I’m a week late posting this piece in the gem of a journal that is Microfiction Monday Magazine. The micro form transforms one’s writing heart into a fluid and raw state. For me, writing micros frees my mind from the baggage it so often carries while trying to impress. I hope you stop by Microfiction Monday. And while you’re there, check out all the marvelous micros; Edition 116 boasts beautiful pieces by David Hensen and G.J. Williams!
Thank you, Microfiction Monday, for publishing and sharing I Never Gave Her a Name; sometimes words take me back to a doll-less time in my childhood.
(image or highlighted text will transport you to Microfiction Monday Magazine)
thrilled to have this piece published in a beautiful journal – authors of Italian heritage (click here to visit the first new edition of 2020!)
I wish my dad was still around – he would have loved this! Proud to be included in Ovunque Siamo
my poem “The Iceman’s Helper” was inspired by my father’s wonderful childhood stories, and the inset photo (my dad Vito W between my grandparents, Vito D and Grace). For Vito❤️
new poem “Little Red Suitcase” published in oddball – this very cool magazine
I hope you’ll check it out. I kept a little red suitcase in my childhood bedroom closet for many years-
I was always ready to run away…
little red suitcase
Glasses stretch another piece of writing on the basement desk.
A string of words magnified beneath the resting lenses. All other
sentences, words I’ve written and know as well as the magnified
ones, settle back into the smallness of shadows.
A small red suitcase.
Stashed in my closet for when the ideas in my head can’t take the
body impersonating them any longer. A child and her red suitcase.
Bottom of the closet next to my dog Charlie with the chopped off
ears. He’s curly pink. I cut his ears off so he won’t have to hear
what I do in my head.
My typewriter is turquoise. I remember it that way. Near the desk table,
my fifth and sixth parakeets most likely named Budgie One and Two
because that’s what they were. Maybe bright blue and bright green
parakeets don’t like what they see in their little bird mirror. No room
for suitcases in their orange cage so they just die.
No flying away when the windows are shut
and people are supposed to love you.
can’t believe my son Max pictured here is turning 17 tomorrow
butterfly lenses, in the The Paragon Journal – a thoughtful, artful, and lovely publication
Boil it down to edge of the pot and residue remains where they died. I once believed all crabs were all born red until I saw my first Jersey blues. Cobalt and beautiful. What a thrill, lowering twine anchored to raw chicken necks. I didn’t know when these chickens lost their necks. Didn’t see them die. There are birds born to be dead then peppered for mouths with breadcrumbs and butter.
Of those blue beauties, I thought we discovered something profoundly
remarkable like the first dead cicada I’d assumed was a prehistoric fly.
Childhood eyes of marbles and butterfly lenses. The pot heavy with water, sparkling like the ocean, clatters onto the stove looking less bright in the sandy evening. That day the beach was too hot. We’d almost drowned in the powerful riptide, but didn’t. Saved by a rope that resembled the very same cord we pulled the blue beauties up from their ocean floor homes–hemp their chains and our salvation.
Into the pot
I hear screams of angry bleeding in the cottage kitchen with its lighthouse curtains fluttering in the salty breeze. My stomach lurches. Blue, red, all colors boiling together.
Sickness and seasoning
As your blue shells grow fire red, purple specks melting off indigo thumbprints vanish as if you never had life. Bright engine red wailing silenced for a sharpened knife.
This is the day I learn all crabs are not born red.
This was the day I learned when to break my butterfly lenses.
this poem is based on a true childhood experience.
the first time I ever saw live crabs boiled I was with a friend’s family down the shore.
I was shocked when the crabs we were fishin’ out of the ocean were not bright red
this was the first and only time in my life I ever became homesick
“my mom and dad would never boil live creatures,” is what was running through my eleven-year-old mind
(cover and image belongs to Paragon Journal – I added cover blurb for WP image)
This is a photo of my lovely sister, Dolores. If it weren’t for her beautiful blue eyes watching over me growing up, I would’ve gotten into loads more trouble. I was quite the wiseass all the way into my 20’s. We had a lot of laughs together. I miss her dearly and wished she lived closer. 😘
Life is short
Throw jellybeans at a giant
Challenge a lion to a dueling roar
Whisper into the wind’s ear
Sail the ocean aboard a paper boat
Howl at the moon during sunrise
Life is short
Live it long…
Thank you. Dream until you fall asleep
Kitchen bulletin board and studio table photographed 7 pm tonight. My kiddies photo taken twelve years ago.
I’m the proud owner of a little sister. Those of you that own little sisters know full well that as much as we age, our little sisters remain little in our hearts forever. They often keep us young. Mine keeps me laughing. She has a wry, wicked sense of humor. Whenever she tells a joke – which is often – her blue eyes sparkle and she wears the impish grin of her pig-tail days.
My little sister is an avid dog-lover. She keeps two dogs as friends. I used one of her pet portraits as inspiration for my artwork below. The eccentric pooch – Shamus – was adopted many years ago. Shamus has many issues and enjoys dressing in my sister’s lingerie. The other one, Jamie – adopted a year ago – is black as night and as crazy as a bat in daylight. Jamie is a ninety pound pooch who believes his work office is on the nearest person’s lap.
So, to you my dear, little sister Dolores – I wish you the happiest of Birthday’s today!
Love, AnnMarie xo
As many of you know, I refer to my 6’7″ spouse as the giant husband. Now, one doesn’t go about meeting giant husbands without first palling-around with other large people. There was one such grand person who I affectionately called Big Mike. Big Mike was a six-foot-four, life-loving, grapefruit-muscled, enormous hearted Irishman. In short, Big Mike was the infectious laughter at the party. He was the one always wearing a perpetual smile. He was Big Mike.
June 5, 1993 was the night I met the giant husband for the very first time. I was hanging out with friends at a small town pub. I was with my dear lifelong friend Joe, and of course, Big Mike. Big Mike was – for lack of a better description – ‘busting up the joint!’ He was letting fly, joke after joke in his big booming voice. The giant husband’s roommate at the time happened to be laughing along with the rest of us. The roommate phoned the giant husband. He informed him of Big Mike’s antics and suggested he come to the pub.
Not too long after the roommate’s phone call, this giant of a man – bigger than Big Mike – was filling-up the small pub’s doorway. His dark hair touched the door frame above and his broad shoulders met either side. As the giant husband stood there, Big Mike, larger-than-life, announced to the room while pointing at the giant husband, “and there’s the biggest man I know!” And the rest they say, is history…
Big Mike left this world too soon. I find when there is a clear sky and the sun is out, I can almost hear Big Mike’s booming laughter. I painted this portrait of Big Mike for his mother.
Thank you and goodnight. May your dreams be filled with the booming-gentle laughter of sweet spirits…