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Life flowed
with happy regularity
at St. Ann's Infant Home:
breakfast
lunch
and
supper
in unending number;
Coloring books
and
nursery songs;
Playing in a rhythm band;
In the playroom,
random things to do;
In the play yard,
sandbox
and
swing set
tricycles
and
little red wagons too.
Then one early morning in July,
Sister Anne called out the names of children,
now age six,
to form two lines.
And saying, "Follow me,"
she quickly strode
through the entrance door
of their basement home,
and on the walkway of their yard.
The six year olds,
stepped fast behind
the sister's hurried pace,
down the walkway,
through their yard,
and
through its wrought iron gate,
to the street,
just on the other side.
At sister's motion to go on,
the children crossed the street,
behind her fluttering veil
and quick moving feet,
then stepped upon the walk
abutting the high brick wall
of St. Vincent's Orphanage.
After more than a l00 feet,
the sister stopped the troupe
at a wooden door
in the tall brick wall,
and had them all pass through.
The group, bewildered,
numbly stood,
watching the sister,
with key in hand,
bring the wooden door to...
Sudddenly,
a click of the lock
sank deeply in their ears,
and
a penetrating sadness
filled their years.
They had been taken
from their childhood home,
never to return.
The imposing seven foot wall
seemed to confirm this,
for it blocked,
even a glimpse,
of their old home.
Virgil Gelormino 
RETURN
___________________________________
ONE SUMMER MORNING
(At St. Ann's Infant Home)
As a child of five,
stands at the wrought iron fence,
of St. Ann's play yard,
he suddenly sees,
across the nearby street,
an adolescent figure
mount the seven foot red brick wall
that is St. Vincent's Orphanage
for children older than he.
The adolescent boy,
his face quite earnest,
his breathing hard,
holds on the wall with one hand
while clutching a game spinner
in the other,
then calls loudly to the child,
"Virgil, Virgil",
as he hurls the spinner
high o'er head
into his yard.
The child of five
quickly retrieves the spinner,
pondering all the while:
"That dark tan face
of the boy on the wall
is much like mine
in the mirror
on the nursery wall."
(The boy on the wall is Frank)
his oldest unknown brother.
Virgil Gelormino RETURN
___________________________________
Along the path
To poetry class
In the early New Spring morn,
The air was filled
With melodic trills
From one song bird.
On a sapling branch
At the edge of the path
He poured out God's goodwill.
Absorbed I stood,
Thrilled by the trill
From one song bird.
Virgil Gelormino
___________________________________
SUCH A FACE SUCH A SKY
Every morning,
and now this morning,
the large Boys' Playground
spread full view before her.
From her bench
beneath a tall elm tree,
a stone's toss right
of the dark green water pump,
marking the entranceway
to the playground,
slender and dark complexioned,
quiet Sister Myra
with the radiant smile
kept her watch
as robust orphan boys
romped and played.
But this morning
dawned most unlike
every other morning.
High fluffy clouds
covered the vault of the sky
from north to south,
appearing as an immense
flock of sheep.
Immediately flashed
into my mind
the parable of the Good Shepherd:
Christ leading His sheep.
Sister Myra watched spellbound.
From my spot on the ground,
I looked at Sister Myra.
She looked back,
smiling radiantly,
confirming, it seemed,
my impression.
Virgil Gelormino
___________________________________
As color is to canvas,
so is cadent word to ear.
A painting stirs reflection,
a poem our heart to glow.
With brush the artist fashions,
with palate the poet too.
As one delights in color,
so the other does in sound.
Virgil Gelormino RETURN
___________________________________
ART
EXCELLING
A post-collegiate singer,
performed a stirring number,
before our hushed assembly,
one fall school day.
In a deep rich baritone voice,
he sang a Rudyard Kipling poem:
"On The Road To Mandalay".
His cadances,
spirited and sonorous,
now soft, now rising,
now "fortissimo",
filled me to the core!
They play within my being,
still today.
A spirited song
is something in the heart,
forever.
Virgil Gelormino RETURN
___________________________________
As certain as dawn,
The day at noon,
As certain as dusk,
The eve of day, moon;
The swallows are back
This Spring
In Capistrano.
Virgil Gelormino RETURN
___________________________________
"PIGEONS"
Pigeons, unlike other birds,
in their color vary:
Some are black,
some are gray,
with glossy green and purple
round their necks,
a few light brown
or
creamy white
with brown speckles,
fewer still all white.
When they walk,
their heads bob to and fro.
Their pee wee eyes,
red or yellow,
shine like glassy beads.
They love to come together
and be a friendly flock.
