Tag Archives: art

Bits and Pieces After the Martyr Dies

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Mrs. DeDeo rarely steps away from the classroom. Today she is needed across the hall for a moment. A moment is all Dwayne needs. He leaps to the front of the room body-blocking the chalked letters we’re supposed to copy into our marble notebooks.

With a spoon from his pocket, Dwayne excavates boogers while singing how he likes mowing down squirrels. We don’t believe him. Mrs. DeDeo returns. Dwayne begins mercy yowling. The fear in his voice chains John the Baptist between my ears. Imprisoned in one of Herod’s palace cells, John prays to receive Jesus’ blessing.

The following morning John will lose his head to dawn’s early light.

(I find joy in sharing bits and pieces of my childhood truths here with you. These memories make me smile – even the sad and odd ones. My inner-child lives as a constant reminder of humility and perseverance. Of kindness and compassion.

Each of our childhoods lingers near, our memories like shadows to embrace, to reshape, to share, to delete, to run from, to run toward…)

My flying squirrel was created with Tombow markers and Prisma pencils. I think he’s a few years old now.

Thank you,
am:)

The Day I Stopped Believing in God

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Thirteen birthday-attendees ride the little train through the painted tunnel and scream when the tunnel turns oil-black. Afterward, the animated girls leap onto the spring-loaded playground.

I fix eyes on the ponies dusting-up the ring from the perch of a bouncing rooster. After a few minutes, the birthday girl’s mom, Mrs. Bee, leads us over to the ring. I take Parochial-school position for biggest girl — end of the line.

Each time a young handler instructs the next rider how to safely mount, my heart leaps. I bound up the wooden stairs when my turn arrives. Butterbean’s handler wears a cowboy hat. His broad teeth shine like the sun. His slim eyes are eclipsed by his hat brim.

Those darkened eyes look me over. Out the sunlit mouth, a question trots out, “What do you weigh?”

I haven’t yet perfected the art of the lie. The truth sinks me 20 pounds above my classmates.

The cowboy’s teeth vanish behind a cloud of smirking lips, “You’re too big to ride this pony.”

I swallow the screaming. I reverse-off the podium.

My cheeks brighter than the eyes of giggling classmates and the red balloons bubbling beside Sally’s birthday cake, I clod, head down, praying for my early death.

Today, I no longer believe in God.

(Misty of Chincoteague – painted when I was 13 – I remember being quite proud of this acrylic work thinking at the time)

I hope for those of you who celebrate Thanksgiving that you had a beautiful holiday. I had 24 family members in my home, and we had a wonderful day. Today, the little girl who was turned away from a pony ride, is heading to the gym. Later, she will run her three miles when the sun warms the land a tad more. She is always running, trying to stay just ahead of the little sad girl.

am:)

Gifting Pony Love

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Every library Friday, I check or attempt to check-out the illustrated book, Pegasus as retold by Nathaniel Hawthorne. Belephron astride Pegasus, the mighty pair battling the Chimera, the pearl-winged horse nuzzling little children.

Sometimes the school librarian says, “You’re not giving anyone else a chance to read this book. Do you think that’s fair?” And Pegasus is taken from me.

On the days I’m permitted Pegasus, the over-sized book holds steadfast beneath my arm like I imagine Jesus carrying his cross.

One Saturday following a library day that I wasn’t given Pegasus, my little sister’s friend tells me how much she loves horses. I see the pony-love in her eyes. I give her my only two Breyers’ horses because I don’t want them separated.

I love horses more than anyone. And now, I have no horses all over again.

Ah, the memories that long ago made me sad, make me smile today:)

(Black and white drawing of my Breyer’s Paint Pony done when I was 13.
The Pegasus book I lived with as a child, I own at 61.)

Created

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Monsters do not exist – they are created.

Voting draws near – choose wisely

I’m ready for Halloween. 3,000 pieces of candy purchased. (I do not exaggerate – Trick-or-Treat is rather insane here in upstate NY:)
(Boris Karloff’s likeness served as my inspiration for this Frankenstein art. Photo background is from Canva)


am:)

Sir Top Hat and Abe Lincoln

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Sir Top Hat walked in a few years ago – an honest and kind critter with a passion for memorizing the storied history of Abe Lincoln.

