Mark Falcone & Nathan Reid
Mark is a South Philadelphian, born and raised in Little Italy there.
He has a B.A in Philosophy, an M.A. in Education, and Doctor’s degree in Music
Composition. He was a teacher of theology, psychology and music on both a secondary
and collegiate level and was a member of the Pennsylvania Poetry Society. He is published in numerous anthologies. “Fiery Mouthed Dragon” by Dorrance & Co., Philadelphia, and self-published his second book, “Experience: The doorway to Life" by
Marcon Music Publishing.
Mark has put some poetry of his own and that of Emily Dickenson to music. He
is retired and devotes his time to composing music, writing poetry, updating
his knowledge of science, spirituality and theology.
He has had companion parrots for the past 45 years and given presentations
on parrot intelligence for numerous organizations in Green Bay, Baltimore,
Delaware and Philadelphia.
Fate does not belong to the gods.
Pray not faithfully
to the gods of fate,
for fame and
Bend back the
moment of reality
your total self.
The prayer was answered,
before it was begun.
Open your hands
there will be found
of your prayers,
Within your own
does your fate
-- Mark Falcone
Nathan J. Reid is a poet and spoken word artist whose work has appeared in several journals, including the Penguin Review, Fox Cry Review, and Binnacle. He has a background in theatre and regularly performs his poetry at art events throughout Wisconsin. His chapbook, Thoughts on Tonight, was published this year by Finishing Line Press. He currently lives in Madison with his partner, Ashley, and their endless supply of books.
From a small-town blizzard
are born two angels in the snow
whose powdery irises
bear young witness
to a truth such as this:
Paradise melts at the touch.
Every breath drawn in this town
flies shackled-wing flight
under Sheriff John's throne,
his icy yardstick
bending with command
to score another feathered pair
to force another tasty angel down.
And there is no sound
as snow pushes out
another clipped love.
There is no sound
as two angels watch crystal clumps
paint dying dreams
that keep their brilliant purity
their untouched white
even though pollution
has begun to stain their wings.
When You Wake
you hear distant rumors about what it will be like
to go to sleep and never wake up
about a time when all vibrations cash in their casino chips, take the red-eye home
when the biggest number is again smaller than the smallest number
when your mind is a wilting flower
and an hour yet pending returns you to the realm that fed you into birth
you hear these things happening someday
but today you breathe fire and music as if fire and music, like yourself,
were somehow separate from this collapsing dream of time trying to remember light
you have always been light
light is the reality beneath the dream
as you are breath you are the nothingness
a photon knows not its own existence
so why fear the wilted flower?
if the color has gone pallid
the leaves too brittle to touch
then cheer the fragrance
it is still so incredible and lovely
From Thoughts on Tonight; Finishing Line Press, 2017