the other side of the rainbow

“we’ll find a way of forgiving”
is this true
wouldn’t that be beautiful
not to end
in hatred
but to persevere
in love
“somewhere over the rainbow”
because we can’t stay on this side anymore
we learn to cherish

internal not eternal beauty
of children
of people
of humanity
that rainbow keeps looking better
on the other side
green lush, pure blue

conflicts end with handshakes
not burning holes
what color there would be
what a brilliant world we could live in
we’re but one side away
if only

SImon Says Peace

Simon Says Peace

Created last year for a dear blogger friend–Simon Tocclo, a man of action trying to affect genuine change in Liberia. Among his many social platforms, Simon can also be found through his blog, Liberian Me

“We’ll find a way of forgiving,” borrowed from, West Side Story
“Somewhere over the rainbow,” borrowed from, The Wizard of Oz

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friendship and slaying beasts

There is an eternal chamber
protected by beasts
both good and evil
we must be patient
and wait for the precise moment
when the light shines
to see in the dark

it is difficult slaying in blackness
to separate the good from the evil
we will do battle side by side

I will distract with my blunt sword
while you strike true
these wicked beasts
must be felled
by the one who woke them

we each must foster
our own conclusion
we each must destroy
our own inhibition
it is difficult slaying beasts alone

 let us battle on side by side
you know
even superheroes need sidekicks

hall monister

hall monister

Birthdays and Band-Aids

We cannot protect our children anymore than we can make ourselves less vulnerable to life. The best we can do is arm them with self-confidence so when their young, conflicted minds step into those ‘precarious’ fields the mantra, “I’m better than this…,” whispers like a gentle school bell, muffled beneath piles of internal clothing.
maxThe big son is still young. He turns fifteen this week. Like many others of his ilk, he enjoys sports. ‘We’ made it through another wrestling season uninjured and now it’s on to football. The big son is a gentle soul by nature–a pacifist at heart. I know it’s impossible to ask for such a divine favor as to keep one’s child completely safe while playing competitive sports, so I’ll just ask that he has fun and only requires a Band-Aid from time to time. And of course, I also ask that every child participating in sports this year remains safe. I know it is a tall order and a selfish prayer.

Last year the big son said to me, “I’ll feel bad if I hurt anyone, mom.”

I responded quite motherly, “Then tackle your opponents with love, son.”

I glanced up at the sky and prayed, “And God, I hope my son is tackled with love too.”
Love TackleLove Tackle, created last year with Prisma pencil.
Partial post previously published around this time last year.

Happy Birthday, Max!

ocean rain

the bullet-grey sky today
is raining, you know
made me feel less lonely
thinking
you might be looking at the sun
weatherman says rain tomorrow
the droplets whisper
they came from your ocean
so
let the rains come to kiss my cheeks
and keep me company

dolphin

dolphin from an ocean far away, maybe

Light the way!

Sibella is a creative lady who entertains multiple muses. Her blog, Arts and Rhymes is a treasure trove of both art and poetry. Sibella is one of those rare folks who strives to bring peace to us all. She delivers inspiration in colorful graphics, amazing portraits, uplifting prose, lovely song…and I could go on, but she is quite modest and I’m sure I’ve already embarrassed her 🙂 I’ve reblogged this particular piece because this amazing lantern image brings not only light, but a smile to my face. Stop by Sibella’s blog if you’d like to view more or become part of this talented artist’s world.
annmarie:)

‘see’ turtle

tortoiseArmored carapace
marries this hide to my hundred-year-old body
This union of protection

sallies my ancient form through waters
older than you or I
Brothers and sisters
honor the places your body moves upon
Respect the glory of the four elements
with guardianship as infinite as the heavens
Do not let your watchful eyes wither
like naked flesh in burning sand

I must breathe
You must breathe

Oceans must breathe
Do you understand
I only ask because
it seems many have forgotten

little diablo enjoys fuss

devilishIf we know the, “devil lurks in the details,”
why do we insist on conquering minutia
and allow our pressure to boil red
?
I was once taught by folks who prayed looking up,
heaven is a big cool land
whose tenants are interested in just the basics:
kindness, civility, sincerity and humility.
Down below,
the devil is entertained
by those who enjoy hot complexity.

