Avalanche - written Nov. 27th, 2024

I can be buoyant and happy

Or a puddle of woe

Up on the mountain

Or under the snow

When I come off a gig 

it can go either way

—Productive and useful

Or distressed and melancholy

I need the train of good feelings

To run on its track

Unhindered and chugging

Outrunning blue shadows

When I get derailed 

I come under duress

Like an avalanche falling

On top of my head

I get snowed under 

And, I’ll be blessed,

If it only takes days

To pull out of the mess

It might take a crew 

to salvage what’s left

Of my train of thought 

-broken-

After the wreck

But, when I get over the mountain

And back in the groove

I’ll ride though the valley

chugging it smooth 

Hugging the curves 

feeling it purr 

Forgetting the avalanche

Till the next time around

“Avalanche” written by Nina Ricci ©2024 All Right Reserved

Hobo Man's Rhyme - Sun, Oct 4, 2020

My shoes are loose
the latch is bust
leather’s puckered—
still good enough
musty, dusty
water damaged
rings of rusting
‘round the edges
I drag ‘em by my kneecaps
sweaty leather shore get heavy
the sole flaps, claps on the
bricks and concrete
I sit by the street lamps
begging bread from strangers
coins get heavy when I hold em
put my coppers in my booties
I keep my loot inside my shoesies
I trust em more than pocket holeses
‘sides I spend it 'fore folks knows I has it
Before the sun goes down on Brookline
It’s danger town when sun goes down
I take the bus line down to Copley
I find my bench inside the square
when p’lice stop 'trolling, I sleep out there
Under the moony


When the big clock tolls 7
I know it’s morning
I check to see if I’m still here
pull the papers off my face
stuff my trash bag in my knapsack
and think about ma breakfast
I wash out by the docks
then I meet the Polish lady
who feeds the ducks
where Mother Goose is buried
she always gives me bunny bread
and on weekends, if I’m lucky,
I get peanuts at the farmer’s market—
and whatever’s dropped, too bruised, or moldy

People wonder why I don’t go down to Flord-y
They say it’s better wet'r for a panhandlin'-daddy
but I’m like the green stuff on a copper cladding
I’m part of the city
Like the rust on rails,
or padlocks on fences
I’m the sleeper on the subway benches
I’m the reason for Hobo’s Lullaby
I’m the conscience naggin' the white shirt/black tie
I’m the reason the church keeps open
I’m the tired, poor, and huddled masses
I’m the reason people count their blessings

Duchenne Lines (January 19, 2024)

Duchenne lines are the marked signs of genuine happiness

And little sparks like comets shoot across her eyes 

Her smile squeezes them moon-shaped

She’s showing off her happiness beside the one who brought it out in her

Though, not being a first-time bride, there is a first time glow about her

For the widow who is twice blessed, 

having put herself aside to be nursemaid through the end times

is deserving to be blessed

This is her happiness: her crown of vitality that now nourishes her countenance

She has been watered by the sweetness of new love in bloom

And new life has poured into her roots

A bloom that has come out in winter is more striking

It’s rare, and I’ve never seen it before

I have been in this case— gobsmacked 

But this look of love is very beautifying

It has done something to her countenance that is new

She reached contentment first, but God granted her happiness

It was the gift given for the completion of her first vow: 

to God and to her husband.

And once it was fulfilled, she was set at large in her own field

To become who she was and is on her own.

She made strides and grew into herself 

She brought her talents out and delved them

She took trips and helped parents

She saw their two children married and settled

Then, she was again alone, but contented.

And somewhere along the dusky road of grief and letting go

The sun rose and it was golden

Duchenne lines are the marked signs of genuine happiness

And she has them.

Like a Dream When One Awakes (Jan. 22, 2024)

When I awake with the sun already shining in my eyes
And the first dream of what the day could be is in them
My feet frisk across the floor in slippers
And I run to a mirror to see if the night has been good to me.
If the half-moons are under my eyes, then its been a bad one
But if it’s a new moon with no crescents, I am young and beautiful
And ready for breakfast.