With bellies filled,
the birds, contented,
rise into the air,
then take off flying
high above the earth,
circling and recircling,
circling and recircling,
soaring through the sunlit air.
Finally, descending,
swooping low,
their black shadows
move swiftly
o'er the ground below,
until at last,
they flutter to a landing,
on their coop
or
yard below.
Lively spirits,
drinkers of high air,
I fly with them
through the air.
Virgil Gelormino RETURN
___________________________________
"A
Winter Morning
at
DeWeese Park"
The cold
lifts its hold
on the snow
and
ground below.
Luminous light
from melting white
half blinds
a walker's eyes.
Down the slope below,
the Stillwater,
placidly flows.
Above, majestic blue
exudes its hue
through the firmament
as
clouds, high and white
and
strata-like
intersperse the sky.
Beside the path,
a rivulet,
sparkling and gurgling
with delight,
ripples by.
Virgil Gelormino RETURN
___________________________________
Catalpa Drive is festive
on summer days in June,
the month catalpas are in bloom.
The trees, some in clumps, other solitary,
stretch to the far horizon.
The trees, dark green and leafy,
their boughs laced in white,
sparkle in the morning light.
In the approaching distance,
I see them from my bike.
Gleaming giants, one following another,
they loom quickly toward me
as clouds recede o’er head.
Suddenly, they are beside me.
I under their shoulders.
They billow upward, topping in the cloudy blue.
While coasting smooth descents
or pedaling up long rises,
I gaze at overhanging branches
that glitter with white blossoms.
And, every year in June,
I pause beneath a tree oe two,
where lawn and road are covered with white blooms.
I pick up one or the other blossom,
inhale the sweet aroma,
pleasantly recalling my first tree,
my first blossom,
Catalpa trees, catalpa blossoms.
In the past,
the trees stood forward of the wrought-iron fence
closing off the play yard
of my childhood home.
The southwest wind in June
showered the yard with blooms.
The sweetness of the blooms today
is remarkably
that of toddler days gone by.
Virgil Gelormino RETURN
___________________________________
" CHILDHOOD SWINGS "
" LE
ALTALENE DELLA FANCIULLEZZA "
I remember.
Do you remember
the childhood swing ?
A precious world,
magical
and
mystical,
childhood swings.
Idly swinging,
enjoying the trees,
the whispering breeze,
the locusts that sing,
the birds that wing.
Butterflies
and dragonflies
and
honey bees,
random wild flowers
that dot the grass,
and
clouds that pass.
Childhood swings.
Do you remember
how you winged
on your swing,
high toward sky
and
back again,
high toward sky
and
back again,
the sunlight warm
against your skin,
the sweep of air
all through your hair ?
A precious world,
magical
and
mystical,
fully contained,
fully centered,
melody from Heaven,
childhood swings.
Virgil Gelormino RETURN
___________________________________
"MY SWING"
I love to ride
on my swing.
As I swing
I see the trees,
I feel the whispering breeze,
I hear the locusts sing,
I watch the birds that wing.
Butterflies
and
dragonflies
and
honey bees,
happy wild flowers
that dot the grass,
and
clouds that pass.
I love to ride
on my swing.
How I love to wing
on my swing,
high toward sky
and
back again,
high toward sky
and
back again,
the sunlight warm
against my skin,
the sweep of air
all through my hair.
I love to ride
on my swing.
Virgil
Gelormino RETURN
___________________________________
As much a mother
as she could be,
from the kitchen,
at St. Vincent's Orphanage,
This, Sister Annella
was to me.
Whenever she chanced
to see me pass,
she'd beckon me in.
Ever joyous,
brimming with infectious laughter,
she'd stuff my hand with cookies
or other good things.
She made me feel a princely lad.
Big-boned,
energetic,
a farm girl
from upper North Dakota,
a score of years before,
she readily lifted
heavy pots and pans,
performed a million kitchen chores.
She loved the West,
its open prairies, open skies,
its native Indian peoples.
Humming or singing cowboy songs,
she moved the day along.
Though drawn to the charms
of country boys
in the peak of maidenhood,
her heart was set on Francis,
Assisian lover of the poor.
And thus it was from high school
she entered consecrated life
with the Sisters of St. Francis
in faraway New York.
When walking by her doorway
one early summer day,
I felt a sudden rush
of wind-like air
and glimpsed a running brown clad form.
Sr. Annella, now beside me,
placed her hands upon my shoulders
and kissed me on the head.
confused, bewildered,
I paused a moment, dazed,
then continued on my way.
What remained to me a mystery,
Sister Annella knew-
This would be my final day,
at St. Vincent's Orphanage.
Virgil Gelormino RETURN
___________________________________
