Alec Solomita has published fiction in the Southword Journal, The Mississippi Review, Southwest Review, and The Adirondack Review, among other publications. He was shortlisted by the Bridport Prize and Southword Journal, and named a finalist by the Noctua Review. His poetry has appeared in Algebra of Owls, The Galway Review, The Lake, Literary Orphans, MockingHeart Review, and elsewhere. His poetry chapbook, ‘Do Not Forsake Me,’ was published by Finishing Line Press in 2017. He lives in Somerville, Massachusetts, USA.

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Like Swallows Singing

Saccharine’s what they call
him now, “ho-hum, dum dee dum,”
There’s surely not a lot
of folks, not even some,

I’d guess, who pull him from
the shelf, blow off the dust
and read his “anodyne” poems.
Back in the day he was a must,

rhythm’s constant, rhyme’s pride,
felicity’s fellow; his village smithy
gave me shivers and Revere’s ride
by the gleam of the tower’s belfry

galloped through my young boy’s head.
And even now, with you a year gone,
I return to the jingling old bard.
Still on the lookout for the bright morn

in the darkest dawn of his long life,
the optimist steps up to bat,
pulling his rabbit, sails, and swallows,
streaming lilies from his teeming hat.

His Frances was a living prayer
whose absence pierced him like an arrow,
yet he kept her silent and apart
on his anniversary of the heart

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New Morning

It’s so nice and quiet in here.
One bird’s song
one child’s murmur
slipping beneath the sill.
Dim as dusk.
Spires of books
lean this way and that;
paintings and prints
doze on placid walls.
Soon I’ll get up and make
a bowl of café au lait
then settle down with
Gore Vidal’s Burr.