Happy Birthday Colin

My son, Colin, turns ten years old today. I wasn’t planning to write about his birthday, but the significance of the occasion struck me as I warmed my coffee in the microwave this morning.

And right or wrong, every thought and emotion about Colin is filtered through the lens of his autism. He was diagnosed with Autism Spectrum Disorder in 2018. I wrote about that experience in this essay.

I realize how lucky I am to be Colin’s dad, especially since I was so late to the game of marriage and family. His presence reframes my existence. My job, my creative ambitions, and everything else in my life are secondary to being a good husband to my wife, Pam, and a good father to Colin.

Before rushing off to work, I wanted to share some previously published poems about parenthood and Colin, along with some photos of him.

Colin Joseph DiClemente at the pediatrician’s office.

Entrance

As blood, urine and feces stain the hospital sheets,
a nurse tells a mother-to-be,
“Honey, don’t be embarrassed.
What happens in the delivery room,
stays in the delivery room.”

The mother-to-be moans and sheds tears
as the epidural wears off and the labor reaches its climax
with a medieval torture method known as “Tug of War”—
sheets wrapped around ankles, legs hoisted in the air
and pulled apart as the mother-to-be screams
and squeezes her muscles and makes the final push until …
a tiny male human, slimy and alien-looking,
pops out of the womb with a full head of downy, brown hair
and soft, pliable ears like a Teddy bear.

The mother blurts out three words:
“Baby, baby, baby.”
The doctor transfers the squirming newborn to her breast,
and the two bond with skin-to-skin contact.
Love and happiness flow.
The task is completed, the effort done.
The child has safely entered the world.
But the real hard work has just begun.

Colin Joseph DiClemente. Age 2 years, 8 months.

The Great Equalizer

The democratic nature of parenthood.
It doesn’t matter who you are—
man, woman or trans, gay or straight,
Black, white or any other shade,
tall or short, skinny or fat, rich or poor—
when your toddler is wailing
in a grocery store or shopping mall,
when the feet are stomping, the arms swinging,
the cheeks reddened and the tears rolling—
all you want to do is pick up the child
and make the crying stop.

Wealth, social standing and comely looks
mean nothing to kids; they’re not impressed
by your credentials and you can’t negotiate
with these little angels and tyrants who rule the world.
Two clichés apply here:
parenting wipes the slate clean
and levels the playing field.

All mothers and fathers desire the same thing—
the health, safety and
development of their offspring.
The goals are simple amid the frenzy
of a life marked by stress and lack of sleep.
They are: eat the chicken nuggets, drink the apple juice,
recite the alphabet, put away the toys, finish the milk,
wave bye-bye and go down easy at nap time.

Pam and Colin outside NBT Bank Stadium.

Human Anatomy

Beneath the ribs
beats the heart
of a child,
waiting for its mother,
longing to be fed—
not just with milk and food,
but also with love.

Colin playing in the feeding therapy room.

Nap Time

Late afternoon, Sunday, gray light
seeping in through parted curtains.

Mother and baby sleeping on the couch,
hair tousled, right cheek against left breast,
elbows curved at equal angles.

I am awake, drinking coffee,
watching their chests rise and fall,
and trying not to make any noise.

My whole life revealed in the space
of three sofa cushions occupied by
two human beings who need me.

Soon the boy will stir;
soon he will squirm and cry, scatter his toys
and race around the cluttered living room.
Soon we will fix dinner
and wash dishes and take out the garbage.

But now time is suspended like a Rod Serling
freeze frame in a Twilight Zone episode—
a halting of activity, a pause in my Sunday
leading to reflection and gratitude for my blessings.

Warmth, safety and responsibility
are the words that pop into my head
while I observe mother and child stretched out together.
I don’t think about what I lack
or what I hope to attain and achieve.
In this moment, I have everything I need.

Pam and Colin.

Exam Room Revelation

“Autism Spectrum Disorder.”
The moment those words
escape the doctor’s lips,
our son’s future
appears bleaker.
The phrases
“special needs,
delayed communication
and lack of
social interaction” follow.

Sorrow for my son Colin
gushes inside me.
I feel sadness
for the challenges
he will endure,
and for his inability
to have a normal life.

