Why We Help One Another
Tag Archives: artist
The Woodpecker
The Woodpecker
outside my daughter’s window, the woodpecker hammering the aluminum gutter
knows nothing other—than what he knows
this incensed bird will wake my teen who already sleeps fitfully
beneath the creatures who suffocate her dreams:
they claw earth; pollute water; rape land;
tear friendships; rend families; decimate futures
they alter climates
they type in ALL CAPS
the woodpecker continues his assault on the gutter outside my daughter’s window
if this red-headed madcap mirrored humanity at all, he might desist
but he doesn’t know anything other—than what he knows
the hammering bird hunts for his brand of love;
his brand of sustenance;
his right to expand his territory;
his need to collect like-minded-birds who would adore his amplified walloping
so, I must continue thinking of ways to deter him—or at the very least send him elsewhere
but how unkind would that be—he’s only a bird after all
the inane walloping is coming from elsewhere
(Prisma pencil pecker created about ten years ago)
I hope you’re all managing okay.
I take in every headline without breathing
Hey Dad, It’s Happening Just Like You Said
In 2016, a year before you died, you told me quite emphatically, “I don’t like Hillary Clinton, but Trump will wreck this country.” I don’t know how you voted that year. Did you give your Republican vote anyway? Or did you vote conservative along the party line and leave the top row blank? (That’s the image I hold onto.)
A child of immigrants, a career FBI agent, a lifelong conservative who produced four liberal daughters and two conservative sons, a man who taught by example, ‘nothing is more important than family.’ A man who loathed those who carried no moral compass,…
You’ve been on my mind more than usual. Several people in your family have been the recipients of those taunting White House emails and degrading messages. Russia is supposed to be a cozy partner… What’s going on in America right now would break your patriotic heart. I know it’s breaking mine.
Love, AnnMarie
Badass
A gleaming motorcycle arrived via flatbed to our suburban ranch. Six children are warned not to touch its chrome and attitude. Dad has never ridden a motorcycle before. He tells us he’ll be back later — he’s taking the bike across the George Washington Bridge. Wearing a button-up shirt, plaid Bermuda shorts, black knee socks and brown loafers, no one ever looked more badass.
Grieving Woman in Clay
II did this sculpture at 17 years of age. It was the only one, of four sculptures, to return home without crumbling. Sadly, she did eventually break apart. I never gave her the fighting chance she’d deserved.
I wasn’t interested in school. It was difficult for me to take direction from anyone. I was one of those perpetual daydreamers. Perhaps, if I’d listened to my art teacher, my sculptures would’ve survived.
The image shown here I call Grieving Woman in Clay. She was about two feet long. To this day, her image remains in my studio. The loss of her long ago, is what prompted my return to clay 44 years later…
I hope you’re all managing with this weather.
am:)
this thing called New Year
reconstructed resolutions lower the ball to the ground
the ball won’t rise again till the crowds gather next year
when the lovers and the true believers return in celebration
when the partiers piss and vomit on sidewalks and in alleys
My Resolution(s)
this year I’ve gotten better at accepting multiple versions
I’ve barreled through decades and broken over waterfalls
I’m pumped to shred the rowing muscles
this year I’m shoving specific plans into my eye sockets
not the usual well-formed outtakes, no more excuses
—here—I wonder if I’m bull-shitting myself with words as I often do
or maybe, I’ve gone and done it—reshaping thoughts into tangibles
maybe I have, because this morning, facial recognition can’t recognize me
could it be this year’s resolution, this thinning skin I wake in each day more
forcing my handheld device to decide who I am?
but…my new phone requires an app update…
I remain the same (use your words, AM)…
time carries the words, the dreams, the light
she throws down faster than a gaudy ball dropping on a bombastic evening
she grinds to enjoy a loved one’s pain
she grins as voyeur to our last moments
she slows if I watch her red digital clock counting down as my soup warms
I’ve come to realize this—dreams, words
the very pace of time is up to me, to you
when these things travel swiftly, we’re doing good work
busied our worlds between seconds, minutes, hours
this morning, I placed flint sparks in my pockets
today we will do good work
we will shoot firecrackers to light the night sky
we will dirty the dark street a little to say—we were here
to see, to smell, to hear, to taste, to touch
every burning color of this moment called life
Sculpt No.2 Imaginary Playdoh
The joy of imaginary playdoh. My first few sculpts have been created with airdry clay. In the coming months, I hope to venture into polymer. As a poor excuse for a kitchen Italian, I find the oven a tad out of my zone, and polymer clay requires oven-baking to set. I’ll get there at some point. Just not yet. This is Sculpt No.2.
