kelsay Books, 2017)

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Fortune Cookie Revelation

My wife had a outpatient procedure today so I took the day off from work. Afterwards we went to the Empire Buffet for some hearty Asian fare (two trips to the serving area for me). But when I visit the Empire, my favorite part of the meal is not the food but the steaming metal pot filled with oolong tea, along the fortune cookie that the waitress deposits on the table after the plates have been cleared away.

Today my fortune cookie read, “Luck will stick with you as long as you shall live.”

But my pessimistic brain sprung to action and excised the word “with,” replacing it with the words “it” and “to,” so the line in my head read, “Luck will stick it to you as long as you shall live.” However, I intend to chase away the negativity by taking a chance and playing the lottery with the numbers I received in the fortune.

Writing

Snow Poem

Snow on Branches. Photo by Francis DiClemente.

I wrote this poem recently and it seems fitting for a day dominated by a lake effect blast.

How to Survive Winter in Syracuse

The only way to survive
a Syracuse winter
is to think of the snow
as a friend and not a foe.
When you scrape the ice
crusted on your windshield
and the snow clogs the streets,
when your tires spin,
or your car veers off the road—
regarding the snow
as a friend and not a foe
will help you to endure the season.
Even when the snow lashes
your face as it blows sideways,
or frozen clumps melt inside your boots,
making your feet cold and damp,
you must remember to
view the snow as a friend instead of a foe.
And what a friend … a friend that keeps on
giving and giving and giving
six months out of the year.
To which I say:
thank you my dear friend,
but I don’t need your generosity.

Uncategorized, Writing

A Poem for December

While I dread it, the start of December means there’s no denying that winter is upon us. And with colder temperatures and lake effect snow forecast for Central New York within the next couple of weeks, I wanted to share a winter-themed poem, inspired by some scenery I encounter when I walk near the Genesee Grande Hotel in Syracuse.

Winterized

Cedar hedges wrapped in burlap,
awaiting winter’s bite,
like a family of mummies
snug in their tombs,
but poised to shake off the fabric
and reach for the sun
when the warmth of spring resumes.

©2017 Francis DiClemente
(Sidewalk Stories, Kelsay Books)

Writing

A Monday Kind of Poem

I’ve been reading another collection of poetry by Charles Bukowski that I borrowed from the library. I’m up to page 138 in What Matters Most is How Well You Walk Through the Fire, and I came across a poem Sunday evening that seems fitting for the resumption of work following a long holiday weekend.

This little verse by Buk offers inspiration to reset one’s focus and seems to urge readers to value each day above everything else.

Here it is:

This Moment

it’s a farce, the great actors, the great poets, the great
statesmen, the great painters, the great composers, the
great loves,
it’s a farce, a farce, a farce,
history and the recording of it,
forget it, forget it.

you must begin all over again.
throw all that out.
all of them out

you are alone with now.

look at you fingernails.
touch your nose.

begin.

the day flings itself upon
you.

Bukowski, Charles. What Matters Most is How Well You Walk Through the Fire.
New York: Ecco; First Edition, 2002.

Writing

MRI Results: Negative Equals Positive

The results of the annual MRI of my brain (with and without contrast) came through last night in the form of a radiology report uploaded to Upstate University Hospital’s “MyChart” patient portal.

The news is good, as the findings show “no evidence of recurrent disease.” With a history of three brain surgeries and Gamma Knife radiation behind me, I am thankful that the pesky craniopharyngioma—a benign, slow-growth tumor near the pituitary gland—appears to be hibernating inside my skull.

And in scanning the report, my eyes delighted in the formation of new word patterns that emerged from the medical terminology displayed on the screen.

Here is the outcome of my verbal exercise, a short, aggregated poem:

Study Result

Stable administration.
Protocol utilized.
System enhancement.
Clear evidence.
History of clivus.
Cells identified.
Recurrent lesions.
Unchanged—
Grossly unremarkable brain.

Writing

Sunday Dinner essay published

I’ve been away for a long time, as I’ve been preoccupied with work-related video projects. But I wanted to mention that one of my essays, Sunday Dinner, has been published in the online magazine The Cook’s Cook. In the story I reflect on spending Sunday afternoons at my maternal grandmother’s house in Rome, New York.

Here’s a photo of my grandmother, Amelia.

My late grandmother, Amelia DiClemente.

And you can read the essay here.