To view Grace’s spectacular work, and her immense photographic project Pandora’s BoxX, you’ll need to view on Instagram (link below).
Congratulations sister G!
https://www.instagram.com/reels/DaF4R3TxESF/
My Amazing Artist Sister Grace Roselli
Tag Archives: photographs
this thing called New Year
reconstructed resolutions lower the ball to the ground
the ball won’t rise again till the crowds gather next year
when the lovers and the true believers return in celebration
when the partiers piss and vomit on sidewalks and in alleys
My Resolution(s)
this year I’ve gotten better at accepting multiple versions
I’ve barreled through decades and broken over waterfalls
I’m pumped to shred the rowing muscles
this year I’m shoving specific plans into my eye sockets
not the usual well-formed outtakes, no more excuses
—here—I wonder if I’m bull-shitting myself with words as I often do
or maybe, I’ve gone and done it—reshaping thoughts into tangibles
maybe I have, because this morning, facial recognition can’t recognize me
could it be this year’s resolution, this thinning skin I wake in each day more
forcing my handheld device to decide who I am?
but…my new phone requires an app update…
I remain the same (use your words, AM)…
time carries the words, the dreams, the light
she throws down faster than a gaudy ball dropping on a bombastic evening
she grinds to enjoy a loved one’s pain
she grins as voyeur to our last moments
she slows if I watch her red digital clock counting down as my soup warms
I’ve come to realize this—dreams, words
the very pace of time is up to me, to you
when these things travel swiftly, we’re doing good work
busied our worlds between seconds, minutes, hours
this morning, I placed flint sparks in my pockets
today we will do good work
we will shoot firecrackers to light the night sky
we will dirty the dark street a little to say—we were here
to see, to smell, to hear, to taste, to touch
every burning color of this moment called life
But Not Dolores
Burying the Dead Twice
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:)
2 new pieces published in Foxglove Journal
Veery excited to announce 2 new poems published in Foxglove Journal!
my poem, dogeared inspiration, in FOXGLOVE JOURNAL
I dogeared a page in your book
of inspirational quotes, Volume Two.
The one you keep in the nightstand
on your side of the bed.
The bed we never should have bought
with that money. Rather than a bamboo
pillowtop, we should have invested
in help from voices other than our own.
When you wake and find I’m not here
fitting into the lump our sleep pattern created
on a mattress supposedly resistant to lumps–
If you shuffle to the dog-eared page
of inspirational quotes, Volume Two,
perhaps you’ll figure out why
I was inspired to leave.
my poem, dark magic, in FOXGLOVE JOURNAL
s it dark magic that occurs
behind a wet curtain
a blanket of steam    spray cascades down your flesh
is it darker magic still
when your eyes close
slight-of-hand for the senses
touch vibrates the clean sudsy silk
no floral bouquet or inattentive perfumes
no phony scent of any kind
unadulterated mist
like morning dreams
pouring over you
awash in clear mercy
when the frothing in your head
caresses the patterned tiles
and floats away in shimmering bubbles
the spray cuts off
the curtain draws back
the steam dissipates
in one breathless moment
the spell ceases
like a heartbeat
evaporates out the window
along with your fantasies
Â
my treasure
I didn’t know your history
your smile never let on
I didn’t know your struggles
you lifted us without complaint
I didn’t know you cried yourself to sleep
you kissed us so gently
I didn’t know you grew up shunned
your embrace included all who entered
I didn’t know your ninth Christmas
you wished only for peace
I didn’t know your childhood
you gave your own children love without conditions
I was a teen, when you told me
how your father drank
all the fights, the smashing glass, the screaming
you were kicked out and had to move nine times
your childhood was a dark story
one you never used to fan futile flames
you welcomed life
donned a brave face
put yourself through college
and never looked back
you are my role model
you are my treasure
you are my dearest friend
Happy Mother’s Day
above my mom at 18, below (and I never lie) my mom at 78
5’x6′ painting done at my mom’s request about eight years ago – all her grandkiddies and all their teeth!
xoxo
“Every Inkblot Can be Turned Into a Butterfly”
Since I began building my little keystroke cabin in this charming corner of blogworld, I’ve met more than a few enlightening, whimsical and talented neighbors. To date, I’ve published 32 posts all written in a light, spontaneous style. I choose this approach for a very simple reason-life is not always light and spontaneous, in fact, it can be quite the opposite for many.
Yesterday I subbed in our local Middle School and there was an early morning assembly. My job was to escort the class to the auditorium then remain with them during the entire program. The assembly’s speaker was John Halligan, a man who’s dedicated his life to sharing a “powerful healing message of forgiveness and unconditional love.” On October 7, 2003, John Halligan’s thirteen-year-old son took his own life. There are many layers to Ryan Halligan’s story-a story of bullying, undiagnosed depression and missteps on all sides, along the way. During the ninety-minute assembly, John Halligan peeled away these layers one-by-one.
Ryan’s beautiful spirit, smiling and sometimes laughing floated by on a large screen behind his father as his sad story unfolded.
Listening to Ryan’s brave father speak on stage, at times choking up on words and images of his son, sent a powerful message. In his brief lifetime, Ryan wished for nothing more than unconditional love.The very thing that would have saved him. The very thing his father and mother gave and continue to give. In this world of excess and jargon, unconditional love remains free and honest. One of John Halligan’s closing remarks, “…if I’ve gotten through to just one student today, just one, this was worth it. Kids know you are loved, know you are loved, you are loved unconditionally…”
John Halligan ended Ryan’s Story with words he himself received from his high school art teacher, “…every inkblot can be turned into a butterfly…”
If you’d like to learn the details of Ryan’s Story:Â http://www.ryanpatrickhalligan.org/
anntogether 