eee boo👻love of the monster👹ebook soon🤗so very excited!!!

hope you’re all managing okay within your personal universe and this big beautiful sometimes very bad world of ours

I’ve been offline quite a bit, severely cutting back on social media in a huge effort to create new work I can attempt to submit for publication
(most online journals and magazines will not take blog pieces as these are considered previously published works)
I’m sorry I haven’t been posting here more regularly, I do miss WP
and I apologize for not returning comments quickly

this getting rejected stuff is quite depressing and mind-numbing sometimes
but I guess one must continue to fight the good fight
or better still, work toward creating a seminal piece of work
I’m not nearly there, not by a long shot

I do thank you for stopping by from time to time
and I’m so very excited for the ebook version of, love of the monster, to be out this November!
I’ll be pulling the plug on the print version about the same time and must kick a family member out of the house to make room for cartons of books 😊
am:)

Advertisements

book love and shower lust

my poem, dogeared inspiration, in FOXGLOVE JOURNALmy poem, dark magic, in FOXGLOVE JOURNAL

I footnoted these 2 pieces in FOXGLOVE Journal before on previous posts, but I should have presented them better,
supporting the wonderful creative journals that support writers and artists – thank you😘
(photos courtesy of Foxglove Journal)

since 9/11

“A husband and father, as he did every morning, kissing his wife and daughter before driving to Rescue 1’s firehouse on West 53rd Street in Manhattan. And his unusual decision to stop as he walked to his van on Sept. 11, 2001, and return to kiss them one more time.”

“I’m saying to myself, he survived. He was a Marine, he was a Boy Scout (and) he was a rescue guy,” Tillie Geidel said. “If anybody could survive, he could survive.”
– Leonard Sparks for the Times Herald-Record, September 11, 2016
Gary Geidelportrait of Gary Geidel, Rescue 1 – painted this for his mom in 2001

friends from another side

Dearest Friend,

I have not forgotten you
have you forgotten me
it’s hard
keeping up with it all
isn’t it
you know what days and nights play at
life, now she can be a bitch
just as she can be a lover
whatever her mood
I embrace her
as I do thoughts of you
while in her arms
wishing like hell, they were yours

Voodoo Yellow Man/mixed media

and here is my original pal, hatched a few years back prior to earth tone clothes shopping

a white German Shepherd and a bite in the ass

A leisurely stroll on a cool morning. Anastasia Lane is tree-lined with bodacious curves like his wife’s. He is not quite sure where the road will take him. This is a new neighborhood. His heavy patrician brows, salt and peppered over time speak to old-school character. Harder working, forthright decades. Maybe. Broad shoulders once home to a leather holster a bit concave now. With a surgically fixed hip, he perseveres upright and true. A firmness beneath those size fourteens beats the pavement, nothing aged in that step. He’s thinking about life. He’s a thinker. His brain will never stop cycling. Unlike the right arm that sometimes gives him bother.

He is passing a grand home on Anastasia Lane, a compound with ornate gates around its perimeter. Behind the black iron rods–in stark contrast–a large, white German Shepherd paces. The walking man’s flecked grey eyes shift. Having owned several of the black and tan variety, he admires the GSD a moment then continues on. His mind wanders back in time–a bleaker part of NYC. Two murderers hiding out on the ninth floor. Blocking the hall’s entrance, a hulking Shepherd with raised fur and glistening canines. In the stairwell, two agents plan a regroup, when the grey-eyed agent comes up from behind. He moves to the front and simply growls more loudly than the dog. The next moments complete another story–one that becomes legendary at retiree gatherings.

Continuing along Anastasia, the grey-eyed man is passing the expansive lawn’s last wrought iron post when from behind, silent teeth sink into his upper thigh. He reacts immediately whacking the white GSD’s head with his good arm and his large hand. His trousers are torn and blood is trickling down the back of his leg. Charging across the monstrous lawn, the GSD’s owner bellows, “RELEASE, RELEASE!” The dog owner’s voice quickly turns contrite. Sweat trickles down his ample exposed chest onto his jogging suit. His combed back hair is shoe-polish black and his endlessly dark, Sicilian eyes remind the old agent of someone.

The bite only broke surface skin. Within minutes the two are sipping Sambuca together in a flamboyant Mediterranean room. Above the gilded mantel, looming larger than life hangs an oil portrait. The old agent stares through the intense frozen eyes. He’d remember that gaze anywhere. Decades ago, Enzo Rozzoni was painted into a nice jail cell with canvas bedding. The grey-eyed man helped put him there.

The old agent and the Sicilian empty their shot glasses. Then the grey-eyed man points to himself and states with a grin, “Franco Rozzoni, I knew your father. FBI–”

Smiling equally as wide, Franco Rozzoni parlays, “No wonder my dog bit you in the ass.”

