Frank Diamond

Published: October 2nd, 2014

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I have had 30 years writing and editing experience for newspapers, magazines, and television, and am currently the managing editor of Managed Care Magazine. I have released a novel, The Pilgrim Soul, and a short story collection, Damage Control. I’ve had hundreds of articles and columns published in outlets including the Philadelphia Inquirer,Philadelphia Daily News and the Philadelphia Bulletin. My short stories have appeared inInnisfree, and Kola: A Black Literary Magazine. I have had poetry published inPhiladelphia Stories, Fox Chase Review, and Black Bottom Review. I also wrote the Bloom’s Guide (competitor with CliffsNotes) for The Handmaid’s Tale. I live in Langhorne, Pa., with my wife, Kate, and daughter, Emily.

On Me, Nephew

Why is there something instead of nothing?
Search for an answer in this foreign brew
Let’s ignore the fallen angels for now
What’s a heaven for? God, that’s who
Something or nothing? Maybe science knows
Sitting dignified, set up for slapstick
Mumble, mumble, mumble — at the end of the bar
Your uncle wants to hear you say
You won’t give in, you’re going to stay
I will never proclaim, “Embrace affliction!”
That would probably get us flagged
Please, please, please — I won’t get through it
Let life wrap you like unredeemable grace
And let’s toast to tomorrow before leaving this place
It’s on me — you just take care of the tip

Kate's Passage
*Inspired by Kate*

Grief plays by its own rules
An awkward grace works through
“If there’s anything at all I can…”
You could point me toward the surface
For life underwater pre-empts my tears
“Thanks for coming. Thanks. Coming. Thanks.”
Navigate the void each mourning
I made her laugh right ’til the end
Now chisel that on my gravestone
Oh, we were not the perfect couple
But heavens! Did we have fun!
Laughter like that gets God’s attention
Lets his awful grace play in the sun

Gomorra

Beyond the solicitous plains
Rumor rolls like the sea
Revelers behind Gomorra’s walls
Sit at the right hand of progress
Pleasure, comfort busk easily
In fields our spoils harvest
These last six decades now
Mankind summits in our valley
The sun, the rain, the never-ending plains
I should so like to welcome tomorrow
The problem is me not you
But I am so out of place in Gomorra
Where traders, merchants give Ba’al his due
We throw away those old broken hearts
Placing our salt upon the altar
Placing our children upon it, too
I am so out of sync with Gomorra
That I do not know what to do
Do You?