Interesting idiom history: the original idiom was, “God is in the detail,” meaning attention must be paid to the small things–all are important. The more popular, “the devil is in the details,” warns us that mistakes are usually made in the small checkpoints of a project. It’s meant as a caution. So my little post takes a different position. I sometimes think many of us (me included) get so wrapped in the minutia of our daily lives, we have less time for the greater human aspect.


little diablo brought to life a few weeks back after grocery shopping

speaking of minutia-I loathe grocery shopping;)

Uncle Stan’s Cloud

a car flies down the road though how could it
there are no feathers only heavy metal and fumes
anchoring its chassis to earth
a fly buzzes around the fruit bowl
as if it has something to say about the arrangement
you go to close the kitchen window where the fumes and the fly entered
up there in the sky, a cloud shaped like Uncle Stan
you haven’t called him in awhile
not since he went to the rest home, the one that doesn’t smell so funky
the car, the fly, and the cloud aren’t
in possession of anything mystical
the car doesn’t have wings
though the fly does
the car, the fly and the cloud move fast 
some believe cars have spirits
otherwise car names are pointless
even if the headlights resemble eyeballs
and a fly who doesn’t like the fruit arrangement
without elevated thought
would just be annoying
so leave the window open and let the car fumes pass
the fly will have an exit for making its escape
and for the love of Aunt Lucy, gone these seven years
please don’t forget to call Uncle Stan

Winged

this graphic created in 2014 makes me happy – she’s just silly
previously published

this time of year

may I call you out
it’s time
the nights are growing colder
the mornings chilly
leaves are weary and falling
the trees want to sleep
their shadows have cooled
and something is pressing in the wind
like a secret around the corner
this time of year
the minute hand seems to
overpower the hour
transitions
stepping through that next door
another calendar to markup with activity
summer is worn out
it’s time
for the harvest to begin
though
every time you change
I wish they could stay the same
and play with dolls just a little longer
Gallean with ragdoll
Galeen on a ‘shroom painted on paper a few weeks back

JOY-FUL1 (Flash Fiction Experiment #1)

Joy August Ripsaw was a natural born killer. If she knew I was writing this, she’d delete “natural born” and scrawl “fashion-forward.” But I’m not a penchant fabricator, at least not while penning bios. No yellow print here. While on the subject of disclosure, I will acknowledge that an exposé might just tip the imported auto scales in my favor should Miss Ripsaw need to dump that blood-red beauty. Joy August Ripsaw: Reign of The Shredder; The Unauthorized Unraveling – should be released in time for the holiday season.

JOY-FUL1

JOY-FUL1 the vanity plate persistently screams for Joy who lost her voice on the road somewhere. Comeuppance duly served at the table of life. At least twenty years–maybe longer. The aging blood-red auto is the only thing that remains of the rogue goddess. Admirers assume the winged sports car was born of vanity and a leather steering wheel twice removed. JOY-FUL1. She couldn’t recall ever being so lamely literal. That’s not true. She does remember but chooses to forget.

On the streets of New York City, a teen Miss Ripsaw had been approached several times by modelling agents and fashion photographers. Why she never chose modelling was a point of pride. Miss Ripsaw’s latest version rounds four approaches to twenty. These approaches laid the foot stones of her path. Joy August Ripsaw posed for no one. She would be the extraordinarily beautiful puppet master jerking all the strings.

For fifteen years, Joy August Ripsaw was the editor-in-chief of Galgeous–an omniscient, iconic fashion magazine. 120 satin pages exploded monthly between polished fingers. Monochromatic perfection reeled in sensory motors by the thousands, mounting them on the trophy wall of the editor-in-chief’s gilded office.

