Elaine
Sorrentino
Elaine
Sorrentino at five
Poet Elaine Sorrentino has been published in Minerva Rising, Willawaw Journal, Glass: A Journal of Poetry, Ekphrastic Review, Gyroscope Review, Quartet Journal, Writing in a Women’s Voice, Global Poemic, ONE ART: a journal of poetry, Muddy River Poetry Review, Etched Onyx Magazine, Agape Review, wildamorris.blogspot.com, and Haiku Universe.
She is Communications Director at South Shore Conservatory in Hingham, MA, where she creates promotional and first-person content for press and for a blog called SSC Musings, and is facilitator of the Duxbury Poetry Circle. In 2009, she started a tradition of posting weekly light-hearted, feel-good 5-7-5 poems on Facebook for “Haiku Tuesday,” which has developed a respectable following over the years. Humor is a familiar element in much of her poetry.
A two-time breast cancer survivor, Elaine, along with poet Dzvinia Orlowsky, conceptualized and presented a program called Pink LemonAid, where writers, artists and musicians were invited to share art inspired by their experience with breast cancer—either as a survivor or as support for a loved one. They are planning to present a second version of this awareness program to a wider audience in 2025. Elaine makes her home in Massachusetts with her musician husband and various farm animals who wander into their yard. Her first poetry collection, Belly Dancing in a Brown Sweatsuit, is in production at Kelsay Books.
Disco Chic
She is Communications Director at South Shore Conservatory in Hingham, MA, where she creates promotional and first-person content for press and for a blog called SSC Musings, and is facilitator of the Duxbury Poetry Circle. In 2009, she started a tradition of posting weekly light-hearted, feel-good 5-7-5 poems on Facebook for “Haiku Tuesday,” which has developed a respectable following over the years. Humor is a familiar element in much of her poetry.
A two-time breast cancer survivor, Elaine, along with poet Dzvinia Orlowsky, conceptualized and presented a program called Pink LemonAid, where writers, artists and musicians were invited to share art inspired by their experience with breast cancer—either as a survivor or as support for a loved one. They are planning to present a second version of this awareness program to a wider audience in 2025. Elaine makes her home in Massachusetts with her musician husband and various farm animals who wander into their yard. Her first poetry collection, Belly Dancing in a Brown Sweatsuit, is in production at Kelsay Books.
Disco Chic
In high school, we flaunted snug hip-huggers,
gauzy diaphanous peasant tops,
cork-bottomed platform shoes,
our exposed toes shrieked of baby blue.
We were smug in the realization
that our private school compadres
were bound to regulation skirts,
buttoned-down blouses, drab cardigans;
no checked palazzo pants
or tight ribbed turtlenecks
for our friends at the Saint schools.
Our clothes, cool - theirs, prescribed.
At 18, when we earned the right to vote,
open bank accounts, get sued, drink alcohol,
the disco established an equal fashion field
compelling public and parochial school grads
to don the same black polyester pants,
matching vest, and white silk chemise
then step onto the dance floor and gyrate
under a large, reflective glitter ball.
Waiting for Death
We thought we’d said goodbye
nine years ago
when you bolted
from the party,
several cocktails
beyond the rest of us
indignant
at our notion
of impairment
furious
at the suggestion
of a lift home;
fierce independence
overtook
reasonable decision-making.
We watched in horror
as you twisted down
the long, narrow driveway
your blue Jeep
scarcely missing
the mailbox at the end
the three of us guilt-ridden
for not delaying your leave
by two more cups of coffee;
but that was not your time to go
as Happy New Year FB peeps
cheerfully announced the next morning.
Heavy-hearted, we say goodbye today,
the essence of you
only a memory
still here
yet not here,
only your temple remains.
No more vision boards
to navigate
forward motion
for my friend the traveler,
the entrepreneur,
the big picture thinker,
your business mastery
helped others
realize their dreams
despite your own struggles,
your prowess
always landed you on your feet
the impetus you embraced
to continue your life journey
of experiencing wholeness;
only in these moments before death
do you receive
the familial attention
you craved in life,
you missed in life
you deserved in life.
I Am Not an Ass Kisser
in honor of Truman Capote
When my journalism class read
In Cold Blood in the ‘70’s
it moved me to delve deeper
into the 1959 Kansas murder,
explore reporting when slaughter
wasn’t a front-page staple.
I lost myself in microfiche
shocked to find one short buried
paragraph in the Wall Street Journal.
I was incensed - so few words
to memorialize unspeakable brutality.
Where was the alarm? The outrage?
I mentioned my surprise in the final
and the professor deemed it
an Eddie Haskell moment
upon handing back our blue books,
declaring some of us tried to butter him up
but he was smarter than that.
Sharing Cream Scone Secrets
Jack’s dog-eared instructions were specific:
Be sure to use heavy cream,
don’t substitute, it will not work.
I spoon, level, sift the fluffy flour, soda,
salt, zest the delicate lemon, recalling
his gentle demeanor, generous spirit;
the fragrant dough relaxes
in my farmer’s market pottery splurge,
as I stir, I smile thinking of his ‘Silver Fox’ moniker.
If alive today, my tall, white-haired friend
would nod at my ice cream scoop method
of sculpting sticky scones evenly
on unbleached parchment, painting
each creation with an extra layer of richness
and baking them into tah-dah perfection;
the warm, sweet indulgence on my tongue
reminds how much I miss his gentleness
and his knack for making tastebuds sing.
Stepmother
He died three weeks
after discovering
his inheritance stolen.
Family blamed her
for robbing him─
first his money
then his life─
but doctors insist
it took longer
than twenty-one days
for him to develop
heart disease.
When my journalism class read
In Cold Blood in the ‘70’s
it moved me to delve deeper
into the 1959 Kansas murder,
explore reporting when slaughter
wasn’t a front-page staple.
I lost myself in microfiche
shocked to find one short buried
paragraph in the Wall Street Journal.
I was incensed - so few words
to memorialize unspeakable brutality.
Where was the alarm? The outrage?
I mentioned my surprise in the final
and the professor deemed it
an Eddie Haskell moment
upon handing back our blue books,
declaring some of us tried to butter him up
but he was smarter than that.
Sharing Cream Scone Secrets
Jack’s dog-eared instructions were specific:
Be sure to use heavy cream,
don’t substitute, it will not work.
I spoon, level, sift the fluffy flour, soda,
salt, zest the delicate lemon, recalling
his gentle demeanor, generous spirit;
the fragrant dough relaxes
in my farmer’s market pottery splurge,
as I stir, I smile thinking of his ‘Silver Fox’ moniker.
If alive today, my tall, white-haired friend
would nod at my ice cream scoop method
of sculpting sticky scones evenly
on unbleached parchment, painting
each creation with an extra layer of richness
and baking them into tah-dah perfection;
the warm, sweet indulgence on my tongue
reminds how much I miss his gentleness
and his knack for making tastebuds sing.
Stepmother
He died three weeks
after discovering
his inheritance stolen.
Family blamed her
for robbing him─
first his money
then his life─
but doctors insist
it took longer
than twenty-one days
for him to develop
heart disease.
