Tag Archives: heartbreak

Burying the Dead Twice

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gum tree

I am honored and thrilled to share my latest published essay Burying the Dead Twice. https://underthegumtree.com/

The writers, artists and photographers featured in Under the Gum Tree are exceptionally talented, and I am humbled to be featured among them. This volume is breathtaking, the layouts sublime. Order your copy today. Under the Gum Tree is worthy of coffee-table real estate:)

Those of us living on earth generously acknowledge that no good work is created in isolation. To this end,  I give a shout out to my dear friend and fellow writer, Deb Levy, for her 1,000 reads and sage suggedits (as we kindly call them).  I also give great thanks to Under the Gum Tree’s fabulous editor, Dorothy Rice. Dorothy’s editing vision transported this piece to a more intense and clear-storied place.

Thank you,
am:)

She’s in HOOT!

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DS Levy is one of those agile writer’s who slips in dark when you’re headed down a well-lit path. I’m elated she’s returned to WP to share her cosmic talent. DS is a lifelong pursuer of all things ‘writerly,’ and she has taught me much about the writing world. She’s Yoda to my Chewbacca. Check out her new blog and follow along. More marvelous stuff around the corner…

She recently had a flash story, “What I Really Meant,” published in the very cool HOOT Review(April-May 2018). She was so very generous in choosing a figure of mine for her excellent flash story.

little red suitcase

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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.

Myrtle Lee sang with a barefoot saunter…

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New flash piece, character drive and I do love Myrtle Lee. “He relished Putty Cat’s pancakes flipped in the tiny space devoured up by her curves.”
I’m again so very honored to be included in NowThenMagazine, in their wonderful WORD LIFE section. Thank you.

Myrtle Lee “Putty Cat” Jameson

Myrtle Lee “Putty Cat” Jameson lived in the years where many tried making a go of it, the in-betweens of lovemaking, family gatherings, breakdowns and slumber. At the tender age of eighteen, Myrtle Lee joined a long journey shipping crew to transport rail goods and collect inspiration. Assigned to the cargo ship, A4 Sunset, her form cut a proud silhouette against the sky. Broad-shouldered men, not admitting to inebriation by the mere presence of her coconut flesh, found themselves dreaming of her with their vigilant eyes open.

But it was ‘his’ mad blue ocean eyes that were deepest. Their stolen moments together when Putty Cat’s warmth flowed down his back to the soft underparts of his toes. “You are burned into the very chest of me,” he’d groan to heaven.

In the bright kitchenette, Myrtle Lee often sang with a barefoot saunter to choke out the Apocalypse. He relished Putty Cat’s pancakes flipped in the tiny space devoured by her curves. Here, syrup poured from her sweet veins. How the vision of her in his dark wide eyes, hushed him quiet when the day had been long and life rolled hard. He wanted nothing anymore, save for the treasures, to keep Putty Cat joyful.

Sometimes Myrtle Lee cried herself to sleep. Whenever his back sweat reflected a cargo ship moon, and night breathing summoned waves against the Sunset’s bow, Putty Cat remembered. A shadow dream of the man with the mad blue ocean eyes. The well-boned hands of his sliding from the tips of her satin ears to her blushing thighs. The mountain of a man sleeping beside her, who loved her more than she loved herself, could never fill the sand hole. Memories spun invisible lines holding afloat her sinking heart. Her heart near an ocean bottom too deep for light.

A southern belle from the South Bronx was Myrtle Lee “Putty Cat” Jameson. She sealed her peace the first time she witnessed heaven’s orange flames spread across the Atlantic–like warm peanut butter on burnt toast. Beyond the great blue, she expected to meet all her shipmates again. And ‘him,’ her lost lover with the mad ocean eyes. The man who’d died too young holding her heart.

AM Roselli

I am stone

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The lady you see in the background was a sculpture I created way, way back, my junior year of high school. I was ever the wilful child turned into obstinate teen and did not take direction well. My art teacher warned me of clay thicknesses. I didn’t listen. The sculpt, 3 feet in length, did not live long. All that remains of her – a few photos that I treasure as a reminder- there is always more to learn from others – listen well and learn – always learn

‘baring’ her soul

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this figure was created from leftover palette paint I didn’t want to waste – she sort of just materialized – sometimes it’s liberating to paint a nude form when it arises naturally from the earth – not contrived for a whole host of other reasons