Category Archives: Poetry Corner

Poetry Corner

60s Music, by Jim Farfaglia


“Send ‘em back to England,”

my dad said,

as The Beatles shook their mopheads

on the Ed Sullivan Show—


but imagine our world

with no Strawberry Fields,

with never knowing Eleanor Rigby,

without having Eight Days a Week?


People laughed at The Mamas & Papas:

skinny Michelle, hefty Cass

and hippy-dippy John and Denny,

who seemed a little too far out—


but what kind of world would this be

where there’s no California Dreamin’,

nothing to get us through a Monday Monday

and no one to Dream a Little Dream Of Me?


Yes, where would this world be


without The Stones’ search for Satisfaction,

or The Doors offering to Light My Fire?

What if there was no Hanky Panky,

no Dancin’ In The Streets?


No ‘60s music?

How strange it would all seem—

in fact, wouldn’t it just feel like

A World Without Love?

Poetry Corner, by Jim Farfaglia

This Year, by Jim Farfaglia


Every new year is a bridge that’s crossed,

it’s a wishing well where dreams are tossed;

it’s excitement, like the first day of spring,

or the tender joy a newborn brings.


A new year fills you like a sky so blue

or the welcome smile of a friend to you;

it’s the first snowfall gracing the ground,

it’s the sun rising on our little town.


A new year can be like a first bite of fruit,

or a remembered melody played on a flute;

yes, this year is the gift of life anew,

and it was made especially for you.

Poetry Corner, by Jim Farfaglia

Landlady, by Jim Farfaglia


Just a hair under five feet tall,

her mug of coffee ever present,

she’d show up each day

to wash the dirty dishes

nine college boys had stacked high.


When I’d stop by with my rent

she’d invite me in to listen

as she played piano;

toe tapping the rhythm of her youth,

fingers waltzing through the years.


When we were sick,

she’d offer home remedies;

when we were short on cash,

she’d lend quarters for the laundry—

I can’t remember if I ever paid her back.


She was as devoted to us—

her boys, as we were known—

as she was to her husband,

her piano,

her dishes.


Oh, how she filled her life to the brim;

the first time I’d seen it done so well.


Poetry Corner, by Jim Farfaglia

Even with 50 years heaped upon it,

even though other memories,

other tragedies,

have since been known,

this one burns eternal:


The principal’s voice over the PA,

his incomprehensible news

raining down on our third grade world.


The classroom cut-up, trying to make a joke,

as we tried to make sense of it all,

our teacher frowning through her tears.


The early dismissal,

walking the streets of Fulton,

cars dragging with the weight of the news.


Crossing the bridge of our innocence,

the once lively river below,

now just chilling water.


The stream of words from our TV,

Cronkite, Brinkley—all mankind—

remembering one man, beloved  by all.

Poetry Corner, by Jim Farfaglia

We Move On      By Jim Farfaglia


Luckily, I caught a glimpse

as the four or five of you

traveled my yard’s wooded edges,

playing follow the leader;

one foot—scratching, scratching—

after the other,

thin necks probing the unknown,

beaks pecking out an uncharted path.

For a moment, I admired your bellies,

so full from a bountiful season,

and your feathers with mysterious markings.

But, true to your nature, you did not stay:

Called to where life leads,

you took your mystery with you,

leaving behind a lesson about searching,

about moving on.

When They Come Through

By Jim Farfaglia

In early mornings, when I’m just starting the big wheel of my day,

if I happen to notice them wandering my yard, I always stop.


For what can be more important

than watching them gingerly step into life?


As if each hoof that touches earth

is in search of beauty,


as if every sound is meant to be heard,

and every greenery, to be savored.


How could I miss this chance to remember?

How can I just jump into my day


and let that truth pass on by?

Poetry Corner

Poetry by Jim Farfaglia


Mum’s the Word

All season long you’ve waited,

letting others tell their story:

the lilac and the lily,

the iris and the daisy.

Month after month

you’ve kept still,

holding back such colorful thoughts,

cupped in patient hands.

Not until the others have gone silent

do your fingers gently open, revealing,

in your own special language,

what you came here to say.