installation 2

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my little Matryoshka

Concerned with fashionably balanced items on bookshelves–
I thoughtlessly placed her long ago
To this day, she squats, eyes forward, harboring no ill will
Most of my shelved tomes have sat so long, their spines have rusted–
But, eight horse-sized literature anthologies have seen action
Their bulked-up spines are careworn and wrinkled
As part of the publishing team who created them, I’ve perused them plenty
Two houses ago, I held an authentic job–
accompanied by a generous paycheck and a me, me, me business card
When child number one entered into my, my, my world, I exited Prentice Hall
Since then, Springsteen’s Glory Days, endlessly loops in my ears
This might explain my current cruelty to Matryoshkas
Depending on the day, the time and the spider muses in my studio–
my temperament shifts

This morning, I’ve not yet descended into my she-shack, where all creative things happen or nothing at all–
I’m still sipping coffee in my kitchen, facing the ‘family room,’ and the mantel with its bookended bookshelves
Colored spines form up-ended brick paths to limitless rabbit holes
The antique nesting doll guards a Time Life series covered in 70’s drab
The decorative mirror resting behind her bulbous form, lends a reflective quality to the warm palette
You can’t see the dust. I can. The shelves have remained undisturbed for awhile
I never considered little Matryoshka’s thoughts when I exiled her to shelf Siberia
Not a single heart-string of mine tugged for her redundant life–a nonstop amalgam of herself
As I write this, I’m thinking about Matryoshka–
her delicate flower patterns and the firm twist one must apply to reveal her abundance
Perhaps, I am jealous of my little Matryoshka
She knows who she is, inside and out
bookshelvesshot of my family room taken this morning, portrait hanging over mantel was painted 2 years ago, if you look closely at the upper right, top bookshelf you can see little Matryoshka

magical words, miraculous changes

it has been said
passed down from yuletide lips
Charles Dickens saved Christmas
not the man, ’twas the book
his story, we all know
if you don’t (your library copy might have gotten jammed in an 1843 chimney)

Industrial Revolution spinning at warp-speed
factory holidays are ghost shadows
we are living in the fast-pacing present–more is better
our dull, simple past soiled with slumming traditions–less was less
one floor above sweating basement workers, the future appears bright and shiny
a young boy’s father gets locked up in debtors’ prison
the child Charles, now forced to labor in a “rat-infested boot-blackening factory”

these formidable memories haunt Dickens

I imagine Charles back then
beneath winter’s moonlight
childhood terrors like bony hands slamming rusted leonine door knockers
he summons these all-too-vivid specters to do battle with his benevolent muse
the war won
A Christmas Carol is born

“…in 1867 Dickens reads A Christmas Carol. One of the audience members,
Mr. Fairbanks (a scale manufacturer) was so moved that he decided to break custom
and give his workers Christmas Day off and not only did he close the factory,
he gave turkeys to all his employees.”

magical words can inspire hearts to make miraculous changes

Little Tree

Little Tree

Charles Dickens, true to his words became an exceptional philanthropist. “…the welfare of the nation’s children was at the top of his list of concerns, and he used his pen and his considerable dramatic and oratorical powers to raise awareness of the plight of poor children and to raise money for children’s charities…”

sources in order of quoted appearance: Uncle John’s, Christmas Collection (yes, the Bathroom Reader, please don’t judge where I sometimes read😉), charlesdickensinfo.com, hharp.org

if my little poetry book love of the monster helps one heart, that would be a gift I’d keep trying to give😘

enter title here

it is very quiet
the realization of a deep loneliness
apparent in the sound-sucking carpet
in the dim light of way past midnight

acceptance of what I need
not always found in my words
or my forms
something undeniable
presses my mind ever forward
forces my fingers to choke pencils
don’t always know which way
to
shove the compass needle
magnetic attractions don’t always apply

searching for something to shove inside the attic
to store inside my soul
maybe

treasures for the grand kids to find
hope for my older self to embrace
there is the first effort
before the wheels start spinning again
what now?