Sir Top Hat only surfaces above the earth during the month of October, and then, only when honesty is severely lacking.

am:)

Happy-ish Halloween Countdown

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These days I don’t get around to WP as often as I should, but it’s not for lack of desire. I’ve been spending the bulk of my creative time, offline, repurposing my cryptids and creatures. Additionally, I’ve been sketching, painting, barrelling through my menagerie of books and listening to history podcasts on my way to the gym. I’ve discovered, since reteaching myself history, not much has changed, yet everything has. And each day, after reading the news, I return to my quiet, non-territorial creatures who live, accept and love more honestly than mankind.

Art above – (Front of a blank card) I’ve been creating bookmarks, blank cards and good old-fashion postcards (remember those). Using the designer-light program, Canva, I merge my art with manipulated backgrounds then download the files for printing. I hope to bring these printed items to local shops, and I plan on selling them at the next enormous UFO Fair, June ’25.

I hope you’re all doing okay.

am

Helen’s Flight

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I leave my husband, daughter, homeland, and slip away in the dark shroud of night.
The orange-red glow of the moon is veiled with clouds, Artemis’ hand already at play in this.
My own hand wraps around Paris’ fingers, my heartbeat is the phantom of Menelaus’ footsteps behind me. The ship waits at Gythium, water lapping its sides, gentle like my fingers stroking Hermione’s face.

wind whispers
a crow caws
Apollo’s triumph

We board the ship, my feet numb like ice. My skin smells of the salt-spray of the sea, the night air,
the heavy-wine scent of the watching gods – I know they are there, have known since Paris sent that knife-gaze into my heart. His hand cups my face, the thief coveting his prize. We raise anchor, and sail with the dawn.

the sharp horizon
a knife across the sun
blood in the water

—Caroline Hron Weigle

This gorgeous poem was written by the lovely Caroline Hron Weigle. Remember her name – she is an up and coming historical romance writer.

I painted the piece above a few years ago. I’d never given much thought to her name before – now she has one.

I hope you’re all doing well.

annmarie:)

going backwards ain’t how growin’ goes

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blue grass blew up under there, landed there, over there
you see, look here bled blue on this over here
so they sang over there, banjo’d blues ‘round those mountains
got a banjo too, but no bluegrass livin’ in these olive eyes
listen here, do you hear the weary sky humming da blues
below her womb, flesh ‘n bone spawning bitter gods
swelling wellsprings of madness
manic rivers drying, warm water shattering man-walls
cause he be screwing the planet ‘n mother earth be pissed

don’t we know, going backwards ain’t how growing goes

great grandpapa’s mighty oak just felled by climbing fire
man ‘n his man-guns knocking things ‘neath blue-blue sky
no seed sown with lead, no gilded heart embraces love 
listen here, do you hear the weary sky, how she hums da blues
she be blue, oh, so blue hummin’ above —
this mankind of ours screeching and scratching below

don’t we know, going backwards ain’t how growing goes


this piece inspired by a newly black-topped parking lot
here’s to looking up at the sky – still blue – still lovely
am:)

Recycling Experience

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WE’RE NOT RUDE
WE’RE BUSY
PLEASE LET US DO OUR JOB

rubber-pink-finger points
cans, bottles—here
Gatorade empties rifled away—NO money for these

push the hair strands from your blue eyes
from your tee with the rainbow cat

rubber-pink-finger fires the final bottle
thank you, I smile
your lips don’t shift

more customers enter, I exit
with one 20—and two questions
do you own a rainbow cat?
do your blue eyes brighten when you smile?

hope you’re all managing the humidity
am:)

The man across the street

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  just stepped up the little stairs to reach his steering wheel. This vehicle is not required for his line of work. My studio, a converted porch, faces his yellow house, his big truck. My home, rising during the Great Depression, has withstood many assaults over time. Her old bones don’t deserve to be rattled.

The sky is bright, the birds are singing, and every morning the man across the street shatters this peaceful illusion. His truck’s reverb frazzles the neighborhood, echoes through my chest. Maybe the man across the street needs the sleepy world agitated at 5:45 AM, maybe tremors make his shadow grow.

If someday he should acknowledge the next phase of life, I pray he doesn’t buy a bigger truck. I don’t want to become another person in this burning world who adds more noise to the hate. I dislike the man across the street. I do not hate him. I will admit, however, to hating his fucking truck.

I painted this a few months ago. Reference taken from a photo of Chris Lee as Dracula. Thought this image was somewhat fitting for this piece:)

I hope you’re all keeping cool.
am:)