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Red Bicycle Dreams / Frank Pasqualino

$12.00 $7.00

Product Description

Red Bicycle Dreams

poems by

Frank Pasqualino

ISBN: 978-1-59948-788-5, ~50 pages, $12 (+ shipping)

Projected Release Date: March, 2020

An Advance Sale Discount price of $7 (+ shipping) is available HERE prior to press time. This price is not available anywhere else or by check. The check price is $11/book (which includes shipping) and should be sent to: Main Street Rag, PO BOX 690100, Charlotte, NC 28227-7001. 

PLEASE NOTE: Ordering in advance of the release date entitles the buyer to a discount. It does not mean the book will ship before the date posted above and the price only applies to copies ordered through the Main Street Rag Online Bookstore.

About The Author

Francesco Pasqualino is a restauranteur and writer living in Pittsburgh, PA. Francesco has supported many artistic groups including The International Poetry Forum and The Hillman Center for Performing Arts. He has had the honor of studying with Ted Kooser and Mary Karr. His writing appears in Voices in Italian Americana, Mad Poets Review, The Main Street Rag, and The Pittsburgh Post-Gazette. You’ll find his culinary insights on Attenzione! A Writer’s Journal on his restaurant’s website, pasqualinos.com. He has also shared his family recipes as an invited guest on WQED public television. To talk poetry or recipes, email Francesco at francescopasqualino@yahoo.com.

Comments

Every poem in this collection is like a delicious small plate with tantalizing aromas, combinations of textures, deep and complex flavors. And in the end, they satisfy and nourish. After reading Frank’s poems I am inspired to climb on my red bicycle once again and ride into the wonders that this life always has to offer if we make the effort to experience it. Humorous, poignant, insightful, memorable, these poems are far from small watt bulbs. They shed light on the human experience in both grand and personal ways. Like all good poetry, the final effect is greater than the sum of its parts. Ideas, words and phrases, similes and metaphors are just the ingredients in this dish. And like great cuisine, the final dish is no better than the quality of the ingredients. Frank Pasqualino has laid a banquet that is both delicious and satisfying. ~Chris Fennimore

 

This debut collection of poetry is both a reflection on physical changes in familiar streets and scenes from Francesco Pasqualino’s youth in Pittsburgh as well as his travels. It contains insightful musings on humanity, natural wonders, and life’s challenges. Mr. Pasqualino’s conversational style and accessible verse invite the reader to ride along on his red bicycle as he reveals poignant details about everyday experiences many might otherwise overlook. Jump aboard for an enjoyable, memorable ride. ~Jere Krakoff

Samples

I am Getting Old

 

Hard varicose branches so still
against winter’s soft, silver skies.

River banks remembered
as not quite so tall.

And were there not
two swans singing?

From a window upstairs
I see my father’s old, rusted wheelbarrow

leaning
against a tired, gray shed.

 


 

Snowbirds

 

Early November
just after the first frost

Driving South 79 to 19
to 77 and beyond

A procession of motor homes
shiny and bright as just unwrapped Popsicles

Does not matter if we believe in the Garden
before the first sin

or if we evolved
upon our own two feet

We are compelled by instinct
to leave our nests of furnace and snow

And follow the honking birds to the warm, salty air
a little down the road from retirement.

 


 

A Cup of Solitary City Streets

 

Early Sunday mornings
tame even the most monstrous of Pittsburgh’s city streets,

after Saturday night’s revelry
finally stumbles exhausted into sleep’s penance.

And too early the preacher’s sermon stretches and yawns,
gives thanks for the few more minutes of sleep.

I bicycle alone on these early, deserted Sunday mornings,
circling the same city streets I’ve known most of my life.

I finish my ride at the same coffee shop,
sit at the same outdoor table

in the shadows of the spires of the Cathedral of Hope,
its bells echo off tall city buildings, reprimanding my hollow beliefs.

Each Sunday I drink a cup of solitary city streets,
watching the faithful flock into church,

dressed in their Sunday best,
and shiny, wingtip shoes I don’t ever remember owning.

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