The old world neighbors share a laugh over another round of Sambuca.

young dadNames were changed to protect the innocent and not so innocent;)

I’d like to extend a very Happy Birthday to my father, Vito, newly minted 85 today and by far, still the most intimidating man I’ve ever met.
In the photo above he was just entering the FBI.

sweating glass

it took an old southern rock bar band
a switch from wine to gin and tonic
and the recollection of a childhood memory
to swallow a dream starting to slip slide on thin summer ice
chilled to near perfection once, the dream
the gallant aspirations striking a spark at one’s heels
“why”
love
always there, the love
passion–an over-used word, I call into service here
I want to write about me (without you knowing)
I want to write about you (and think it’s me)
I want to create boulevards and labyrinths,
defeat, victory and the people that fall to both
friends, lovers torn apart, maybe connected in twisting alleys
plain flat features and sculpted bullshit
forbidden denizens
I want to go down the creepy hall and
have my right hand make the left open the door
but the most honest excuse
I’ll place here (bear in mind I got in very late last night)
if I don’t sit beneath the light at 4 am with a pen
I won’t be any good to anyone
so many of us have this story
we happily summon up this creative nightmare
it is not a bad dream but a wickedly feisty journey
across dark boulevards
sipping my midnight refreshing gin and tonic
the sweating glass slipping in my hand a bit
listening and watching the band
they were decent as bar bands go
around people drinking, laughing, texting
four band members
wasn’t a gig worth the pay
wasn’t worth the hot lights, sweat and beer stench
(and there’s that Jackson Brown song)

and the token rude person or two in the crowd
they–the magnificent four, simply loved what they did
not the hot lights, sweating, drunkards, texters, talkers, laughers
and
there was the flash memory of a childhood diary
a little worn book “accidentally” left out for my five sibs
so they might read
my words

Oscar E. Hornse

the other thing I adore–monsters, this guy drawn last year
happy Sunday:)

dreamer take all

before the flesh of another day fuses to your bones
in sleep you must remain awake planning your next move
a red glow from your electronic notebook frames the bedroom sill in hell
cool summer skies can’t suffocate thoughts of a burning future
what a forecast it is
unless you trap a white dream rabbit large enough
then whack off its giant foot to dangle around your neck
nothing good is coming your way
that’s how much luck you need
maybe the whole damn bunny strung around your life could do the trick
but there is no way this can work
you love animals better than people
maybe – up with bunny, down with people is part of the problem
stop fretting hell’s nightshade
and toying with giant white rabbits

stick your face beneath the sheet and try again tomorrow
dreamer take all

MeAnn der Ingline

MeAnn der Ingline

how I escaped

can you glide across marble
with my big feet tripping you
will you dance across scuffed inlay
while soaking in a swing band
if you know me at all
you’ll know why horn sections and maroon socks are perfect
will you sneer if an errant hair strand sticks to my shiny mouth
my lips are glossed ’cause I’m trying to look pretty
as you twirl me left
I can’t twirl right–that’s the side I always drop things on
will you know I never lived above an Italian deli but wanted to
or worked as a librarian
or sketched ponies in a hot air balloon
or need my bed sheets striped, otherwise I put them on the wrong way
will you know I dream all the time
too much all the time

something I was supposed to be held back a grade for
teacher voices never entering an ear
and out the other, only opera wishes and flying unicorns
will you judge me for drinking hot cocoa after red wine

will you know how I escaped
the someone once called me

and that I don’t ever want her to catch me again
all I need in this life
all I want anymore

is to dance all night as the swing band plays
with someone who doesn’t mind getting their feet stepped on

swing dancer

swing dancer

originally published last year, now edited and changed up a bit, finally in a verse place it belongs
art also previously published, gosh, I gotta get cranking in all directions

side by side

we hope our children view the world through rose-colored glasses
shades
pray they live well, so their buckets won’t need lists
green bucket
we’ll try to respect their deep-seated thoughts
car leg
and teach them to respect those who have gone before
pray
they must always believe they’re more magical than mermaids
lil mermaid
and understand playing dress-up is fabulous, as long as they remain young at heart
money bat
we’ll tell them it’s okay to think upside down
Caro upside down
and they’re the apples of our eyes
apples
and when the world gets too big, they can hide under a blanket
eyelashes
and that same big world is full of wonderment
max laugh
we’ll let them sit in a red chair and do absolutely nothing
max red chair
and tell them they don’t have to smile all the time
painting image
as long as they keep their heads above water
max head above water
we’ll hope they love each other enough to hang out upside down
upside downand sideways
butt heads
but above all that they’ve learned–
love simply means standing side by side
carmax hugwith Caroline attending college this fall, and Max a high school junior come September, I’ve been waxing nostalgic
I published this post last year but have been thinking about it lately
damn, time wearing his ankle wings and over-priced Nikes sure does fly
xmas 2105

Spirit mural

swimming on the soil

in the series of liquid drops that fall from the sky
I draw a puddle of the world
a crystal ball to sieve my thoughts
universal ramblings sometimes shimmer
here within this watery dimple
beneath the shallow surface
deep dissonance
my sonar, far from a bat’s
still can locate earthen skin
hair bronzed by morning light
eyes ocean aqua
and a heart not quite complete
tears I believe to be mine
join their brothers and sisters
swimming on the soil
early summer winds shove the late spring clouds into the sun
the puddle washes into black
my crystal ball collapses

the funny thing is
when the sunlight returns
you’ll completely disappear
and the only thing that can save you now
are the puddles in your own head

mint eyes

mint eyes