Here is a Mother’s Day poem in honor of my mom, Carmella. It’s from my collection The Truth I Must Invent (Poets’ Choice, 2023). I realize it’s a dark poem, but it doesn’t fully express my mother’s identity.
Aplomb by Francis DiClemente. Copyright 2023.
As a dad now, I also understand that all parents are flawed, imperfect people. My mother likely struggled with undiagnosed depression. And this particular poem captures only one side of Carmella, not revealing the truth of her kindness, generosity, diligence, faith and love.
Carmella DeCosty Ruane.
I also believe any memory of deceased family members and friends—even negative ones—venerate the individuals and keep their spirits alive. Happy Mother’s Day to all the moms and mother figures out there. Where would any of us be without you?
I want to share some distribution details for our indie documentary short, The World Series of Bocce: A Celebration of Sport, Family and Community.
The film will make its theatrical premiere on Saturday, May 18 at Cinema Capitol in Rome as part of a Local Film Shorts Showcase. I’m excited to see the other films on the schedule. The screenings start at 1 p.m.
It’s a fitting location for the documentary’s debut since the subject matter is about Rome. Side note: I saw my first movie at the Capitol when I was kid. I can’t remember which came first—but it was either Mary Poppins or The Life and Times of Grizzly Adams.
Another screening will be held at 12 p.m. on Saturday, June 22 at Valley Cinemas in Little Falls.
The film will make its broadcast premiere on WCNY at 10 p.m. on Thursday, July 11. Additional broadcast dates are July 21 and 27. I’m waiting on broadcast dates for WXXI in Rochester. The film has also been accepted for national distribution to PBS stations via NETA (National Educational Telecommunications Association).
And in a case of serendipitous timing, the screening at the Capitol falls on the same day my sister Lisa and I had planned the burial of our father’s cremated remains at St. Peter’s Cemetery in Rome. My dad passed away in 2007, and my sister had his ashes in her possession ever since. I even wrote a short poem about it:
St. Peter’s Cemetery
I extend a hand to touch an angel trapped in marble.
Its face is cool and damp, like the earth beneath the slab.
I pose a question to my deceased father,
Knowing the answer will elude me.
For his remains are not buried in this cemetery,
But instead rest on a shelf in my sister’s suburban Ohio house.
But I found out last year that my father had purchased a plot in St. Peter’s Cemetery and we could bury his remains there. After trying for several months, I was able to schedule the burial on May 18. I heard from the Capitol a week later that the Local Films Shorts Showcase would be held the same day. It was a nice coincidence or what my former boss, Stu Lisson, would call a “God wink.”
My indie documentary short Ralph Rotella: The Sole of Syracuse, co-directed by my Syracuse University colleague Shane Johnson, has been selected as part of NewFilmmakers NY’s Spring 2024 Screening Series. Click on this linkto watch the full film (until May 31).
Since emigrating to the U.S. from Italy in the 1970s, Ralph Rotella has owned Discount Shoe Repair in downtown Syracuse. Each day he opens the store, fixes shoes, works with his hands using antiquated equipment, and converses with customers.
Photo Credit: Shane Johnson
In his daily interactions with people, Rotella reveals himself to be a witty, beatific, George Bailey-type figure who draws people to himself, building a sense of community with his shoe repair shop as a hive of activity. The film examines the value of work and what constitutes happiness, while also honoring an unsung hero in the Central New York community.
Today marks nine months since my surgery to remove a benign brain tumor on my pituitary gland. Although it’s not a major milestone, it’s tied to a once-in-a-lifetime event—seeing Bruce Springsteen in concert on April 18 in the JMA Wireless Dome in Syracuse.
The concert was originally scheduled for September 7, 2023, and I would have been in no condition during my recovery to climb the concrete steps to the upper rafters of the Dome in Section 336, Row Y. I transferred my ticket to a co-worker, but then the tour was sidelined due to Bruce’s peptic ulcer disease. I’d like to think some heavenly intervention permitted me to attend the rescheduled event in April in a fully restored state.
I went to the concert with my wife, Pam—a rare night out for us and a break for her as she completed her first full year in her occupational therapy assistant program at Bryant and Stratton College. We hired a babysitter and took a Lyft to the show, arriving before the gates opened.
The Dome’s muddy sound system threw me off as the concert began. Bruce’s opening number was “Lonesome Day,” but I couldn’t figure out the tune. I felt like an outfielder in baseball who can’t pick up the ball off the bat. The first song I recognized was “No Surrender,” and the sound quality seemed to improve as the concert wore on.
Bruce and the E Street Band played the anthemic classics, which I have been reliving through the miracle of YouTube: “Badlands,” “Backstreets,” “The Promised Land,” “Thunder Road,” and “Born to Run.”
Up in the nosebleeds, an exuberant middle-aged woman with long, dark hair kept bumping me as she swayed, stomped her feet, clapped her hands, and pumped her fists. She kept apologizing, but I didn’t care about the incidental physical contact. I appreciated the pure joy she displayed, and we formed a bond through our mutual love of the music.