Before all the fame came her form. Miss Ripsaw had the finest. She thrust the long lance then jabbed with the short blade and moved in for the kill–leveling final blows with the ripsaw. Joy August aka The Shredder attacked, took down and feasted until she was full of herself. It was only a matter of time until all rivals were rendered into carrion that only shiny black beetles and nandi roaches were interested in.

Miss Ripsaw’s finely tuned ass claimed the Galgeous throne in gladiator style. After her official coronation, the gold keys to a Lamborghini Veneno Roadster were placed in her capable claws. She added the vanity plate JOY-FUL1 to the blood-red eye candy. The height of clever irony from the mind of one perfectly clever. That’s not true either. She was just the most vicious and won.

Joy August Ripsaw lusted in many life arenas. She prayed for tyranny during her reign. She envisioned, Joy’s August Ripsaw an edgier publication of casual refinement and sensual sleek done up in long-toothed matte textures. For now it would have to remain a pulsing desire. The moniker, Galgeous, was a literal load that even Miss Ripsaw’s teeth couldn’t shred. There was no besting its spectacular numbers. Galgeous had made its mark. Not a mark, a mortal wound into the fashion world’s heart. While other publications dripped red, Galgeous bled green thru and thru. It claimed top-eye shelf everywhere, besting Cosmo, Vanity, Vogue. Miss Ripsaw would live with Galgeous awhile. In the meantime, Joy August Ripsaw’s likeness graced all covers as expected. She became the celebrated one. The one “to invite.” She was JOY-FUL1.

Joy had been joyous–satiated with vexing overtones. Her sultry flesh caressed only labels purchased by three zeroes and a decimal. Like black interstates, heavy onyx eyeliner drove her lavender eyes into daily battle. She was a merciless foe. Miss Ripsaw dressed to kill and spoke to mutilate. So what was happening was truth. Her version of a life mapped out with signature style. Her signature unreadable as it was purposeful.

Joy August Ripsaw knew the life she chiseled–like the Greeks and Romans before her–was predestined to fall. Every human had their day of reckoning. And the more lives you wrecked the more reckoning piled on. This wasn’t palmistry or fortune casting. This was the universe speaking–the ultimate bitch. And in her worldly mirror there were no alterations. The universe cackled every time Joy August fired the help for making weak espresso. She climaxed whenever Miss Ripsaw lashed and fired support staff.

Joy August Ripsaw knew her vested time versed the internal clock. All territories had to be claimed before her fine timepiece struck thirty-nine–the age that passed admiration but not respectability. She was not interested in the latter. By now you have gleaned her outward presence. Joy August Ripsaw was born in goddess visual. Not a talent, but a gift she wrapped and gave only when the season was right.

Joy August wore nonprescription, metallic-black rectangular eyewear. Employees and meeting attendees alike were to believe Miss Ripsaw was purpose-driven and not craving goddess food. To back this notion, “From the Editor’s Desk,” the monthly column by Miss Ripsaw, was seven-eighths copy and one-eighth image-hers. She sometimes almost believed her own bullshit. Proof positive was the small portrait photo in the column’s header. Every night without fail, the column was the last thing Miss Ripsaw reviewed before a chauffeur drove her home.

The New York sky was the color of its real estate, grey and cold. The rising Central Park sun lifted above the trees. Its cold beams climbed into the penthouse windows and spread across the Donna Karan Meditation duvet. This morning when she woke, Joy August Ripsaw counted fifty years and screamed into her Egyptian-cotton pillows stained black with onyx.

And to the freeway, a previously-owned, blood-red Italian sports car and a dark-haired bio author wearing large sunglasses–the kind that belie age for elegance.

This ends Volume 1

crayon face
I certainly hope Miss Joy August Ripsaw doesn’t grow angry with me. Though she’s older now, her mean hasn’t aged.

Flash Fiction Experimentation Take 1…
If you reached this far down reading, I truly appreciate and thank you for your vested time.

Dedicated to Dinghies Everywhere 😉