In this case,
love proves impotent.
You can’t intercede
with your heart.
And compassion won’t fix
the little boy
sleeping in his bed
as I type out
this bad poem
while lamenting
the diagnosis.

But love for him
does not decrease.
Instead, it grows stronger.
I am grateful
for the blessing
of the boy he is …
and the man
I hope
he will become—
regardless of autism.

Bedtime

Eventually, I’ll fall asleep,
but until then my kid
keeps annoying me,

flicking on the bedroom light
and screaming incoherent phrases—
bits of songs that make
some sense inside his mind.

Telling him “shh” does no good,
and I can’t decipher the words he speaks,
but I do enjoy hearing the sounds they make
when they escape his mouth,
as I close my eyes and try to get some sleep.

Crying at Bedtime

Nothing prepares a parent
for the tantrums of an autistic child.
There’s no well of patience to draw from.
You adapt. You divert. You distract.
You do whatever it takes to calm the child down—
until you earn that blessed moment of peace,
when his eyelids drop and he drifts off to sleep,
his small body folded in the cradle of your arms.

Colin drew with a Sharpie on the living room floor.

Autism Sleeps

My son sleeps,
curled under a blanket
on the couch.

His outbursts have ceased.
His cries and screams quieted.
His stimming stopped.

It’s like his autism
is in remission.
In sleep, he becomes
like any other child.

Observation After Eating Out

Pity for my son swells.
Yet I feel helpless,
Unable to intervene
To make his autism
Go away.

Our patience dwindles
As his outbursts intensify.
But love does not wane.
Instead, it grows stronger.

I have only one son.
Yes, he is different.
He is noisy and
Requires constant attention.
But I am thankful for
His presence in my life.
And who needs the quiet anyway?

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Quintessential Poetry Spotlight

I wanted to share that poet Michael Anthony Ingram has highlighted me for his Quintessential Poetry Spotlight. The post includes a PDF with some sample poems.

 

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Some Poems for Valentine’s Day

Here are some poems for Valentine’s Day. They were culled from previous collections and were written when I was still single and living in Phoenix, Arizona. I added some photos I took during that time period (1998-2006).

Heart Sunlight. Photo by Francis DiClemente.

Solo V-Day

There is no love without another,
no romance when no companion is present.
The self cannot survive on its own.
Affection needs an outlet,
a target to these romantic thoughts.
And happiness demands reciprocation,
because desire withers when forced to remain inside,
and love has no point when Cupid’s bow fails to strike.

Morning on Fairmount Avenue. Photo by Francis DiClemente.

An Involuntary Condition

Here’s to all those whose
birthday wishes never came true—
for the unloved, unlucky and desperate,
for the manic and passive,
for the childless Demeter searching
in vain for her unborn Persephone,
for the clones of Sisyphus rolling
the stones of their loneliness,
groaning under the weight,
straining in the face of repeated defeat.
For the wedding days when
you will not stand upon the altar,
for the groves of family trees
shriveled and lacking offspring.
For all the men and women
who hate being single
and rebel against it every day,
but can do nothing to prevent
becoming orphans in their adulthood.

Slanting Desert Tree. Photo by Francis DiClemente.

Nightingale

I have worshipped at the
altar of loneliness for far too long.
I need a love intervention—
a woman, an angel, a friend,
a nightingale to swoop in on my life
and replace the discordant, recurring song.

Late Afternoon Light. Photo by Francis DiClemente.

Roommates

My pursuit of a union has ended,
And the desire to keep looking is gone,
Dissolved like Kool-Aid
Crystals in cold water.
I no longer fear the inevitable,
Because it already resides here.
I accept the reality of my adult life:
Loneliness is my only mate,
A discarnate presence
Occupying my twin bed at night.

Overnight Stay

The unattached go unnoticed
in hotel bars and lobbies,
watching couples and
overhearing conversations.
They retreat to their rooms
and fall asleep to the
sound of cable television,
turning up the volume
before drifting off
in order to shut out
the animal noises of
the man and woman
enjoying themselves
in the adjacent room—
while being reminded again
that others are not
spending the night alone.

Sunlight on Chair. Photo by Francis DiClemente.

Saturday Night at the Cinema

Couples hurry down the aisle
of a movie theater,
finding seats as the house lights dim
and the previews start.

