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Writer/poet/actor, Ron Vazzano's popular MuseLetter, containing his poems, essays, satire, reviews, and illustrations, is now in its 20th year (www.domenicapress.com and ronvazzano7.wix.com/mysite). As a poet, he has appeared in several literary journals, as well as in his published collection “Shots from a Passing Car.” Currently in a new anthology Coffee Poems. (http://worldenoughwriters.com/)

A member of Artists Without Walls for six years, he has read and performed his work on many occasions at The Cell in Chelsea in Manhattan. Also, a member of the Italian American Writers Association (IOWA), he has been a featured reader at the annual poetry festival at Governor’s Island, last year, in a similar capacity, at the 20th annual Theater for the New City Festival in the East Village a couple of years prior. He is also a member of the Irish American Writers & Artists: IAMWA. 

On the other coast, he is a member of the Independent Writers of Southern California (IWOSC),  and has been featured at  Barnes and Noble in The Grove in Los Angeles, as well as serving  as a moderator at various bookstore events in the LA area for that organization.

 

As an Equity Actor he has appeared in several dramatic play readings at the Fifth Avenue Presbyterian Theater Fellowship. In full productions, and as a character actor, he’s played many roles in summer stock, regional and New York theaters.  

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"The melancholy of age and the power of memory have always been central for me."

                                               Ron Vazzano

 (As borrowed from what David Remnick  once said 
of 
 Paul McCartney)
             

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Word of the Month

As encountered in the September 15, 2025 issue of The New Yorker

fascia        fas·ci·a      /ˈfaSH(ē)ə/

    noun

1) a flat usually horizontal member of a building having the form of a flat band or broad fillet: such as

       a: a flat piece used as a molding

       b: a horizontal piece (such as a board) covering the joint between the top of a wall and the projecting eaves

           called also fascia board

       c: a nameplate over the front of a shop

 

2) a sheet of connective tissue covering or binding together body structures (such as muscles)

    also : tissue of this character

Etymology

Italian, from Latin, band, bandage; akin to Middle Irish basc necklace

 

First known use

1563, in the meaning defined at 1)

1824, in the meaning defined at 2)

                                                                 

                                  Source: Merriam Webster

Used in sentences

"String lights can be run along the fascia of a house to provide decorative lighting," offered the DIY guy on TV. 

 

The aerobics instructor informed the class that stretching helps to loosen up the calf muscles and the fascia. 

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Triptych Tableau

1. Side Table

 

Ingrained in old furniture
is where the true stories lie.

That Anne Accent chair

that sits in storage in Jersey

from the last cross-country move,
weathered through 

that starter marriage
and the one the length

of War and Peace

that would follow.

But most of all, I await the return
of that little side table

now being repainted
by a handyman to match

the new décor in this,

the latest of multiple lives.

It has heard the arguments
absorbed the resentments
weathered the storms.
Coming back in a semi-gloss black,
I’ve lost count of the coats of colors

it previously has worn.

 

First bequeathed in its natural grain

by a wrinkled woman

from Eastern Europe 

who never got over

the drowning of a son
who looked like a young Cary Grant. 
This after losing kin in the holocaust.

This latest reincarnation,

will now hold a Crate & Barrel vase
and will remain standing

long after we’ve departed.

2. My Dinner With Stanislavski

He speaks of a theater

that could go under

as he mulls an existence

without costumes nor props.

Thank Godot

for the vodka to come.

​But what's to become

of our inner life?

The regurgitation

of pea-soup monologues?

Where would we stage-strutters go

​In that allotted hour?

He remains silent.

 

I now sense a memory of reason

Why so much sweat upon the pages;

So many pages

in a play with no plot.

Therein might lie the madness

to the method.

As shown in the tedium

of Chekhov's Vanya

​That final scene shattered

by gunshots, "Take me away!

Take me away! Kill me.

 I can't stay here, I can't!"

3. The Barn

The barn doors not left open

thus nothing has run off

 

​not the steeds of misdeeds

that should have been released

 

​along with the demons

we meant to unleash

 

and maudlin memories

still sitting baled

 

from the winters

of discontent

 

the squandered summers

that came and went

 

​the beast within

that should have long been

 

unburdened

still chewing

 

on unsown oats

behind closed doors.

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