Tuesday, August 1, 2017




“Ashamed to die as perplexed and dumbfounded as you are?
Befuddled as the day you came into this sad, sore world?
Mandolin dings, violin squeals, the big drum bangs slowly.
Breezes of longing, rhythms of life sweep on over you.
Voices of tortured spirits from distant fields call your name.
Where dark is the wood, murky the path, comatose the souls.
Poor souls standing in cloaks of mournful sophistication,
Where the bread grows stale with age and green-spotted mold.
You dance, shuffle your shoulders in syncopation and hear
The hurtful lamentations of bruised, suffering women and
Feel the pain, fear, confusion of all the young innocents.
Your shadow orbits you, a quickened dance of frustration.
Bury all your troubles and woes for dead men sleep soundly.
Take that hollow broken husk, bear it down to the river.”

Copyright Dennis John Ferado


Old woman walking alone
Along the East River’s edge
Barefooted moving through
Moonlight in an off-shoulder
Cape stopping at the foot
Of the  fifty-seven
Stone steps
I stood on the tower
Gazing down on this flower
And I watched her collapse
Stunned as her soul lifted
Glimmered and drifted then
Slithered up into the night
Floated close to my face
I reached out to touch
It vanished in flight
I let out a gasp looked
Back down the stone steps
The old lady was nowhere in sight

Copyright Dennis John Ferado


The autumnal air was invigorating
As I walked my dog through the park
The wood was dense and unlit
Trees shivered in spearing silver moonlight
Casting jumpy shadows then
I spied him on a bench alone in the dark
Staring fixedly out over the silent river
My eyes followed his eyes to their mark

A gauze of fog covered the water
As things began drifting by:
A faded batch of shattered promises
A bleary photograph of past intimacy
A hazy spill of recognition
A flash of ancient secrecy
A disappearing smile of old companionship
A dim pool of remembrance
A half recalled dream of significance
A vague patch of warming recollection

Stiff in sorrow rigid in remorse cemented in loneliness
Statue of stone i sat down beside the old man
He spoke to me through burnt-out eyes:

“This hungry heart is starved for love it yearns for
Someone to come and give it nourishment, to fill the
Empty spaces of a life, give meaning to
Chilly days, substance to these chilly nights.”


DENNISS JOHN FERADO has been a doorman, concierge, exterminator, taxi driver, truck driver, construction (Iron) worker), actor, model, astrologer, antique store owner.  He and his wife had their own business selling rare books from 1993 to 2013. Born and raised in New York City, Dennis has writing songs and poetry since he was 15. He has also written a screenplay, with 17 original songs called “New York City Song” which is tucked away in his closet, and a two act stage play that had a showing in an off off Broadway theater in 1991.  The city has been his pain, joy, confusion, stability and inspiration.  He retired in 2013 and moved to San Antonio, Texas where he finally had time to put his first book together. Published in October 2014. “Time On Hand” collects 80 songs and poems, 2 short stories with 16 vintage photographs. He is just finishing his memoir.

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