Brick by brick, tooth by tooth the learning continues…
Here in Hudson Valley, NY, after the holidays with the trees barren and winter white no longer serving Christmas Card purpose, it can get bleak. This is the long stretch to spring. Any creating can be cathartic, maybe even add a little warmth in the fingertips.
I hope you are all doing well.
am:)
Betraying Our Kitchen Linoleum
Across many years, our kitchen linoleum withstood the battering soles of six Roselli siblings and the endless march of neighborhood children.
In our home Sundays began with morning Mass book-ended by evening pasta. Tomato sauce was gravy. Mom’s gravy hid meatballs. Our forks would battle fiercely.
My ‘best’ friend lived across the street. Every Sunday night her family ate pierogies and their cars were shiny. Her older cheerleader sister drove a beige Pontiac Firebird. I loathed the color—fast cars must be kissed by fire. I’d never eaten pierogies. I’d never been invited into my friend’s home for dinner.
One evening I was invited over for Sunday pierogies. Filled with potato and pan-fried to a golden-buttery crisp. That night, rather than my beloved dreams of flying horses, I sailed upon heavenly-winged pierogies The following morning I prayed for God’s forgiveness.
(in my childhood kitchen – a photo op – i didn’t cook back then – i can’t cook now – i’m a horrid kitchen italian)
Pining for Another Age of Un-Instant Gratification
The television tucked behind sliding woody doors – like a Christmas surprise. Counting down the days till Rudolph would soar above our shag-carpeted family room. My sisters, brother and I waited. And when that bulb-nosed deer finally arrived, we watched him save cinematic Christmas. All of us resting our laurels on orange shag. Each of us smiling.
Every Christmas, I retell my children how today’s young lot miss a wonderful life. The escalating thrill, that building joy of patience – of waiting – waiting – and finally – experiencing the ALL of Christmas. There were no multiple viewing times, streaming services, faces staring at ass-pocket phones – we traveled together in one pocket of time. Playing outdoors, watching holiday shows, building snow people…
And yes, though sometimes not by choice, we’d have chosen it anyway. The uncanny warmth, the holiday magic bursting forward when we celebrated together.
Then at New Year’s, how we gathered again. Our home open to all relatives and friends. We watched the ball descend while ringing Uncle Jimmy’s silly noisemakers. We stayed up late. Everyone woke to pancakes and a new year of unknowns shrouded in mystery and love.
My childhood was the last generation of un-instant gratification. ‘Twas a glorious time indeed.
This little cat is my daughter’s beloved Clam. I sculpted him as a special Christmas gift. Clam was adopted months ago. This was his first Christmas with us. I’m happy to report that both Clam the Cat, and Mojo the Dachshund, are peacefully hanging out.
I do so hope you all are doing well.
And a happy, happy New Year to all!
am:)
“A Christmas Far More Glorious Than Grand”
One of my favorite holiday shows is Mr. Magoo’s Christmas Carol (1962). I adore the soundtrack and belt out the songs (much to the chagrin of my family) every December.
“…We can’t afford to have a hen
We will some day I vow
So I suggest you dream of then
and prize what we have now…”
— Mr. Magoo’s Christmas Carol
I recently jumped into sculpture and began my adventure using air-dry clay (lots of muss, but no heating element needed). I’ve asked Santa for polymer clay (bakes in standard kitchen oven). One can achieve much higher levels of detail with polymer clay.
The werewolf sculpt above was created with air-dry clay. I learned 1,000 ways how not to sculpt with this first bulky attempt.
A merry, merry to all who celebrate.
Warm wonderful days to all!🌲
Stay safe
am:)
anntogether 