Wintering

December 10, 2023

Fluff the pillows and plump them up
Tuck in the edges and clear the floor
Put away the sharp things that serve no more
Stack the plates and sweep the dust
Enjoy the eggs and salted butter
Organize the things that clutter
And move the armchair once again
Till thoughts align and quieten

There’s time to be here in the present tense
Living quietly, absorbing the silence
Holding the mind in a cradle to rock
till thinking again is with innocent thoughts
Brush out the dander and straighten the hair
Polish dried leather from common use wear
Soften the feelings long over wrought--
Abandon the fight the nerves will stir up

There’s no need for violence or a swarm of emotion
Vacations aren’t always a trip to the ocean
I go off sometimes on a long winter’s stare
And think of some happy thing that stands up the hair
So life slowing down hums along with a buzz
And softens like willow tree tresses and baby duck fuzz

The static is gone and there’s peace in the air
And God lifts the chin and a smile is there
So there’s no reason for anger and no call for revenge
Because every promise revealed is a blessing from Him

And I live for the day and what’s happening in it
And my only concerns are from minute-to-minute
And there’s time to be about the business of living
No more need to answer every unruly misgiving
Because my nest is up high, and no-one is knocking
The bird in the clock face is not coo-coo clocking
There’s no pressing engagement that anxiety sends
I’m just here relaxing till the long winter ends

Silent Music

Written June 29, 2025

Between us was a silent music

Like the symphony of stars in concert

No notes - only the particles of light singing

When I stood across from you

I radiated music

Hoping for a Little Rain

Written July15, 2025

We heard the thunder rumble and saw black clouds in the sky

They covered the sunshine, mostly

And the dust began to fly

The wind came coolly blowing and we inside our shelter hid

We thought it would come a downpour

But it never did

Surrender to Sleep

June 12, 2025

I’ve had enough

I’m going to sleep

There’s nothing else that I can do

Too tired to solve problems, now

Too weary to compare the issues

Nothing makes sense after midnight

No good can come of late night schemes 

Even the wild hairs are lying flat, now

As I toss and turn to find my dreams

"Surrender to Sleep" written by Nina Ricci ©2025 All Rights Reserved

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 the snags

But, when I'm derailed 

I come under duress

Like an avalanche falling

On top of my head

I get snowed under 

And, I will 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

Until 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

My Happy Dance

My vision blazes into the rush
Colors blush feverishly
on the cheeks of flowers
who do smile as gaily as I.
I wear a dress of white cotton
with light pink flowers embroidered on the hem.
Dance comes naturally,
at variance
A knee-lift, toe-touch, step-together:
Jig of joy!
Blessings
There is sunshine
It emblazons golden light on green shrubbery
and incandesces the latitudes of my grin
Chirruping surrounds my ears
in the language of delight
Euphoria is my name
and this is my happy dance.

Hands

Insomuch as I have lived,
Always I have spied
Hands of different sizes
Resting at each human’s side

Respecting hands flat on the heart
And hands stretched out to greet
Hands at work and hands at play
Kissed hands so sweet

Throughout the working places
In houses big and small
Though the hand be a small member,
It helps us one and all.

The carpenter’s hands are strong, gnarled, and rough
The nails of his hands are cracked
And every line within the palm suggests the artist’s craft

The preacher’s hands are pale,
The knuckles: white as snow
From the weary task of directing poor sinner’s
In the way that they should go
The musician is a wonderment.
His hands so nimble and full of grace
But carpals only last so long,
Arthritis takes their place

God’s Hands are the most captivating to me,
They can’t be seen, or touched, or tangibly felt
Yet they are in our midst every moment

I feel them in life’s hurricane’s eye:
They are the mainstay.

When my life is naught but bad dreams, 
Loose seams, and unraveling schemes,
His Hands are in the starry sky,
I may see them on moonbeams

A touch here or there
Is not how God works:
His fingers sift through all of us as
Sand, the oceans course

And my hands are young
My fingers, long, supple and strong
But I know not how my own strength will last
Nor how long

I only hope God will grant me grace
And give my fingers strength
To hold another’s hand,
And to fold my hands in thanks.
                     
©2013

Anechoic Chamber (Hank Andover: Newspaper Writer and Author of Books)

From an alley of open doors
Into a compartment of closed doors and ink wells
All you saw before entering trails
in sensory traces and stops at the stoop.
You, a man with no name, walk into a room with no people
anticipating the pushing of a button:
compelling the singing, or wanking of a bell or buzzer.
The outside door had no lock,
the inside tells no reason why it would need one
And there is no smell to speak of.
Maybe that’s telling.

If a picture’s worth so many words
a place must be worth millions;
Perhaps this newsroom is without readers;
facing stagnation and eventual extinction
There is barely any air where you stand
and you can quite literally hear your blood course
in this anechoic chamber.

The silence seems like it’s listening to the other side of the door
And there must be a bustle on the other side.
Every movie you’ve ever seen having a newsroom,
including His Girl Friday 
-the flick your mother forced you to watch on your layoff-
depicts the unsound, unsealed offices and cacophony.

You’ve written articles, essays, ads, and poetry,
promotionals, leaflets, handouts, synopses;
and wouldn’t you like to slide in an envelope under that door
and have a look at what your life could be, rather than
walk through it when the bell rings, wanks, or buzzes?

It’s uncomfortable, paperboy
Will you join it?
The tearing, scrounging man-machine;
the system of shambles and kerosene lamps-
Parchment packers, ink fingers, typewriters,
paper eaters, lemon-sippers, and doormats.

Which side of the door shall you be on?

You know that the walking through that door
and the shaking of hands,
handing over the portfolio under your arm
May result in:
"Hank Andover- Newspaper Writer and Author of Books"

“Yes
 I’m
 Ready”

*(Buzz)*

Mr. Andover, please come in.