Palm Sunday Poem

I wrote this poem a few years ago, and it has added meaning since I haven’t attended mass since the pandemic hit last year. I dusted it off today for Palm Sunday and revised it.

Palm Sunday

Looking at the attendees
at mass this morning—
a mix of people
holding palm fronds,
a diverse collection
of human specimens,
cells and blood wrapped in skin
and topped with hair.

We are bodies
moving toward death,
passing on a journey
leading to dust or fire,
burial or cremation.
But does the soul live on?

No one knows
for sure if a spark of life
exists after death takes hold.
But faith allows one
to accept this uncertainty,
trusting in the words
Jesus spoke and the work
he accomplished.

And so we celebrate
his entry into Jerusalem
on this Palm Sunday,
while acknowledging Good Friday
will come for all of us.

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Urban Location Inspiration

While out walking, I passed this alley, and it sparked my imagination for an entry into a screenplay scene. This won’t go anywhere, but it’s fun to play along.

Alley in downtown Syracuse. Photo by Francis DiClemente.

EXT. ALLEY – DAY

TOM COLLINS, a man in his forties, exits a building, opens the top of a garbage bin and tosses something inside. He closes the lid and sprints down the alley. Moments later, an explosion rocks the area and pieces of the green plastic bin scatter. ANGLE ON Tom’s face as he reaches the end of the alley. He looks back and three SECURITY GUARDS are in pursuit. One bearded guard cuffs his hands over his mouth.

SECURITY GUARD
You’ll never get away with this Collins. The human extension formula belongs to Dr. Reddick.

ANGLE ON Tom as he continues running.

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Man Inside Nighthawks: A Flash Fiction Story

Here’s a flash fiction story inspired by the Edward Hopper painting Nighthawks.

I assume I was nothing before I found myself sitting here, staring straight ahead. But I don’t know for sure.

This is what I do know: I can’t move my head. I can’t smoke the cigarette pressed between the fingers of my right hand or drink the cup of coffee resting on top of the counter. I can’t touch the woman seated next to me or talk to the other two men.

This is my life. Suspended in warm, yellow light. Unable to move, locked in a soundless existence—no water running, fan whirring or grill sizzling. No sirens or street sounds beyond the glass.

Time drags on with no discernible shift—no transition to morning. Here night never ends.

Yet my mind still works. In fact, it never stops; I’m cursed with thoughts that run continuously.

I wonder: Why am I here? And where exactly is here? What purpose do I serve? Why put me next to these people and not give me an opportunity to interact with them?

Do I have a past? Did I exist before I became frozen in this moment—captured and imprisoned for eternity?

As you can see, I have nothing but questions that yield no answers. If only I could talk to the other people. If only I could pry open my lips and make a sound. Then maybe we could communicate. Maybe we could figure out our reason for being here. Then I could scream for help. But who would hear my voice and who would come to our aid?

If only I could stand up and walk around, stretch my legs and peek outside the window.

But then I would upset the balance of the composition. And so I will stay in place. Funny, right? I don’t have a choice. I can’t move even if I wanted to. So I’ll be here any time you feel like looking at me.

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Been Away Too Long

I’ve been so tied up with work, family and long-range creative projects that I have neglected this blog for far too long. I haven’t posted anything since January—not that anyone is missing my content.

But during my Saturday morning jog/walk in downtown Syracuse, I snapped a photo and composed a short poem. To me both represent the ephemeral nature of life. If I had not stopped running on the sidewalk to take the picture or pull out my mini notebook and jot down the poem, the image and words would have been lost.

The sun would have shifted or shadows would have altered the light hitting the buildings and the words would have escaped my mind. A good reason to always carry a smartphone, a pen and a notebook. You never know when inspiration will strike.

Morning reflection. A George Costanza pinkish hue. Photo by Francis DiClemente.

Giving Up Admission

I can’t keep
it together.

I don’t have
the strength
to carry on.

Can I let go
and fall into
your arms?

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Fortune Cookie Philosophy

A pithy aphorism pulled from a fortune cookie this weekend.

But the poet in me would like to rearrange the lines:

Dispel negativity
through
creative activity.

The saying also reminds me of a poem that appeared in my full-length collection Sidewalk Stories (Kelsay Books, 2017).

Decisive

Action Defeats Anxiety
Is a saying I’ve kept
In my head to call upon
Throughout the years.
When in doubt,
I think it’s best
To do something, anything.
Go somewhere, anywhere.
Move from point A to point B.
Just make a decision,
One way or another—
As opposed to
Sitting there, worrying,
Pondering the situation,
And wondering how
It will all turn out.

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Snuffleupagus Tree

Instagram Poem #11

Snuffleupagus Tree. Photo by Francis DiClemente.

Snuffleupagus Tree

A fallen tree in Chittenango, New York,
reminds me of Mr. Snuffleupagus
from Sesame Street.

And I wonder:
Is my psychological
interpretation accurate?

Did I pass this Rorschach test
inspired by a tree?

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