Adele C. Geraghty, Class of '69. (Creative Writing Editor at was born in Brooklyn, New York and, studied Creative Writing under the tutillage of poet/publisher Daisy Aldan, who exerted a profound influence on her literary career. Adele was made the recipient of, the US National Women's History Award for Excellence in Women's Related Poetry
and Essay, in 1987. The majority of her work promotes women's mutli-faceted roles and many of her poems reflect life in Brooklyn; its changing scenes and multi-cultural influence.
A presentational poet, her career also encompasses short story, journalism and comedy/satire. Among her literary credits are anthologies 'Family Pictures', by CBF Press and 'Not A Muse', by Haven Press. Her work has appeared in numerous publications, including 'Long Poem Magazine', 'Delinquent', 'Trespass Magazine' and 'Sein und Werden'. Her appearances include London's 'Poetry Cafe', and 'Barbican Library', and New York's 'The Bowery Poetry Club'. Adele's work has been performed both live and, on the radio, in both the United States and the United Kingdom. She is the author of 'Skywriting In The Minor Key: Women, Words, Wings', published by BTS Books:


(An acrostic poem)

Around and around and
back again, the carousel turns
charismatic colours to a wash,
demanding hypnotic allegiance,
even as leaning into the wind,
facing unknown spirals of worth,
great calliopes pump melodies of the
heart, beating timpani songs
in earnest and never ceasing
jaunty horses leap parallel,
knowing secrets like seers,
lamenting the telling of tears,
meandering in valleys of
new children, year after
open ended year,
pressuring hooves to floor, but
queerly, never reaching their
rest, eternally jumping to
soaring freedom, ever riveted
to the bare boards of infinity
under a canopy of mirrors,
vying for top speed
with no chance of stopping,
xylophone rhythms send
yearning manes and tails to
Zen thought and fuse to white.
Fly Away

Browsing old cards by an open window
in the tonelessness of midday,
turning yesterdays post like ocular pulses,
a tiny radiance catches my slumber.

'We don't see them much these days.'
says the man in passing,
hat-tipping hello.
'Yellow wag tail, he is.'
Mad arabesque on the wash line, trilling.

A slow singer,
loading each phrase with history's overtones.
Sentient artist,
turning ballet steps on a post head.
I stand too late.

Bird, gone in a blink, giving no second chance,
driven by windy applause and blissful impulse.
Sitting down,
I tuck my head beneath my wing and turn again
to mundane methods of grace.

Departure Time

My eyes are an afterthought of green steel beads,
spent and slick, wet and wasted,
tumbling to the open, empty cup of my hands,
nestling like the face of a conjoined twin,
staring and helpless, without true form
or focused thought, pulsing with the fractured gaze
of mad women and frightened deer.

Done now, with shuddered sighs,
I part my fingers and release them to free-fall desolation,
peering downward in the dust at my feet;
blind beings, overlooked and undone, as I walk away,
feeling the sockets in my cheeks dry against
the final burning wind of your receding breath.
Last Ferry from Brooklyn

There used to be a ferry from Brooklyn to Staten Island,
where bleached pilings stood like standing stones,
Druidic, facing the brackish green waves;
the East River enticing the small wooden pier,
which never gave in to temptation.

Then the majesty of an extension bridge,
it's long throat looped with diamonds,
it's firm-thighs tenaciously straddling each shore,
made slow transit obsolete. The aging pier,
naked, devoid of the ferry's shade, was left off limits,
it's hoary pilings leprous in the unhampered sun.

I boarded the ferry for the last ride;
heard the gates rattle in finality,
while watching the pier diminish
in the wake of the vessel's trail;
knowing that without it's constant mooring,
the winter would encase her in a wall of ice,
shrinking her slowly, with each passing year.

Sometimes, I recall her with pleasure,
her wide, oaken deck always ready,
where I'd stand, whispering my fears and dreams
on Sunday afternoons, when the world was
swallowed in apathy and faces of the non-descript
were deeper and more formidable than any waves.

I was far too young to know which fears to heed
or which dreams to abandon,
and the Old Girl knew more than most
about the benefits of slow and unharried travel,
and the irony of being remembered
for one's shortcomings.
Top of Page

Return to Main Page