Muttering imprecations at the top,
The pinnacle of tensions, highest grade,
The maximum of shaking held within,
While vocalizing silently in screams
Of frequencies beyond all thought of sound.
(Another world arises over all
In counterpoint to what we hope we know.)
I had enough but know I will see more,
Until such baggage eats itself and dies,
Leaving imagery that can work.
I long have had enough of others’ fears,
Those attitudes of structure to maintain,
As how am I to smile and where and when.
Now look at me as caught in Winter swoon,
My inner brabble magnified to war,
Where I can hear the noise, the shouts and shots–
Stomping on this poem–now shut it up!

Guest Post: Painter and Poet Jack Tricarico



Sunken Vessel

Medium: Oil on canvas 40″ x 42″

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Neither Here Nor There

Medium: Watercolor

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Jack Tricarico is both a painter, poet and Tai chi instructor. He evolved out of a commercial art background into full time painting. As he states: “Art has always felt as a necessity for me. I develop an image exclusively on impulse, based in my immediate reaction to a blank surface. This reaction is primarily chaotic. Gradually an underlying structure arises, reflecting an interconnected whole.”


Exhibitions: 220 Gallery, N.Y. C., August, 2008,  Group Show

Tompkins Square Gallery, N.Y. One Man Show, January, 2005

G.R.A. Gallery, N.Y.C. Group Show, October, 1999

N.Y. C. Studio School Gallery, N.Y.C, Group Show, January, 1999

La Mama La Galleria, N.Y. C., Group Show, December, 1997

James Barker Gallery, N.Y. C. One Man Show, June, 1985

Azuma Gallery, N.Y. C. Group Show, September, 1980

Nippon Gallery, N.Y.C. Group Show,  June 1975

The Actor’s Gallery, N.Y.C. One Man Show, September, 1963

The Paz Gallery, N.Y.C. One Man Show,  June, 1963


Education: The New York Studio School of Drawing, Painting & Sculpture. Painting, Drawing, and Art History

The Art Students League of N.Y.

Painting, Drawing, and Art History / The School of Industrial Art. Commercial Art, and Illustration.


Art work can be viewed online at: (a collective art site).


Jack Tricarico




By Alfred Lord Tennyson

It little profits that an idle king,
By this still hearth, among these barren crags,
Matched with an aged wife, I mete and dole
Unequal laws unto a savage race,
That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.
I cannot rest from travel; I will drink
Life to the lees. All times I have enjoyed
Greatly, have suffered greatly, both with those
That loved me, and alone; on shore, and when
Through scudding drifts the rainy Hyades
Vext the dim sea. I am become a name;
For always roaming with a hungry heart
Much have I seen and known—cities of men
And manners, climates, councils, governments,
Myself not least, but honored of them all,—
And drunk delight of battle with my peers,
Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.
I am a part of all that I have met;
Yet all experience is an arch wherethrough
Gleams that untraveled world whose margin fades
For ever and for ever when I move.
How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnished, not to shine in use!
As though to breathe were life! Life piled on life
Were all too little, and of one to me
Little remains; but every hour is saved
From that eternal silence, something more,
A bringer of new things; and vile it were
For some three suns to store and hoard myself,
And this gray spirit yearning in desire
To follow knowledge like a sinking star,
Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.
This is my son, mine own Telemachus,
To whom I leave the scepter and the isle,
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfill
This labor, by slow prudence to make mild
A rugged people, and through soft degrees
Subdue them to the useful and the good.
Most blameless is he, centered in the sphere
Of common duties, decent not to fail
In offices of tenderness, and pay
Meet adoration to my household gods,
When I am gone. He works his work, I mine.
There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail;
There gloom the dark, broad seas. My mariners,
Souls that have toiled, and wrought, and thought with me,
That ever with a frolic welcome took
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed
Free hearts, free foreheads—you and I are old;
Old age hath yet his honor and his toil.
Death closes all; but something ere the end,
Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with gods.
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks;
The long day wanes; the slow moon climbs; the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,
‘Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down;
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
Though much is taken, much abides; and though
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are,
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.


Oscar Wilde


“A Salesman is an it that stinks”

-e.e. cummings

Mine is theirs, those details of my life,

All listed for whomever comes to take,

But who is that?

Counterfactual, dates and numbers wrong,

The whole of what I like so well obscured

That all who come to sell will have to fail


Imagine me in showrooms of your mind,

A customer who grins but never speaks,

And leaves you ponder what I’d buy.

So keep on with your pitches, feckless fools,

Stumble off to find a mind that works for you

To purchase what you peddle with a smile.


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Need I another MRI, what little brain I have,

A QWERTY keyboard with a clustering of cells,

All else displaced for better room to type, so,

What now do doctors hope to find?


Can scans reveal the poetry in cells,

Read within the record of a mind,

The details of what happened in a day

As possibly the current source of pain?


Can poems be read directly from the flesh,

In letters formed on cells to spell it out?

I hope for resolution, poems and line,

Scansion for a better-metered mind.

This poem was published in Newpoetry.Net,   It had been rejected by Compose Literary, The Blue Nib, and the Kenyon Review.

(Alber Camus)



This cold brings home the grimy side of life,
By what it was I had or never knew,
Possessions against need or what was right,
What was my world left frozen through.

I think that every season has a switch,
To activate by equinox precise,
Then turning on the outlook which is which,
The setting now, the world is made of ice.

So yesterday, the heat was off all day,
Some seventeen degrees and how I felt,
How chasing dreams of skill came out this way—
But whose hand dealt the bad hand I was dealt?

Depression is a failure as a word:
Perhaps to say collapsing of a world


Polar babies VnD9FsJ.gif

This poem was published this past winter in NewPoetry.Net. Equinox had been rejected by Raintown Review, One: Journal of Arts and Letters, and Into the Void. (Note the Oxford comma.)