dear mother of mine


death stallions

alas, another horse drawing done at eleven years old, horses ever on my brain back then – thank you

life unlives itself


Apathetic Wrinkling – poem published

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


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


after image, new poem published

new poem, after image, in NowthenMagazine, October Issue, Word Life Section
this is a wonderful magazine, honored to be included in the October issue


Raven Hall Pool

new flash piece, Raven Hall Pool, Firefly Magazine

writing flash fiction is such a joy for me
creating poems in the first person as I often do holds me back a bit
I sometimes fear a kind reader will think, “AnnMarie is sad, AnnMarie is whacked, AnnMarie better get her shit together…”๐Ÿ˜‰

in flash fiction I can go hog-wild
it’s liberating for a mom of two teens, a giant husband, one small dog and caretaker of three elderly folks

this particular flash piece is based in reality
it is near and dear to my heart as is my sweet mom (her image in background)


at the Met, I imagine you



“ROME โ€“ Emma Morano, at 117 the world’s oldest person who is also believed to have been the last surviving person born in the 1800s, died Saturday at her home…she had stopped breathing in the afternoon while sitting in an armchair at her home in Verbania, a town on Italy’s Lake Maggiore…”

will I turn into an old woman
who chatters about birds
while fondling my thin paper hands
weathered timelines
repeating fond memories
will this make me
like other old women
who have taken to soft chairs
with hard backs, โ€จcurving spines straight as possible
am I to gaze upon wisp sails of clouds
by a humble lake house in need of repair
a shawl
hope I donโ€™t
cover my bony shoulders in a shawl
while bobbing on a front porch with room enough for two rockers
will I hear soothing cricket songs in the empty silences
of my own making
the voice articulating from my throat
let it not scratch like an eviscerated cat
let my speech float as unpolished clarinet notes
playing a backyard symphony
will there be foggy mirrors and tarnished hair pins
and dutiful visits
will they one day listen to my sleeping words
promise their consciences
to lay down these musings between antiqued pages
cloth-bound and closed
so we can remember her
will I stare at the dying trees
and imagine
worn paintbrushes against a diluted prussian green sky
will I exaggerate the view
for the sake of beautiful words
if tomorrow is my end
against the cerulean canvas
where I paint myself
may I be remembered as more
than just an embossed name on a closed book

swing dancer

I’m working on a new writing project โ€“ not sure what it will shape into. I’m pushing things around and returning to some older posts (nervous about what I might find). If I discover any piece worth salvaging, I’m going to do my best to attempt improving its lyrical quality and meaning. Thank you.


Forgive me, dear women who were fifty

Please accept my apologies
dear women who were fifty
when I was twenty
you women nurturing children in the world
when I so casually whirl my polished hair
crop top hiking up my iron-flat abdomen
Forgive me sweet ladies
you women who were fifty
when I was twenty
you women rising, thin-lidded and lined
as I saunter by your commuter wheels
nearly naked, fresh breasted and easy
Will you vindicate me
kind women who were fifty
when I was twenty
for the times I fluttered my wicked lashes and smiled coyly
at anyone, maybe your lover,
perhaps your husband
I pray you absolve me
good women who were fifty
when I was twenty
you women warriors scarred by life’s weaponry
if my flipping fingers and cheeky laughter
interrupt your seasoned reflection
your focus on work, on family, on meaning
on all I will not know
and can not know
until my car is stopped at a red light
and I watch myself saunter by
regretting how I never once thought of you

joy august ripsaw