Tag Archives: aging

“to live”

Posted on by

A March 2024 sketch done with a ridiculously large Ticonderoga preschooler pencil
“Little Karole” would blossom into a six-foot-tall, gorgeous woman who’d live an amazing life as a stained glass artist. And much later, she’d become my beautiful mother-in-law.

perhaps it is my 60 years of age inspiring the words below, it could be that the majority of my new friends, most in their 70’s and 80’s, continue to open my eyes in every direction but down

“to live”

I don’t believe the phrase “to live” means escaping our burdens

I don’t believe “to live” means transforming ourselves or collecting accolades

I don’t believe “to live” includes acquiring wealth or building empires  

I don’t believe “to live” means ignoring the past or focusing on the remaining years as we age

I never believe “to live” is expressed through curated media or grinning images

I do believe “to live” creates dubious comparisons of one against the other

I do believe the phrase “what it means to live” suffocates dreams before they begin

I do believe “to live” finding strength in our efforts amid others indifference

“to live” brave in our ‘individualness’ while accepting others in theirs

“to live” caring for ourselves so we can care for others

 “to live” stepping forward when we’ve lost someone behind us

And I always believe “to live for today” when it is tomorrow

am:)

WILD

Posted on by

My dear friend, DS Levy, has added another bright star to her constellation of writing-
Her brilliant piece, “Wild”, is a 2024 must read

“You know,” Bets says, parking a wad of Bazooka in her cheek. “The road goes both ways.”
— DS Levy
https://mudseasonreview.com/2023/12/fiction-issue-71/

Fiction Issue #71

We’ll Always Have the High Chair

Posted on by

honored to have my prose poem We’ll Always Have the High Chair
published in Free Lit Magazine
“Free Lit Magazine is free and published bi-monthly with a mandate to be committed
to the accessibility of literature for readers and the enrichment of writing for writers.” – Free Lit Magazine

We’ll Always Have the High Chair

 

We laughed. Chuckled while swimming in the YMCA pool. In my kitchen or yours. During our walks. Shopping and smiling. Over coffee.

Dad often asked, “How can you always have so much to talk about? What the hell is so funny all the time?”

Constant conversations. Endless phone calls when we lived only a few miles from one another. And now, I can’t remember much. What did we talk about, mom? What was always so funny all the time?

I’d give anything to hear you laugh again.

I remember when Caroline was five months old. You and I decided to try my first born in her new high chair. She was a tiny baby, and had what we called a minnow-head. We placed her in the chair. She tilted sideways and that bitty head slid to the far corner. There she sat grinning with those sweet bow lips. From that moment, whenever either of us said, Remember the high chair, we’d laugh.

This morning, you keep spitting out your meds. Don’t seem to remember why you need to swallow them. With a despondent voice I ask, Remember the high chair?

Your eyes crinkle as drool dribbles down your chin.

Apathetic Wrinkling – poem published

Posted on by

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.

I Will Die at the Right Time

Posted on by

“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

after image, new poem published

Posted on by

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

after image

when you close your eyes and fall asleep
your mouth changes
your lower lip sets back
like the life holding it in place has let go
can’t help but imagine this is the face whose cheek
I’ll tenderly kiss
when your body ceases

behind this thought comes another
I desperately hold

your beautiful face not defined by age
rather your brilliant smile and eyes
infused with the will of a thousand newborns

AM Roselli

new prose published, Raven Hall Pool, published in Firefly!

Posted on by

new flash piece, Raven Hall Pool, Firefly Magazine

Raven Hall Pool

She tells me childhood stories as pool water laps our mouths. Her words grow flippers and soar to the steel beams above. A lifeguard duo with prismatic baby blues. Cerulean so clear, their angular faces disappear beneath water. Both brothers displaying the rock-hard swagger of overtaxed muscles. Gluteus sauntering along Raven Hall’s perimeter causes much chlorinated gulping. Mouth-to-mouth the prize.