enter title here

Baby Elf

Baby Elf

my book is nearly ready to be launched into space, my mind is more nervous than my hands

a rose by any other name is just plain silly

please bear with me here
this is a little silly and I hope you don’t mind
it’s about a name
specifically, mine
I’m preparing to self-publish an illustrated book of verse
(or implode which ever comes first)
contemplating the horrors that are marketing and social media
I know there will be no shoving of any kind
no please, please, please like me
or buying readers lollipops (well, I might give lollipops)
while mulling over cover designs
then considering over-stimulated memories, over-saturated book shelves and over-saturated markets
I started pondering the length of my name much like Ebenezer Scrooge had to ponder the length of his chains
I began wishing my name wasn’t so name-ish
lyrical names: Virginia Woolf, J.K.Rowling, Mary Shelley, Maya Angelou, Sylvia Plath
these spectacular writers have glorious memorable names in equal measure
my name
just way too long (and a little funny;))
AnnMarie Roselli-Kissack
when I attempted a wee bit of creative retooling ‘odd’ things ensued
a rosekiss
well, I looked that up in the urban dictionary
anus kissing–this is not good on any day
(unless we’re speaking figuratively and I might have to at some point;))
a.r.k.
wet between the ears and a migraine from stampeding animals
and my personal favorite
Ann R.K.
say this fast
and your present state turns immediately into disorder
the next attempt was a whimsical nom de plume
the best I could do was Ann Merlot
(this suggested by 2 women both over 80 years of age)
unsure, I queried a dear, intrepid writing friend
who suggested Ann Merlot might go well in a nightclub
(a very dark nightclub with shiny poles)
she smartly and wisely put me back on the path to name normalcy
so if and when this book of mine surfaces
as the leaves begin falling off the trees
and you once again dream of sugar plums and lollipops;)
there just might be a book somewhere out there
by a silly gal who goes by the name–
AnnMarie Roselli
set in bold, sans serif, 18 point type

oh yea, thanks DS

Pencil Cap

it’s time to write

descend the stairs
grow foul in my pounding brain
sift blood through my beating heart
breaking down grit and bone
dubious thoughts leak out the foundation
feet get cold down here
can’t be hell though
hell is hot
steamy for those who detest heat
probably characterized by a cold-minded soul
I like heat
don’t mind cold feet either
descending the stairs
it’s time to write

He-lloween

He-lloween

gotta start dialin’ up the ghouls for October 31 😉

Pubwishing

This is a silly little piece with a sincere note of encouragement beneath. This is dedicated to my dear friend, D.S. who relentlessly encourages me whenever I (which is often) want to just throw my hands up in futility and pound my stubborn feet and scream, “the hell with it…”

I hope I can do the same for her and her outstanding writing talent.

I’m sending my manuscript to Pubwish Inc.
They ‘doesn’t’ ask you to visit their website
and tell them why you think you’d make a good fit,
Pubwish Inc. is so intelligent, that they tell you
They don’t burn your pages over a misplaced comma,
nor do they don’t require representation by the, Now You’re Mine Agency
Pubwish Inc. receives one-thousand manuscripts per day,
yet they appreciate being held in such high regard
Pubwish’s benevolent editors always remember
what it was like when they started out
the cold hard of rejection
the very word REJECTION
arriving crooked on a lopsided postcard
or dinging in through email before your fingers even dot the last manuscript “i”
Pubwish Inc. never wants creative souls to feel devalued
so
that’s why my manuscript is going to Pubwish Inc.
They accept unsolicited ms by the ‘unagented’ and the unpublished
Upon receipt of your first child manuscript,
Pubwish Inc. gifts all courageous inkers with
a lifetime supply of free beer
and an everlasting red lollipop

CanDo

CanDo

I know–Christmas when it ain’t even Halloween–this has beer and that’s what I’m pourin’ on my head if and when I ever get published.;)

And to D.S. – row, row, row…:)

reading shelves

here they are
on the honeysuckle bookshelves
framed in backbone
one story each
pages of words romanticized and read on occasion
to sit in the chair by the window
sanguine days of flipping
to the bottoms
spines cracking
on lower shelves
anxious to move up

Paper Shadow

Paper Shadow

art previously published