Locked in a state of solitude,
I gaze at them with envy.
For I remain alone . . .
a single ticket purchased,
no fingers entwined in a warm lap,
no shared overpriced soda or tub of popcorn,
no arm around her shoulder,
pushing aside her long brown hair.

But I am able to forget my life
while the sprockets are engaged.
The shuttering picture seduces me again,
and I become numb to everything—
until the last frame passes,
when knowledge of my isolation
rumbles like a stagecoach procession
across the Arizona desert
in a John Ford Western.

Then the film noir,
black and white feeling returns.
And as the end credits roll,
I stand up and flee
the darkness of the theater,
stepping into the artificial light
of the shopping mall parking lot.

Left-Hand Fetish

With regard to women,
I am obsessed with one body part.
If I spot a woman I like
seated in a crowded café,
or walking through an airport,
my eyes travel directly
to the top of her left hand.
I need to know right away:
Does she wear an engagement ring
or wedding band?
Is she free to love me,
if she so chooses?
Or is she already partnered
with another man?

The Look

I noticed that look—
that look that
she was looking
at him instead of me.

I was neither cast aside,
nor dismissed outright,
but much worse—
completely overlooked.

Hurtful Words

The voice of a woman
I admire from afar
pierces the afternoon air.
Her voice mingles
with other sounds
inside the lobby
of the Phoenix Art Museum
on a Saturday in February.
The woman does not
intend to be cruel.
Yet she crushes my heart,
dispersing romantic hope,
when she delivers
a simple sentence,
beginning with the words:
“My boyfriend is . . .”
She proceeds to tell a co-worker
about her weekend plans,
but I stop listening,
as I realize
there’s no point
to knowing more.

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May You Live

I was leafing through a hefty stack of unpublished poems in my home office yesterday, and this one struck me. I think the you referenced in the poem is actually me—so I need to heed my own advice.

May You Live

May you come to the realization
That you have no control.

May you relinquish your desire
To dictate the path of your existence.

May you surrender to the absurdity
Of this exercise in futility,

Understanding that this beautiful mess
Known as life will lead you
where it wants you to go. No exceptions.

May you realize that death is rushing toward you,
And it’s coming for all of us.

May you realize that your family and friends
Will be unable to spare you from this fate.

Why do I pester you with these dark thoughts?
Simply so you’ll pause to appreciate the few moments
We are granted on the surface of this earth.

The chance to mix and mingle
And touch and caress with flesh and spirit.

The opportunity to laugh and love and interact
before disease and illness and old age

Make us weary of carrying around
A body that will soon be a corpse.

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Stunted: A Memoir of Delayed Manhood

Forthcoming is such a lovely word.

And I’m happy to share the cover image for my coming-of-age memoir, Stunted: A Memoir of Delayed Manhood, which is slated to be published later this year. It was a long, hard road to get here, but I am honored that the story has found a home with Toplight Books, an imprint of McFarland & Company.

Cover image for my memoir.

The book is also listed on Amazon, Bookshop, and Goodreads.

I began researching this project in June 2013 after marrying my wife, Pam, who has been a steadfast supporter, cheering me on along the way. I obtained medical records dating back to 1984 and incorporated journal entries from the early 1990s. So in many ways, I’ve been writing this memoir my whole life. The impetus to write the book sprang from a long blog post I wrote in December 2014 to mark the 30th anniversary of my initial brain surgery at SUNY Upstate Medical University Hospital in Syracuse, New York.

At Walt Disney World in 1985, a few months after my initial brain surgery.

When I started working on the memoir, I realized I needed to study the genre, so I read the classics like Angela’s Ashes by Frank McCourt, The Liars’ Club by Mary Karr, This Boy’s Life by Tobias Wolff, Running with Scissors by Augusten Burroughs, Wild by Cheryl Strayed, Stop-Time by Frank Conroy, Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert, I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings by Maya Angelou, and many, many others.

Between that initial blog post and the completion of the book, life intruded.

