sometimes she just gets tired
her little world snags on the edge
it doesn’t want to spin
neither does she
kryptonite sometimes settles across her womb
in the dark where light once lived
a spec of universal magic
slapping weightless color across heaving walls
offers no more portals
and the face present for all
is its most false
on the other side
baby chimp in prisma on construction paper done a few years back-thank you
you sexy things
seven am
returning from a school drop
two older gals
walking, striding, smiling
sun
yea, it’s shining
not as brightly as these two powder-fresh sprites
their white Sketchers impossibly polished
like their well-seasoned eyes
almost see facial twinkling from my car
I’ve lowered speed
decelerating
crawling my Ford tires
slow the rushing axles
beaming at these living cherubs
while I sing along with Sirius ’70’s
wouldn’t you know
you sexy thing
starts playing
too freakin’ perfect
exuberant I’ve grown while observing these fine ladies
damn, still buckled in
I wanna get out and dance
run, sprint
stride step with these great smiling ladies
I picture them shakin’
moving their tried and true derriéres like they were 25
and in their minds, they still are
easy to deduce by their meandering glitter trail
I bet these 2 beauties were live wires
the kind that stretched and sprang back
knocking all them young lads for a loop
and a tongue tie
with their bedazzling smiles
and fine fighting features
you go girls!
you sexy things!
even more perfect ’cause I love hot chocolate especially after wine;)
this is for the man
this is for the man
who raises his children
well
despite the fears
hidden beneath his cape
this is for the man
who teaches young hearts
to embrace
courage enough
to face their own fears
this is for the man
who despite his wounds
and scars
battles ever onward
leading always by example
even when his mind and body
are exhausted
he teaches his children
it is not by the flesh–
fingers, arms, legs
but by the heart and mind
we are all connected
this is for the man
whose stubble
their supple face skin winces at
when they goodnight kiss
his solid chin
HAPPY FATHER’S DAY TO ALL YOU DADS
ghost horse
It has been said of the song, Wildfire, it arose from the artist’s subconscious
–a Native American tale about a ghost horse
mythical and sweet
oh, imagine
a golden Palomino mare carrying sunlight upon her hide
how she would warm your aching body
settle your bones
ferry you to another place
distant from worry
away from strife
all you hear
rhythmic patter of spiriting hooves
winged forelocks
lemon-white mane wrapping your bare skin
keeping you secure
she gallops across the planet
without grazing earth
your stomach lifts
your heart steadies
peace she finds
for you
never the same place
but
if you should call her twice
if you should summon Wildfire
to guide you away
she may just bring you
back home again
sketched on the way to New Hampshire last week, after listening to Michael Martin Murphy sing his Wildfire
I want to again thank those of you who sometimes read my verse. I’ve been amping up the language or at least trying to. I’m not always comfortable pushing the pub button with some of these posts–last night’s is a good example. I challenge myself to step out of my comfort zone. I hope by doing this, I’ll discover other directions to pursue. I do admit it is fun dreaming up saucy voices–though these ‘characters’ make me the saddest after they’ve been fleshed out. With each piece I try to get away from who I am and write as if I’m someone else. Sometimes these ‘personalities’ beg the question-okay, AnnMarie–what’s the next move. I’m not always sure. It is this uncertainty that pushes me onward.
Thank you, again.
I’ve called on Wildfire more than once:)
Have a lovely weekend.
imagining rain
the sky showers down in shimmering rivulets
cleansing the earth of leftovers
something we planet guardians don’t do well
cloud masses end load the cycle
pouring so hard sometimes
dearest pets have been given over to frame the scene
the water is exquisite in its clean smell
vertical rivers stream to feed the parched
those below drink the life giving stuff and absorb the mist
beyond illusion or imagery of form to paint this memory
it is light itself
breath from heaven
yet
here I am, older
fancied up in a lace-lined number for celebrating
heels, so I stand fake slim at six feet tall
makeup applied hoping I might fool some years away
and all I can say about this gorgeous rain is
CRAP
my makeup is gonna run
MM is a 2′ tall print from a litho plate I painstakingly etched in college
I used this particular art thinking how we can sometimes be
a bit outside-centric rather than inside-evolved
(I’m ashamed to admit I’m guilty of this from time to time)
MM’s photo reference from the talented photographer Philippe Halsman (1906-1973)
thank you
Lone Soldier
thank you
your ultimate sacrifice never forgotten
side by side
we hope our children view the world through rose-colored glasses
pray they live well, so their buckets won’t need lists
we’ll try to respect their deep-seated thoughts
and teach them to respect those who have gone before
they must always believe they’re more magical than mermaids
and understand playing dress-up is fabulous, as long as they remain young at heart
we’ll tell them it’s okay to think upside down
and they’re the apples of our eyes
and when the world gets too big, they can hide under a blanket
and that same big world is full of wonderment
we’ll let them sit in a red chair and do absolutely nothing
and tell them they don’t have to smile all the time
as long as they keep their heads above water
we’ll hope they love each other enough to hang out upside down
and sideways
but above all that they’ve learned–
love simply means standing side by side
with Caroline attending college this fall, and Max a high school junior come September, I’ve been waxing nostalgic
I published this post last year but have been thinking about it lately
damn, time wearing his ankle wings and over-priced Nikes sure does fly
songs of silences
deformed putty pink
robbed of warm breath
contorted sweet necks
tar bubble eyes bulging
frail unfeathered waxy torn
foiled unsung tiny raptors
never will gush
broad kite wings against the wind
meander upon the thermals
dead
before winter’s white bone chanced a kill
stuffed down bright
spring’s dark bosom
stalks cradled
strapped with dried fall grass
gentle summer kisses will not carry
overlapping notes
sung in threes
new harmonies in pubescent throats
echoing from fresh limb to sailing cloud
undeveloped triplets all
delicate melodies
small and quieted
in the driveway
sad little chicks
stilled
baby birds
in her songs of silences
nature candidly reminds us
she is both
judge and jury
I wish this piece wasn’t here or anywhere else – but I hope it serves as a eulogy
for those baby birds – may they fly in eternal peace
art created last year for an illustrated project
gently now
humble citizens eternally petrified
warm mammoths ice entombed
broken vessels anchored deep
hard lessons in dying
peaceful silence
go gently now
gently
the old pyramid trick…inverted word triangle pointing to nowhere, or is it nowhere?
my, my, my crazy WP day with media snafus, love technology when it works:) though I must say the WP gremlins were fabulously helpful
our story must not end here
riding the heat of dawn
we insinuated our bodies within one another
I presented myself to you
a wordless story
whispered in raging lines
fertile were my curves
from which our children sprang forth
multitudes
spilling over with god given wealth
a rain of ages
carving the cradle of these infant sons and daughters
my breast milk abundant
nourishing young
influencing adult
satisfying aged
long and beautiful
as I was
as I am
beginning
to end
our story must not end here
if you suspected the Nile River, you’d be correct 🙂
anntogether 