Matt Pelicano :: Writer, Poet & Public Speaker

The Author

About Matt Pelicano

Matt Pelicano was born near Syracuse, New York and by age 10 was already writing poems, lyrics, music, and short stories. At the age of 17, Matt published his first compilation of poetry, followed by a second compilation a year later. At age 18, Matt's poetry was featured in a dedicated, centerfold spread in the New York Span and numerous inclusions in the monthly poetry journal, Omnific.

Matt always seeks to educate his readers, provoke introspection, and — above all — entertain in everything he writes, from poetry and song lyrics to short stories and novels. One example of this approach can be seen in his novel, A Butterfly in Paris. The result of almost two years' worth of onsite research and set in Paris, France, A Butterfly in Paris is an adventure story, a travel guide, a treatise on love, and a French language primer all rolled into one.

One of Matt's young adult novels, Tabouli: The Story of a Heart-Driven Diabetes Alert Dog, seeks to raise awareness of diabetes alert dogs and the vital work they perform, while encouraging those suffering with juvenile diabetes to always "follow the adventure" and live life to the fullest.

Recommended by world-renowned dog trainer, Debby Kay, "Tabouli perfectly captures the spirit and journey of a remarkable service dog." Tabouli was nominated for three awards by the Dog Writer's Association of America.

Striving always to explore the human condition in all its diversity, his adult novel, The Woolems of Averlune is an allegorical journey through the five stages of grief and back to hope and healing. The Woolems of Averlune has been hailed by many readers as the first step toward healing after experiencing losses of different kinds.

Matt's public speaking style is engaging and personal. At home with large audiences of 500 or more teenagers, as well as more intimate book clubs, Matt makes connections with compassion, delivering a positive message and challenging others to impact the world around them for the good.

Matt Pelicano has received nationwide media attention for his writing. Some of this press coverage can be viewed in the Media section of this website.

From his youth, Matt has always loved the poetry of E.E. Cummings, Shel Silverstein, TS Eliot, Walt Whitman, Robert Frost, and William Shakespeare. His literary heroes include JRR Tolkien, CS Lewis, Oscar Wilde, Agatha Christie, and David McCullough.

In 2023, with gratitude to those publishers with whom he worked in the past who were essential in helping him achieve global distribution, Matt launched his own publishing company, Averlune Press. The mission of Averlune Press is to offer young and undiscovered writers an opportunity to see their work in print. Averlune Press now publishes all of Matt's works, as well.

Matt is married to his beautiful wife, Sandra Stanton, and they live in New York and South Carolina.

The Written Word

The Books

Ages 7 – Adult$18.95 · 38 pp

After an avalanche drives an enormous elephant out of the forests north of Obsidia Lake into a tiny town, the great beast takes shelter in the castle gate. When strength, trickery, and wisdom all fail, an unexpected solution arrives from a most unlikely source.

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Ages 14 – Adult$19.95 · 492 pp

Annelyse Bellamy thought she knew her mother well. When tragedy strikes and a mysterious young man plants questions in her mind, she sets out to discover the truth about the mythical Woolems — learning that Grief is the most foreign of all countries, but the way home lies hidden where least expected.

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Ages 14 – Adult$14.95 · 308 pp

Tabouli is a real-life diabetes alert dog living with 13-year-old Elizabeth Vaughan in Greenville, SC. His love and devotion enable him to surmount challenges, prejudice, and doubt to become a certified service dog. Recommended by world-renowned trainer Debby Kay.

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Ages 14 – Adult$18.95 · 524 pp

Esmée Délancourt was perfectly happy never to leave Saint-Denis-lès-Chevreuse. But when commuter train doors close, trapping her inside, she becomes an unwilling participant in an adventure through the City of Lights — and discovers the true meaning of home.

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Poetry Collections

Ages 14 – Adult$18.95 · 260 pp

solitude — a collection written over nine months of discovery — forges connections between ancestry and destiny, life and death, questions and answers. In solitude, we better hear purpose; within these pages, the poet learned to listen.

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Ages 14 – Adult$18.95 · 234 pp

Winter Bloom — a love story in free verse, songs of rebirth marking the passage of long bleak winter into hopeful spring. With echoes of E.E. Cummings' passion and Plath's stark desperation, above all there is joy bursting from these pages.

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Ages 7 – Adult$5.95 · 58 pp

Seer Shilliness — a collection of rhymes, rhythms, whimsy, wonderings, wanderings, and ponderings for the youthful heart. Written purely to entertain, and happier still if used as a coloring book!

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Children's Stories

Ages 7 – Adult$16.95 · 84 pp

Norman Baxter wasn't very good at being a cat. When a terrible thunderstorm drives him far from home, this most un-cat-like of cats finds himself lost and alone. A mostly true story discovering that being yourself makes all the difference.

