While walking in my neighborhood recently, I spotted this flowering lilac or cherry tree (I don’t know the difference).
And the onset of the spring weather inspired this brief poem.
Subsumed
Everything is so
Fleeting in this life.
Existence is like a shadow
Gobbled up by sunlight.
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 …
And I didn’t care that my voice was way off-key.
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.
Photo by Jos van Ouwerkerk via Pexels.
Here are a few Easter themed poems from the Poetry Foundation website:
Easter by Jill Alexander Essbaum
Easter
is my season
of defeat.
Though all
is green
and death
is done,
I feel alone.
As if the stone
rolled off
from the head
of the tomb
is lodged
in the doorframe
of my room,
and everyone
I’ve ever loved
lives happily
just past
my able reach.
And each time
Jesus rises
I’m reminded
of this marble
fact:
they are not
coming back.
Photo by Francis DiClemente.
I like this following poem, but I need to look up most of the words on Dictionary dot com. The last three lines are the most meaningful to me.
Easter by Peter Fallon
The first forsythia;
daffodils;
gorse or whins or furze
on hills,
in hedges.
Late winter aconite;
dandelions; primroses
challenging the light
of Easter morning.
The lesser celandine;
a yellow fertilizer
bag define
spring in our steps.
I love my children
and my wife.
Rise all again and again.
And I will add one of my own:
Resurrection Needs Repeating
Sinning doesn’t stop
After Easter Sunday passes.
My transgressions keep
Christ pinned to that cross
365 days a year.
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 walked down the stairway and
into it.
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.
I am excited to share that one of my poems is published in a new anthology entitled Masculinity: an anthology of modern voices (Broken Sleep Books, 2024). The book is edited by Aaron Kent, Rick Dove and Stuart McPherson.
Anthology book cover. Cover design by Aaron Kent and Joseph Kent.
According to the book description, the anthology “aims to showcase the diversity of what it means to be a man and what it means to embrace its multitudes. These poems emphasize that masculinity is not a monolithic concept, but a dynamic, evolving force that can be shaped by culture, society, and personal experiences.”
Here’s my contribution:
Diary Entry: February 16, 1994. Copyright Francis DiClemente.
My professional and personal worlds collided this week when our marketing video team received our Emmy trophies, thanks to our senior producer, Amy Manley, who managed the logistical details and made sure each trophy had the correct information. It was honor to win the award in the branded content category, especially since each team member touched the project in some way.
I felt a little weird carrying my trophy to the bus stop and then resting it on the floor while I rode home. When I entered the house, I asked my wife, Pam, to surprise our son, Colin, who is autistic. When he saw the box, he started ripping the paper. In the video, Pam tries to prompt Colin to read the words on the black band encircling the trophy. Since he’s nonverbal, it’s our way of trying to extract words from him and improve his language processing. It was a joyous moment for our family. It also served as another reminder that my professional success can never match the love I feel for my audience of two.
I want to share this poem I read in a Substack post by Maya C. Popa. It’s entitled “The Thing Is” from Mules of Love by Ellen Bass (published by BOA Editions in 2002). I love the language, clarity and gut-punching delivery. Some snippets that jumped out at me: “the silt of it,” “grief sits with you,” “obesity of grief” and “a plain face.”
“The Thing Is” by Ellen Bass from the book Mules of Love (BOA Editions, 2002)
Francis DiClemente 