I had two brain surgeries, was diagnosed with rheumatoid arthritis, mourned the loss of my stepfather, Bill Ruane, my Uncle Fiore DeCosty (nicknamed Fee), and two cousins, Derek and Damon DeCosty. I published numerous poetry collections, wrote a play that was produced by a small theater in Las Vegas, produced a few documentary films, and earned two Emmy awards. I bought a house (reluctantly), and most importantly, became a father to my son, Colin, who will be ten years old next month and was diagnosed with autism in 2018.

The whole time I was living my life in the present while my head remained partly stuck in the time period from 1984 to 1995, covering the terrain of my high school experience in Rome, New York, my undergraduate years at St. John Fisher College (now named St. John Fisher University), in Rochester, New York, graduate school at American University in Washington, DC, and the start of my professional career back in my hometown of Rome and in Venice, Florida.

Here’s me in either my junior or senior year of high school or my freshman year at St. John Fisher College in Rochester, New York.

And as time elapsed and I wondered if I would ever finish the book, I drafted scenes, wrote a crappy first draft, completed multiple revisions on my own, and then hired developmental and line editors through Fiverr, wrote a book proposal, and sent out countless queries to agents and publishers who accept direct submissions from authors.

While I am ecstatic that the book will be published, I detest the necessity of the promotional phase. But it’s a reality I can’t escape. My intention is for readers to find some universal truth or connection to my personal story.

Here is the book description from the McFarland site.

Set between 1984 and the mid–1990s, this coming-of-age memoir follows Francis DiClemente’s experience of adolescence and early adulthood in a body that struggled to develop. Diagnosed with a rare brain tumor that led to hypopituitarism, DiClemente remained physically underdeveloped while his peers matured into young adulthood. As he navigated relationships and sexuality in college, it became evident that his prolonged experience with physical nonconformity fueled isolation, self-doubt, and shame.

This book explores the impacts of his condition on schooling, intimacy, and emerging adulthood, examining how physical differences shape identity formation. It reframes masculinity not as a function of physical development, but as an ethical and emotional practice grounded in empathy, resilience, and responsibility. Contributing to conversations on embodiment and self-acceptance, the work offers insight into the experience of living at odds with normative timelines of growth and belonging.

And I was very fortunate to have some gifted and generous writers provide blurbs for marketing.

“Francis DiClemente’s searingly honest memoir offers a vital perspective for anyone grappling with their own place in the world.”

—Shivaji Das, author of The Visible Invisibles

“Francis DiClemente and I met as teenagers on a baseball diamond in the summer of 1983, and while I have since gone on to work in a different sport populated by alpha males gifted with superhuman size, strength, and athleticism, I know of no better or stronger example of what manhood truly means than my friend. This moving story of self-discovery, which Francis courageously tells with raw honesty and vulnerability, reminds us that the journey toward fulfillment in life is inward, and should inspire us to be less judgmental—not only of others but ourselves.”

—Bob Socci, broadcaster, New England Patriots

“DiClemente’s journey becomes a lifelong battle, man against regrowing tumor. In these pages, he provides the most intimate details of how he learned to be a man while trapped in the body of a boy. Hopefully, his words, and his honesty, can reassure other boys and men grappling with masculine identity.”

—Angel Ackerman, author of the Fashion and Fiends horror series and founder of Parisian Phoenix Publishing

“This is a deeply moving testament to the quiet courage it takes to claim your identity in a world that insists on defining it for you. For anyone who has ever felt unseen or out of place, DiClemente offers a reimagined vision of identity rooted not in the body, but in the soul.”

—Brittany Terwilliger, author of The Insatiables

“Francis DiClemente has written a book on men and masculinity that should be not only savored but consulted by those men who, at some point in their lives, have questioned what their manhood means and what place it holds in society. And by those men I mean all men. This work might have been born of DiClemente’s many masculine hardships, but it becomes a celebration of what is best in us.”

—William Giraldi, author of The Hero’s Body

“DiClemente delivers an unflinching account of the brain tumor that disrupted normal growth and his participation in one of the first human growth hormone trials. …a touching and compelling memoir.”

—Carmen Amato, author of the Galliano Club historical fiction series

“Francis DiClemente tells it like it is—with no BS. This work is honest, human, and full of hope. I respect the courage it took to write it.”

—William Soldato, author of Under Too Long

“Francis DiClemente’s book is a courageous and beautifully crafted memoir that speaks to the quiet battles so many face in silence. With poetic clarity, brutal honesty, and emotional depth, he explores identity, masculinity, and the long road to self-acceptance. A powerful book.”