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Ages 7 – Adult$18.95 · 70 pp

"The jungle is never silent. It is too full of memories, too full of stories wanting to be heard." The story of how one young toucan discovered what it means to become all you were created to be — a tale as old as the rainbow itself. — The Black Jaguar

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Ages 7 – Adult$15.95 · 38 pp

Humphrey the Hummingbird's friends think he's lazy. But as the day grows hotter, they notice something surprising. A heartwarming story proving we all have a unique gift to lighten others' loads and brighten their days.

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Ages 7 – Adult$12.95 · 32 pp

A Seussical, lyrical, rhymingly-rhythmical comedy of errors that begins with a hole in a shoe and ends when a wiser Philbert learns a valuable lesson.

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Ages 7 – Adult$9.95 · 24 pp

With Just An Empty Shoebox opens the lid and peeks inside a world of simple wonders and limitless creativity, in which dreams are stored away for a lifetime of happiness.

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Reader Voices

What Readers Say

"Pelicano uses Seuss-like rhymes to create a delightful children's book with a message even little ones can learn: Take care of your problems when they are still small. My nieces and grandchildren laughed, finished the rhymes, and wanted me to read it again. You will find Pelicano's book a delight, and you'll agree with Philbert: 'If I'd properly fixed it when first it was small, I would sooner have found I'd no problem at all.'"

Linda KellyAuthor of Mice on Main

"The world-building in A Butterfly in Paris is superb, and it comes from the author spending six months in Paris to research the factual background to the story. As I read, I felt a deep, atmospheric sense of place. There was a great feeling of 'point of view' throughout, and the idea that a city is interpreted through the unique vision of the eyes of the beholder."

Suzy DaviesAuthor & Poet

"Matt has so perfectly captured the joys, tribulations, and lessons this team experienced in a wonderful children's story. You will cheer for Tabouli, cry with him, and want to hug him for being such a remarkable dog; giving unselfishly, not just once for his owner, but over and over again."

Debby KayWorld-Renowned Dog Trainer

"Today is a very good day — for I have just finished reading Matt Pelicano's latest book TABOULI. If you love dogs you must read this book; if you love your family you must read this book; if you have ever lost someone you must read this book — and finally, if you believe in the resiliency of the human spirit you must read this book! Matt Pelicano has written a truly beautiful book. It is a book that might be described as a story about the best parts of the human condition."

Susan ManchesterPoet and Artist

The Poet's Voice

Poetry Samples

Someone lived in an everywhere way; as more he went, the less he stayed; and little by little, by much, by small, Someone began to go nowhere at all. Somehow, somewhere, he'd misplaced his why; as Who and When went where-ing by; and wonder by ponder, at last, by how, Someone decided to stop off at now. He let go of then, he took hold of yet, tried to recall, never forget; he opened to maybe, to might, to true; as olding became renewing his youth. Now Someone lives in a Where-He-Is way, as more he discovers, the more he stays; by loving, and giving, in all, to try, Someone has (grateful) discovered his Why.

The Yeah-buts, I-Know-buts, the Can'ts and the Couldn'ts Are not quite the same as the Oughtn'ts or Shouldn'ts They lead to I-Didn't, but could've and should've If only the Yeah-buts had let me, I would've

loneliness is a lake without horizons; fathomless below, and limitless beyond; upon still waters beneath a breathless dome; this tiny boat - shot through with worm-rot and splintering - scattering debris on a field of fears; without rudder or sail; adrift on a senseless sea; with none aboard but me; blind from birth in a wordless world; alone, i am no company for myself; murmuring madness, in endless cycles of flesh-worn footpaths trodden by tattered toes; shoeless in the snow, a crimson trail on lily white gown, where no one follows; and no one knows; and no one answers the nightbird's call; while, in a secret room of my inmost heart, the rain begins to fall.

solitude; cold as drifted desolation on a lake where anguish goes to die; the wind wails hostile, with frozen flagrance, she probes the secret spaces where, once, my body clung to life; i liquify; eyes tear at the touch of harsh winter's dry breath; she handles all things tender too roughly; even my nose runs to outstrip her; when only spring could hope to win; a torso stands, limbless, leafless, lifeless in the wrinkled fist of brutal waters, once-liquid, now stone; strangling the stifled struggle; stripped bare beneath translucent ice; plundered dignity, the final affront; ringing the shore like heartless spectators, shrubs bristle wild with morbid curiosity, straining their broken necks to glimpse the captive corpse; my gorge rises at the sight of so much grim despondent; so much bleak and barren; for, even the mountains surrender to the scene; while, beneath the biting snow, one, hopeful crocus strives to break free.