The dream still sits in future and its potential to become real is still there
The oatmeal is over quickly and the toast is long gone
The beverage has been sipped, and the napkin, crumpled
A small quarrel takes a swat at my mood, and leaves me tottering on maybe’s
I ought not ask that the dream come true when I have put a knot in mother's tail

A rejection notice comes over the email before I’ve even put my day clothes on
I make tea to warm me inside and raise my mood again
The temperature is low in the house and the tea chills before I’ve finished
Still, I hold the dream like a cool white egg between my fingers, wobbling.
Like a silly, desirous child, never mentioning what it is
I hope it will be the shared dream of us all so that it will be 

perfection

Going to my room, I start a compromise that I could easily drop
if the dream were to come true.
I tap out words on my keyboard, I write them in pencil in my notebook
I stare out my window at the once sunny sky,
now glazed over with a hazy blue background becoming less and less
Naked trees and power lines crisscross in front of the sky
My white gauze curtains bring in the grayish white light
And here I sit, still waiting for the dream to come
But it was time sensitive, and not likely, now.

Written on Jan. 22, 2024
Nina Ricci Music Poetry ©2024

Fall Wind Blows written by Nina Ricci

The fall wind shakes the nonsense out of trees

And blows the ne’er-do-wells into hiding 

It upheaves the musks of earth that turn the leaves colorful

And it’s an early sign to wildlife to make their houses sturdy

Like spring, the high breeze shakes leaves 

and builds a roaring voice that rouses the inner man to fear God 

pushing the calloused feelings to the surface and standing hairs on end

It’s intensity builds to a climax like a gripping sermon 

And releases its wrath like a come-along grip— 

All the vessels relax and the playful leaves circle around the ground 

chasing each other like silly squirrels

Dancing to a halt in the dirt

From the porch rails, I watch the ground 

listening for signs of life in the forest 

wondering if it’s alright to breathe 

because it feels like the air has been sucked out of the world

And I’m left standing on an empty planet

In these vacuous moments, time slows down like a walk on the moon

And like a shaken snow globe, the glitter falls till there’s no motion at all

I believe I could right the wrongs if the world stopped like it does after the fall wind blows

There’s a depth of no motion, and a profound “pause” that makes me wonder if people keep time in Heaven?

I rest on my laurels in the great sea of peace that has spread across the world  

When— a rustle behind me in an appointed tree starts the tickle that begins its coarse 

running through the forest like mischief building speed

—Like the wrist flick that strikes the whip

Another fall wind blows

“Fall Wind Blows” ©2023 Nina Ricci Music, All Rights Reserved

The Bread Maker

"The Bread Maker"

Strong arms rolling dough over dough over dough

burnished in the glow of the heat of the sun and fire

from the light coming in and the great oven dome

Tanning dough, baking fast, turning over 

setting on a flat wooden oar, parsing sweat from pores 

dirty apron, dirt floor

muscles shining wet and pumping

dough over dough over dough

Staring at the dough in the flame like a show

timing burn even glaze in the blaze

lining bread in a box in a row

Posted 3/1/19

Written by Nina Ricci

Photographed In Love

Photographed In Love

by Nina Ricci

Our eyes caught glints like sunlit glass

They were a double pairing of marbles,

Four pools at odds, four corners of a square

Within, woodwinds spoke perfect speech

That human mind could pen to libretto

Some internal digger of deep caverns

Lit a fire to see by, and we, the beneficiaries of warmth

stand like statuettes torched and cooling.

In the same way canning jars are

Ready to receive contents of cinnamon apricot jam,

So was I to receive your first words

You could have spoken pleasant things

But didn’t need to

-Contentment, leveled pleasure-

I could have remained on that plain a lifetime

And I did, and I do

Nina Ricci ©2014