Two of my books, Dreaming of Lemon Trees: Selected Poems and Outward Arrangements: Poems are available in the Local Authors section in Parthenon Books, the new bookstore located on Salina Street in Syracuse. I stopped by Sunday morning and was excited to see the books lining the shelf, in company with works by other Central New York writers.
Books on display.
While walking to work this morning, I noticed a new bronze sculpture parked in a traffic median, blending in with some trees, along a busy stretch of Genesee Street.
Unnamed urban sculpture. Photo by Francis DiClemente.
The male figure is wearing glasses and carrying scientific or mathematical equipment. Two words at the base of sculpture—“Inventive Spirit”—offer no further details about the piece. No artist name is listed.
Inventive Spirit. Photo by Francis DiClemente.
I wish I knew some background about the piece and the artist who crafted it. But the mystery also appeals to me.
Sculpture along Genesee Street in Syracuse. Photo by Francis DiClemente.
When I first saw the sculpture, the person who jumped into my mind was Tom Jones.
Tom Jones.
If nothing else, the encounter inspired me to listen to some Tom Jones tunes on shuffle on Amazon Music. I forgot what a booming, masculine voice he possesses, and I embraced the nostalgic feelings he stirred in me. Hearing his songs reminded me of my parents and a 1970s living room scene with me camped in front of a boxy TV set. And I hit replay on”Green Green Grass of Home” at least three times.
I walk to work almost every morning—following East Genesee Street toward downtown Syracuse. Before I leave my apartment building, I usually hang out with my wife Pam and son Colin while they wait for Colin’s school bus to arrive.
Today, underneath a gray sky spitting drizzle, Colin entertains himself by jumping up and down, flapping his hands and pulling his Paw Patrol mask down around his chin.
“Ah, put up your mask when you go on the bus and when you’re inside school,” Pam tells him. He listens and pulls up his mask. Colin is in kindergarten, and he has autism.
He’s dressed in sweatpants and a blue hooded sweat jacket. A maroon and navy blue Fila book bag—packed with the crunchy snacks he likes to eat—is slung over his shoulder.
When it’s time for me to break away, I remove my mask and plaster his face with a couple of quick kisses. Pam then says to Colin, “Ah, say goodbye to daddy.” When his eyes remain cast elsewhere, she holds his face gently and points it in my direction. She holds his hand and helps him to wave. “Come on now. Say bye-bye.”
“Bye-bye daddy,” he says with a clipped delivery.
“Good job,” Pam says.
I start walking on the sidewalk along Genesee, turning my head and waving toward my family, their figures looking tiny while standing under the green awning of the tan, brick building. I see his bus turning onto Genesee Street, and I pray that Colin will climb aboard safely, find his seat up front and remain in place while the bus accelerates.
Then a thought pops into my head. I don’t invite it, but it emerges anyway.
I think: This could be the last time I ever see my wife and son. I realize I am not invincible, that tragedy could strike at any moment and my loved ones could be taken away in an instant.
I look up to the clouds and try to shake the dark thought from my mind, turning my attention to work-related tasks I need to complete.
In the late afternoon, I leave the Nancy Cantor Warehouse in downtown Syracuse, walking in a steady rain along Washington Street. I cross State Street and then walk toward Fayette Street. I pass by a standpipe, and I continue on my way. But then I remember Fountain, the ready-made sculpture of a urinal by French artist Marcel Duchamp.
Marcel Duchamp’s 1917 sculpture Fountain.
I backtrack, pull out my iPhone and snap a few pictures—inspired by Duchamp’s iconic still life artwork.
According to Merriam-Webster, a standpipe is a “high vertical pipe or reservoir that is used to secure a uniform pressure in a water-supply system.” I’ve seen the term before, but I never knew the meaning. But I looked it up online as soon as I got home.
Syracuse Standpipe. Photo by Francis DiClemente.
And I guess that’s the beauty of a walking commute in a city—if you pay attention to your surroundings, you can discover things that other people might miss. It takes practice to heighten your senses and elevate your awareness. But as an urban explorer, if I am willing to pay close attention, it seems the universe is willing to reward me with satisfying visual stimuli. In my case, it makes the everyday extraordinary and the mundane magical (forgive the alliteration).
Here are some recent photos from my walking commute:
Squirrel on telephone pole. Photo by Francis DiClemente.
Chair tipped over. Photo by Francis DiClemente.
Fountain. Photo by Francis DiClemente.
Alley. Photo by Francis DiClemente.
University Block Building. Photo by Francis DiClemente.
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.
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.
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.
I can’t keep
it together.
I don’t have
the strength
to carry on.
Can I let go
and fall into
your arms?
Instagram Poem #9
Photo by Francis DiClemente.
A note written on a flyer
posted outside a Dunkin’ Donuts store.
The words read:
“What About the Homeless In CNY??
Does Any One Care??”
The message provokes empathy
and a swelling of guilt,
since my answers to the questions
lack sufficient compassion.
Do I care? Yes I do.
Enough to do something about it?
Well, apparently not.
While walking home along East Genesee Street in Syracuse, I encounter a man seated a bus stop located between Phoebe’s restaurant and South Crouse Avenue.
He has long, curly black hair, bronze skin and he’s dressed in shorts and a T-shirt, with a roll of flesh hanging over his waist.
He spots me as I stride toward him on the sidewalk, then flicks his fingers in a “come hither” motion. “Hey buddy, come here, can I ask you a question?”
I cut him off right away. “I don’t have any money,” I say and keep walking.
And I hear him say, the words trailing behind me, “How’d ya know what I was gonna ask you?”
And as I continue walking, I realize he’s right. I feel guilty about not giving him the chance to ask his question. In my defense, he caught me off guard and spooked me with the quick motion of his hands. But I could have stopped, stood at a distance from him and listened to what he had to say.
Francis DiClemente 