Author Archives: Nicholas DiClementi

Here Today by Nicholas DiClementi

They’re demolishing
the house next door to mine.

The weatherboard cracks
and splinters
as it’s torn
from the building’s foundation.
Each piece is tossed
haphazardly
into a pile
like fallen soldiers
into a ditch.
The wrecking ball
crashes into the single brick facade.
“The single brick facade
gives the house character,”
a real estate agent once said.
Piece by piece
is felled or crushed until
nothing remains
but a cluster of grey rubble
where the neighbor children used to play hopscotch.

They’re demolishing
the house next door to mine.
It was here yesterday,
and now it’s gone.

It’s funny,
I think,
how some things are like that.

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One Art by Nicholas DiClementi

I’m burning every poem
I’ve ever written.

Having collected all of my words
And stacked them in a neat pile,
I toss them,
No, hurl them
Into the metal wastebin
I keep under my desk
(How does it all fit?
I was sure
there was more than that!)
I strike the match
Against the side of the matchbox,
Watching the flame
Come to life
And dance
In front of my eyes.
I hold it there for a moment,
And then another,
And another.
My thoughts
Lead me astray.
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The Golden Years by Nicholas DiClementi

I

You could have tried your whole life
to end up here and
it wouldn’t have panned out. No,
surely this is accident,
or fate, or
is there really any difference?
You can’t say.
Who can say?
You know only that
your skin looked younger, once,
your eyes not so tired.

You used to laugh.
Remember
how you used to laugh?
Back then, you ran funnily:
“Look at how he closes his fists, and
his thumbs stick out.”
Now you don’t run at all.
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Filed under Featured Content, Guest Author, Poetry, Writing