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More Poetry Samples

with what little effort do we fill the silent, snow-flaked air with words; thoughts, across the lattice-laced backs of long-descending wings, draped weightless on the wind; they prickle my throbbing ears with contemplation; do i dare believe such tiny angels? do i dare grasp fleeting frigid with bare hands? we dribble life, like humid sea breeze from a languid sail; stinging condensation stains the canvas of our days, obscuring the delicate watercolors of love; a tempest in the teacup of blind momentary; a nor'easter off the feckless bow; a rudderless fear upon white-capped swells; sent in endless pursuit of weathering whispers, the white-clad army (pure as winter's lust for spring) covers consciousness in snowfall; crimson sin beneath a dressing of drifted cotton; and bleeding wounds beneath a compost made of pain; i ache for you; do thou speak my secret name; and i, in sweet com(passion), for you will do the same.

with trembling hands, stiff from the cold invading sinew and tendon, knuckle and joint, winter arranges an empty room; stems, which once heaved beneath the weight of flower and bud - nodding affirmation on the summer breeze - now strain to stand erect, huddled as they are against the blue breath of callous December; the shapeless air bares, white and witless, ragged rows of crumbling teeth, pinching feather and fur until even hope has paled in the long moonless sigh of a fitful, solstice sleep; at my feet, fissures gape in agonies of disbelief, the dumb waters gulping lungs-full of pleuritic despair; this lake has swallowed me before, how she longs to drink deep my deepest fears; striking heel against her aching breast, i defy vain mistress winter, and disdain her empty threats; across the stoic ice, a red flame darts, sputtering embers in the snow; a regal fox, with tail like an artist's fude, blazes brazen in the unbroken seamless of the frozen plain; and i dare to hope that i, too, might know spring again.

how big is the world in which we live? no wider than a day's breadth; no longer than a night's watch; no higher than our own ambitions; little more than come and gone; over the course of our stay, we trudge and trample flat the furrows formed by feet that walked these meadows before us; churning the self-same soil of our own tiny lives into rich pastures or fallow fields, as only harvest time will find; such is the corner we call the world; such is the sliver we call the stage; and such is the sole extent we are called to change; not nations or policies nor hearts nor minds; all such are beyond our reach; for, the wide world lives outside the boundaries set forth by one day's march or one night's lonely watch; my ambitions crave stuff more solid than this: that, from the slivers that lay close at hand, a new grand stage be made.

the mountain breathes with lungs of foothill and floodplain; upon its slopes, fir trees spread wide their feathered fingers, gathering hope sopping white with purity; a river of relentless mist flows, three feet atop the matted floor; weaving, wafting, weeping its sluggish way around all in its path; fox and hare drown in gossamer veils - hung lifeless above the gurgling ground; grey run the watercolor hues, down dense windowpanes of sky and unbroken; vistas spread like bridal trains, less costly but more assured; the sullen landscape wears upheaval, a mad portrait of disproportionate; rendered in Neo-Topsyturvism, the sky surges like turbid seawater, while earthen tides reclaim the fallen leaves; along mystic pathways, geese cry desperate in the creeping fog; their feet ache to feel the sponge of safe landing; never were souls less suited for flight than water fowl above this fluid plain; oh, how i fear the sun has died; how pale he looks in yonder sky.

southern storm thunders rage against my panes, with fists of gushing tantrums, dense as the flesh of sodden fruit; fury runs, black and jagged, down naked streets; through my open window, the heavy air squeezes her thick thighs, sitting astride my heaving chest, filling the night with cold remorse; even the gasping ground gulps mouthfuls of muddy despair; the thunderheads seem stern beyond reckoning; their brooding minds glow pink with humid discontent; these are not tears they shed, but the rabid slavering of reckless raving; what tragedy befell to pervert such pure souls, none can say; lightning stamps mayhem across the face of the sky; like razor burn dragged over dry skin, it flays my spine raw; even the tree frogs scream dismay, each raindrop falling like a spike to impale their thin, wet skins like so many vile trophies; chaos spins cruelty in careless stampedes; but listen… count the miles as they widen between thunder and light, i'm certain of one thing: i will not sleep again this night.

the ragged earth is razor-burned; stiff stubble chafes the cheek of the wind, caressing, as she does, her lover's face; the sun sets soonest, these days; 5 o'clock shadows are lengthening; among summer's severed stalks, blackhead crows, like moles marring unblemished faces, burden the morning air with their rowdy, strident screeches; would that the sky might, pillowing, smother them whole; in laundry heaps of soiled and dismal, winter's raiment huddles fast against the warmth of a fuller who seeks to bleach them bare; who knows what treasures lurk within the folds and pockets of core-frozen snowbanks: shopping carts and sundry lives swept up by indiscriminate snowplows; a heart, once thawed, reveals all things; the field, too, is a graveyard of markers; rows and aisles of unforced perspective; husks of withered skin; ears of gnawed and toothless; unfit to swallow by any but the gluttonous mud; i lose my eye inside a maze of amazement; who plants with such precision? who masters the indifferent ground? is this not a metaphor? is it not like a simile? that i might walk so far afield to master the seasons inside of me.

MattPelicano

About Matt Pelicano

The Books

What Readers Say

Poetry Samples

In the Media

The Woolems of Averlune Video Trailer

The Woolems of Averlune

A Butterfly in Paris — Your Carolina

Tabouli

Tabouli

Tabouli

Tabouli — WSPA7 Interview

Contact Matt