Honored and thrilled to have my creative nonfiction piece, “Inside My Mother’s Mouth,” published in the elegant and smart, Hippocampus Magazine.
Always honored to share a glimpse into my beautiful mother’s world. I dearly miss the person she was for all those amazing decades.
Click the image (or highlighted text) to read onward. Visit, Hippocampus, and take in all the fantastic stories there…
This piece was written before the Covid-19 axe cut deep. It seems so long ago now that I visited Millie daily and helped her with the morning routine.
I hope you’re all continuing to manage during these difficult days. Stay safe.❤️
Thank you for stopping by.
My beautiful mother, Millie with our beautiful bitty newborn, Caroline
Happy Birthday, Daughter!
Happy Earth Day!
Hope you’re all managing okay❤️Stay safe🙏
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❤️
While my darling daughter was checking out my ‘Published Writing and Art’ page, she informed me that many of the links no longer connected to the published pieces. In an effort to correct this, I went through the entire list and connected each piece to its corresponding blog page, as well as re-linking to the journal or site where each was published. This is the one that got away. It was published back in 2017, by ‘Miracles Magazine’ (A generous friend who still works for the magazine had asked me to submit work). I’m re-posting my poem, ‘Bessie’s Echo,’ so the link can be updated. Thank you.
in the distance
faceless proclamations bounce back and forth between the rush of cars
would’ve been herds of cattle trotting for lunch bells ‘cross the road
a yellow Adirondack chair on my front porch, I drink flavored seltzer from a tumbler pretending it’s Dom
spotted bovine hooves
only echos now like dairy farmers spirits loading Bessie’s milk on old Erie railroad cars
bound for the city
retired clanks and clatters float toward the bright sun that once fed fat cows golden grass
with bright yellow bellies flit by my front porch saying their good nights
cropped portion of a sketch drawn about ten years ago, someday I must redo this little sketch, the dang eyes are lopsided!
I still remember about two decades ago being amazed that a Christmas enthusiast such as myself had never heard of Peppermint Pigs—hard-candy peppermint (pig-shaped of course) broken into sharable pieces for good luck in the new year. I also recall learning about the Christmas Pickle, but due to studio ventilation issues at the time, I opted for pig models over vinegar.😉
I enjoyed creating this piece a few years back for my talented friend, DS Levy. ‘Twas my first crack at a peppermint family🎄 click to check out DS Levy’s creative mind!
Weathervane – a tiny true story
check out Front Porch Review, and thank you
Eyes pointed at the sky. Melody clear and perfect settled on the roof. Tiny voice filling the air. Delicate hollow bones balancing on the weathervane. Seems decades ago we discovered the wrought iron fixture at the flea market; a creaky dive with discarded toys, Post-Depression tools and miles of missing teeth. We anchored the wind reader, with its proud patina horse, to the garage peak. There, our valiant filly galloped through the atmosphere till her strong legs could no longer outrun the wind. Somehow, the compass remained intact.
On the dull backdrop of another chilly overcast day, my little bird friend has chosen one metal branch above the others. As I listen to sunrise songs floating down to the driveway, I assign new meaning to the weathervane. S for Sun—for you, the warmth in our lives no matter the weather.
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.