I understand water is the best place for many reasons. Below the surface you imagine heaven. This pool is old. Its white edges gray. The ceiling is missing a few tiles where words can get trapped. If the roof spoke, it would have a lisp. Yet the water sparkles like her stories. Here all are weightless. I’m thankful the world is mostly water. In salt-aqua things older than the universe continue on. I’m sure she cherished Raven Hall Pool for the same reason. And those lifeguard brothers. She dated the younger and was infatuated with the older. Not difficult imagining two handsome lifeguards all the way down to their bulging confidence. And her first kiss.

The water temperature is perfect. Never over-chlorinated. I keep my eyes open while swimming beneath. No goggles or cap, not ready for those. When we lift our legs up the steel rungs, it’s with grateful exhaustion. Until the next time. And there will be more swimming sessions. Many more I pray. To hear stories and watch her words grow flippers. This pool is worn, but in the underwater silences a dream makes its best escape. The world is mostly water. Imagine, all those words swimming to the sky.

ghosted background photo you see is my gorgeous mother showing off that movie star smile of hers!❤️

 

eyes piercing

Posted on by

dad-hsback when men were men
silent pain and strong hands
I remember other agents gathering around him at parties
women telling him what a handsome figure he cut
he smiled in his broad shouldered frame of 6’2
eyes piercing as was that deep voice
terrifying as a child
now remarkable
listening to his life stories
mesmerizing in detail, poetic in delivery, exciting in fact
an agent for the Federal Bureau of Investigation
as a kid staring up at him
I believed any criminal in my father’s path
immediately surrendered themselves
rather than deal with this larger than life, slice of human
friends called him Bill, the rest–Vito
judicious and fair before earning the law degree
an amazing and prolific career
mafia cases and colorful gangsters
the temper, he still has it
no patience for silliness, but all the time in the world for family
not a day goes by
when I don’t think of him
of the exceptional driving force
his charismatic personality has infused
and continues to…
dad coast guard  dad-shooting rangeHappy 84th Birthday, Dad
dad and mom

shy party dog

shy party dog

top photo – Brooklyn Tech, 2nd – Coast Guard, 3rd – firearms practice, 4th –  my mother-in-law on left, dad center, mom on right

Shy Party Dog created last year for his 83rd B’day 🙂

Smile Everlasting

Posted on by

illuminating the atmosphere
she leaves a room
her brightness remains
how blessed are those
sharing the light of her company
I’d love to believe
moments live on forever
I’d like to be remembered
for my mother’s breathtaking smile
millie's smileMay you dream of all selfless mothers everlasting…

Photos taken from two entertainment shows my mom’s community center put on. In both pics she (I think) lip syncing Peggy Lee. In real life my mom has lovely brown hair and doesn’t wear plastered makeup, but she gets a kick out of these pics. I hope you do too. In the top photo (most recent) she is 79 years old, photo below she is 78.
Below is one of my kooky graphics from a few months back. Done in Prisma pencil.

Aged Smile

Aged Smile

Shaping Goo

Posted on by

Life is like gooey jello: add hot and cold water to something sweet then hope it solidifies into a fun shape. We view our lives in terms of taking shape. We view our bodies as changing shape (some more shapely than others). The glorious upside of aging (besides getting all jiggly), is the ability to look back with humor. Peering into our chilled jello bowls, we have the luxury of laughter as we recall our youthful lime-green messes.
jelloPerhaps that is why at 50 years of age, I can now giggle at pirates with eyepatches. I too wore an eyepatch. I was in fourth grade – my patch was pink (a bad tomboy color). My eyepatch had an elsatic band much like a costume eyepatch. The eyepatch covered my right eye ‘casue the left had astigmatism.

My adult jello bowl also allows me to chuckle at food handlers’ plastic gloves. I too wore plastic gloves. In fourth grade a weird skin rash decided to take up residence between my fingers. First thing every morning, my red-itchy hands were slathered with cream then stuffed into plastic gloves as to not smear my school mates.

Today, I can gaze deep into my jello bowl and say with confidence it’s okay to be jiggly. I can affectionately recall the lime-green messes. I remember the little chubby girl with the pink eye patch and plastic gloves and can honestly say – 4th grade really sucked.

If I can admit all this while smiling, I will not live my life shaping goo.
me with caroline