—Apple An, award-winning author of Las Crosses, Mother of Red Mountains, and Daughter of Blue City

I’m now working on a second book, which is a continuation of the story. There’s no timetable for completion.

One note about the cover.

My Uncle Fiore took my photo in 1985 at the New Jersey shore. We had traveled to New Jersey from Rome one early fall weekend to visit my cousin, Fiore, who was stationed at an Army prep school in Monmouth County, where he would spend a year before matriculating to the U.S. Military Academy at West Point. I remember listening to Bruce Springsteen’s Born in the U.S.A. album on my yellow Sony Walkman in the backseat on the way down from Rome to Jersey. I connected the song “I’m Goin’ Down” with our southbound travel, and I loved side two of the album, especially the songs “No Surrender,” “Bobby Jean,” and “My Hometown.”

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Fortune Cookie Edits

My wife bought a bag of fortune cookies at the Asian Food Market in Syracuse. So lately I’ve been grabbing the cookies and cracking them open to reveal what wisdom the universe is sending my way. But this feels like cheating—like you should only be granted one fortune cookie with a single order of Chinese food (maybe once a month).

But it’s been fun for my wife and me to compare our fortunes on a nightly basis. And I like to edit the text that the cookies spit out.

Here are some recent fortunes and revisions tinctured with my inherent pessimism:

One:

A golden egg of opportunity will fall into your lap this month.
A steaming pile of you know what will fall on your head this month (likely in the form of something broken or needing repair at our house).

Two:

Anticipate a journey to new horizons and opportunities.
Anticipate a journey to new horizons and opportunities (in bed).
Anticipate a journey to nowhere new—just more of the same in the form of the daily grind.

Three:

Your positive attitude blesses you with a joyful life.
Your negative attitude shields you from the inexorable suckiness of life.

Four:

Dare to dream, hope, believe, seek, feel, find, and love.

Boy, do I love the intention of this fortune. It reminds me of a quote which is apparently falsely attributed to Mark Twain:

“Twenty years from now, you will be more disappointed by the things you didn’t do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.”

My twist:

Yes, do all those things: Dare to dream, hope, believe, seek, feel, find, and love.
At the same time, however, accept the likelihood of failure, recognizing that your dreams and desires may never come true.

Five:

Cherish the simple moments that bring joy; they are the true treasures of life to remember.

This one is perfect, and I won’t sully it with my dark interpretation. I do believe simple, mundane moments can deliver tiny bursts of joy. For me, it’s hugging and kissing my son or finding inner peace when reflecting in nature.

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Poems for January

Plastic bag in tree.

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 grip 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)

Winter sunrise. Photo by Francis DiClemente.

On Leaving Syracuse

The grass may not
be greener elsewhere,
but at least
it won’t be
covered with snow.

My son, Colin, stomping in the snow while waiting for the bus. Photo by Francis DiClemente.

This poem is pure fiction, but it arose out of a parent’s fear of losing a child.

Sitting by the Fire in Winter

I sit with my grief.
I wrap it around myself
like an overcoat,
while staring at the
embers of the fire,
holding my dead son’s
ski jacket close to my nose,
and remembering his
cold, little hands,
wet socks,
and the smell of his
sweaty head in winter.

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RxART

During a recent appointment at the Nappi Wellness Institute at SUNY Upstate Medical University Hospital, I saw this impressive mural by Japanese artist Tomokazu Matsuyama.

Solitude Aqua Amore, 2023 by Tomokazu Matsuyama.

I’ve written about the soothing effect of hospital art before. A few years ago, a framed print in an MRI waiting room inspired this poem, which was published in my 2021 collection, Outward Arrangements: Poems.

Waiting with Vincent

A scheduled MRI
of the brain shifts
my thoughts toward
all of the
“what if, worst-case scenarios.”
While waiting for my name
to be called,
I see a print of Irises (1889)
hanging on a wall.

From far across the room,
without my glasses,
the slanted vertical
green leaves
look like snakes
writhing in the dirt.
But the longer
I stare at the image,
the calmer I feel.
Placid is the word
that comes to mind.

