Three Poems by Frank Modica
Cataracts
The eyes
the windows
into the soul
grow cloudy
as a spring day
in late April
such a small
betrayal
these blurred letters
on the page
whose promises
remain
unfulfilled
Illusions
checking the mirror
with a comb in hand
I nurture the illusion
of hair covering the top
of my balding scalp
this denial
this
lie
a cosmetic sleight of hand
I mocked in my father
but I’m ok with it
now
Shoebox
I am grapevines and olive trees
heavy-laden with broken promises,
I am basil leaves torn in ragged strips,
scattered over meager bowls of pasta.
I am fathers and sons clutching
their tools with work-worried hands.
I am weary farmers and fishermen
toiling in the oppressive summer heat,
working for another man's harvest
in the relentless, scorching sun.
I am a shoebox stashed in a closet;
Calogero’s creased Italian passport.
Francesco’s Illinois Central pocket watch.
About the Poet:
Frank C. Modica is a retired teacher who taught children with special needs for over 34 years. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Dust Poetry, New Square, Sheila-Na-Gig, and Willawaw Journal. Frank's first chapbook, “What We Harvest,” nominated for an Eric Hoffer book award, was published in the fall of 2021 by Kelsay Books. His second chapbook, “Old Friends,” was published this past December by Cyberwit Press.
Bravo! . My hair, the ones that haven't abandoned me yet, like this as do I.