After “Born to Run” finished with a flourish, we shared a two-word conversation—screamed into each other’s ears.
I turned to her and said, “Amazing.”
“Right!” she said.
I hardly go to concerts, and I can’t remember the last stadium concert I attended. It may have been when I saw Bruce in Phoenix in 2002 during The Rising Tour. I went alone to America West Arena during the sweltering heat of August.
A Syracuse woman posted on Facebook that she didn’t enjoy the show because of the behavior of the people around her. And I know a debate persists about proper concert etiquette. As for me, I love it when fans dance and shout the lyrics at the top of their lungs. I mean, if you can’t let loose at a rock concert, where can you? They’re not serving tea and finger sandwiches. I think your ticket should come with a warning like “buyer beware … this isn’t your living room,” and I sang many songs, my voice growing hoarse as the night continued.
Music provides bookmarks for people’s lives. Fans connect songs to significant moments in their lives. Bruce’s music sustained me during my darkest days when I was consumed by loneliness, shame, and self-hatred.
So when Bruce belted out the words to “The Promised Land,” I joined him and thousands of others in screaming:
Blow away the dreams that tear you apart,
Blow away the dreams that break your heart,
Blow away the lies that leave you nothing
But lost and brokenhearted …
While walking in my neighborhood yesterday, I visited the memorial site for five-year-old Nefertiti “Neffy” Harris, who was allegedly beaten to death by her mother in January. The girl’s remains were discovered last month in a field behind an apartment building off Salt Springs Road in Syracuse. People have left balloons, stuffed animals, signs and religious candles at the spot.
Memorial site for Neffy Harris.
On this spring day, birds chirped and pinwheels spun in the breeze. And the bright sunlight, blue sky and peaceful sounds gave me a feeling of tranquility while I reflected on the horrific circumstances of Neffy’s death.
Yet words seem futile when trying to process the murder of a young child whose voice is now silent. There’s nothing you can say to make this situation less tragic. My only hope is that Neffy is in a better place. As I walked away, I also considered the mother’s situation, and the thought that popped into my head was, “Everyone is redeemable.”
For those who celebrate the holiday, I wish you a Happy Easter. It’s my favorite holiday because it marks the start of spring and offers an invitation for renewal.
With today marking the first day of spring, I thought I would share some poems reflecting the start of the season—even though here in Central New York, the calendar can lie, and winter weather can appear well past Easter.
Melting snow pile. Copyright Francis DiClemente, 2024.
I love this transition period when temperatures have warmed slightly, the ground loses snow cover (for the most part), but trees haven’t bloomed yet, and it’s still cold enough to wear a hat and gloves. It’s the promise of another spring, another summer, and the realization that I’ve survived another winter.
Dreaming of Spring
In the middle of winter
I dreamed trees were blooming.
I was given another season of life,
another chance to keep breathing.
Winter Away
While I loathe the
wind, cold and snow
winter imparts,
I’m always sad
when spring comes
and the chill
in the air departs.
With winter leaving,
it’s like I’m losing
a friend at the end
of the season.
Boy in the Window
Rain pounds the sidewalk.
Wind swirls. Tree limbs scrape window.
Toddler looks and waves.
Hatless
A warm morning.
First day
of the year
without a
winter hat.
These old,
gray hairs
soaking up
the sunlight.
I recently finished reading The Last Night of the Earth Poems by Charles Bukowski (Ecco, 2002; previously published by Black Sparrow Press in 1992). Bukowski feels like an old friend to me, and I love picturing him sitting in his house, drinking wine and listening to classical music on the radio while he bangs away at the typewriter.
The book is a beefy collection filled with the typical Bukowski charm—a combination of vulgarity, humor and humanity.
As someone of advancing age, often filled with regret over the detours and wrong decisions I’ve made in my life, one particular poem hit home for me.
Cut While Shaving
It’s never quite right, he said, the way people look,
the way the music sounds, the way the words are
written.
It’s never quite right, he said, all the things we are
taught, all the loves we chase, all the deaths we
die, all the lives we live,
they are never quite right,
they are hardly close to right,
these lives we live
one after the other,
piled there as history,
the waste of the species,
the crushing of the light and the way,
it’s not quite right,
it’s hardly right at all
he said.
don’t I know it? I
answered.
I walked away from the mirror.
it was morning, it was afternoon, it was
night
nothing changed
it was locked in place.
something flashed, something broke, something
remained.
I am giving away two signed copies of my latest poetry collection, The Truth I Must Invent. You can enter on Goodreads. The giveaway ends on Feb. 23.
The Truth I Must Invent book cover.
The Truth I Must Invent is a collection of narrative and philosophical poems written in free-verse style. Employing a minimalistic approach and whimsical language, the book explores the themes of self, identity, loneliness, memory, existence, family, parenthood, disability, gratitude, and compassion.
Francis DiClemente 