Apathetic Wrinkling – poem published

thrilled to have a poem published in MAN IN THE STREET, a very cool magazine with sumptuous imagery – thank you

Apathetic Wrinkling

There are parts that work well rolling on the floor. Leave me be. I will find my footing. Unlike her. Don’t you hear the screaming. The window, open like the door but less welcoming. Endless sobs hitting the birds outside. What is she crying about this time?

Wrinkles.

How she just can’t do it anymore.

Hell, who can?

 

There are no places to hide when you know all the rooms in your home. I wonder if she’s dying while standing on her feet. My ears are chained to this self-inflicted malaise. Perhaps the plasma screen will extend its curving armature and whisper encouragement as she continues moaning. Wrinkles. Too many.

 

Forgotten in the dryer, shirts crinkled like a baby’s ass.
Cotton shits wrinkles.

I should be the one crying.

When it rains…

Well my friends –

when it rains it does pour

as some of you know, my dad passed away this November, then we had to place my live-in mother-in-law into a nursing facility

on Sunday my beautiful energetic mom suffered a large stroke brought on by pneumonia complications – she’s an amazing woman and I’ve no doubt she’ll make a full recovery after intense rehab – I’m doing my best to keep up with things, but I won’t be doing much creatively for now

please accept my apologies if I don’t get to your comments – which I always appreciate – and I wish you wonderful creative and healthy months ahead – AnnMarie

 

 

I Will Die at the Right Time

“I will die at the right time” new poem published on the fabulous Her Story Blog – I hope you check out this wonderful venue of expression

I Will Die at the Right Time

At this rate, there will be nothing left for my children. Too much
falling outside the body. A two-headed llama with no head
belonging to me.

all to them
unintentionally by them

Losing ability to see value by which aging matters. Watching
bone-slow deterioration. Using my frame to anchor relations.
Trying to deduce life’s meaning–endgame research.

Sowing seeds of pain in backward gardens planted with wrinkling flesh,
falling from porous skeletons.

suppleness
fire, grace, motion, lightning
gone

Stolen–

without remorse from each sunrise.
The silver-edge moon no longer sensual,
goading their last warm breaths.

Not doing this to my flesh and blood.
I will die at the right time.

acrylic painting done a few years ago