And I’m thankful Vincent
spends a few
moments with me
prior to my appointment
with the tube machine.

Because when sitting
in a hospital
waiting room,
artwork by Vincent
never fails to lift the spirits.
A van Gogh painting beats
People magazine
or an iPhone screen
every time.

The mural is entitled Solitude Aqua Amore, 2023, and Matsuyama worked with the nonprofit organization RxART, which “pairs leading contemporary artists with pediatric hospitals to develop site-specific projects that humanize the healthcare environment and improve the patient experience.”

I think it’s a wonderful concept, and I have no doubt that colorful artwork in hospitals lifts the spirits of little patients and their parents during their tense moments (or hours) of testing, waiting, and meeting with doctors and medical staff.

The RxART website displays images of completed projects at hospitals across the country.

I like the close-up iPhone photo I took because it put me smack in the middle of the painting, and the detailed image made me think of a Jackson Pollock drip painting—but featuring birds.

Detail image of Solitude Aqua Amore, 2023.

Here is the wall text for Matsuyama’s piece:

Tomokazu Matsuyama
Solitude Aqua Amore, 2023
Courtesy of the Artist

“Tomokazu Matsuyama is a contemporary artist who is keenly aware of the nomadic diaspora, a community of wandering people who seek to understand their place in a world of contrasting visual and cultural dialects. Tomokazu has created this bright and uplifting imagery to transform the institute’s International department. This work, inspired by “a thousand origami cranes,” encapsulates the essence of hope, peace, and the mythical attributes of good fortune. Utilizing geometric forms and organic curves, he weaves the inherent desire associated with the ‘senbazuru’ tradition into a narrative that resonates with the contemporary era. Tomokazu was born in Takayama, Gifu, Japan, and lives and works in Brooklyn, NY. RxART is grateful to Chris Salgardo, ATWATER, and Ducati for lead support of this project.”

Side note: These days, it seems whenever I read biographical text about a writer, poet, filmmaker, or artist, the bio invariably ends . . . “[Insert artist name] lives and works in Brooklyn, New York.” And that makes me wonder if poems are flying through the air and paint is flowing in the streets of Brooklyn. If I ever get to New York again, I’ll need to make my way there to explore the scene.

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Onward to 2026

I want to wish everyone a Happy New Year. I’m not going to list an inventory of accomplishments (or lack thereof) from 2025 or state any intended resolutions for 2026.

Instead, I will take the day to rest up after shoveling snow in the wake of a massive storm that walloped Central New York.

And I will also share a poem I recently read in The Essential Poems by Jim Harrison.

It seems fitting for New Year’s Eve, as does one of my previous poems about the essence of time (below). I love the line about “my imperishable stupidity,” since I can relate.

Calendar

Back in the blue chair in front of the green studio
another year has passed, or so they say, but calendars lie.
They’re a kind of cosmic business machine like
their cousin clocks but break down at inopportune times.
Fifty years ago I learned to jump off the calendar
but I kept getting drawn back on for reasons
of greed and my imperishable stupidity.
Of late I’ve escaped those fatal squares
with their razor-sharp numbers for longer and longer.
I had to become the moving water I already am,
falling back into the human shape in order
not to frighten my children, grandchildren, dogs and friends.
Our old cat doesn’t care. He laps the water where my face used to be.

Harrison, Jim. Jim Harrison: The Essential Poems. Edited by Joseph Bednarik, Copper Canyon Press, 2019.

Clock on the Wall

Time is an entity unconcerned
With our hopes and aspirations.
It marches on unimpeded,
Multiplying seconds to minutes
And making centuries.
It is unswayed by emotions
And unaffected by our wishes and ambitions.
It is heartless in its swiftness—
A thief and a robber,
And life’s only true survivor.
It is unmerciful in its lack of discretion,
And unstoppable in its one-way direction.
It does not yield, it never ends and
It does not ask us our permission.
And yet, we still ask it for more.

Dreaming of Lemon Trees: Selected Poems by Francis DiClemente (Finishing Line Press, 2019)

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Blessings to Everyone

No revelation, poem, story, or promotion here. I just want to take a moment to say Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays to everyone. Thanks for reading the blog throughout the year, and I look forward to catching up with readers and my fellow bloggers in 2026.

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