The Long Con of a Creative Coward’s Lament

What has the coward accomplished since birthing a blog on Valentine’s Day, eight years ago? The crayon cornucopia of glib lines on her “About Me” page wax-on-purple. Over the last few years, this writing & art site has often been left fending for itself. So, what is it she’s trying to get at?

And, how the coward impressed herself in 2016, pairing beastly illustrations with ‘romantic poetry.’ Today, those shiny published business cards prop up crooked things. I also heard from a reliable source, “Boxes of her ‘auspicious’ books retain squatters’ rights in some basement storage area.” Why not ask what she’s achieved while she’s chest-strapped to a lie detector from her father’s generation? Let’s give this creative coward no room for fictionalizing excuses.

The coward excels at dog-paddling through quicksand while ignoring swinging vines. Ah, how malaise sparks the creative fires! In truth, misery is the pissing trope that replaces tenacity; an unavailable quality on any coward’s spectrum. The coward uses all unauthorized life changes in her orbit to self-justify any lack of progress beginning with the demise of a dear German shepherd who flat-lined across the coward’s feet the night before her mother-in-law moved in. Afterward, the gentle mother-in-law succumbed to a blinding fear of death making all six feet of her inextricably wired with depression. It must be noted that before  her dark metamorphosis, the generous mother-in-law had gifted a large sum toward the coward’s self-publishing aspirations. As for repayment, the mother-in-law asked for one signed copy.

The mother-in-law lived on for three years before the rug beneath the coward’s family feet was hijacked. It was November 2017. The coward’s father died, her mother suffered a massive stroke and her mother-in-law passed away all within the span of eleven weeks. The coward magicked into a ‘dutiful daughter’ and served as her mother’s primary caregiver. Despite hearing that the ‘dutiful daughter’ couldn’t take care of her beyond a year, despite her unrelenting pain and a deteriorating body, the mother’s joy never diminished. She powered past the end-of-life administered morphine to mutter, “I love you,” to the coward. The stroke-addled mouth with the fabulous pearl teeth brokered a final smile for the ‘dutiful daughter’ whose joy had left willingly long ago. ‘Dutiful?’ forever engraved upon the coward’s thin heart.

Months after the coward’s mother died, her husband and she decided it was time to downsize. They discarded some, sold some and packed up whatever massive inventory remained inside their big shiny colonial to press fast forward change. Their daughter and son would recover from the tragic loss of ample closet space. The family relocated to an old farm town. They purchased a home with a rich history built during the Great Depression. Their daughter and son have since moved onto earning their graduate-level degrees. The coward’s ‘old’ new home is officially barren of offspring.

After settling along the edge of the Hudson Valley, the coward entered more creative brinkmanship. She worked little and wallowed in memory blues and vineyard reds— strategizing wine selections by label imagery.  The coward did not fight back like her pugilist-loving father. Nor did she emulate her joyful mother’s dignity and grace. Any words or images leaving the coward’s head were effortlessly dark.

Months after the coward set up her studio, a close family member called. They’d been diagnosed with cancer. The coward kicked into high-gear her martyr imposter. She accompanied her family member to the hospital. After the family member’s double-mastectomy, the dutiful imposter remained at the family member’s home several few weeks. (The news is positive — the family member is “cancer-free.”)

A few calendar pages have been torn off since the coward’s close family member’s close call. The coward has finally arrived at the banal conclusion; the answers, she’d always known. The test she’d always avoided. Her pity-party candle is no longer lit. The coward rucks (her children had suggested adding weights in a backpack for a more powerful walking experience). Every morning, the coward looking like an old fool, swings her arms while carrying ten pounds in a pack and boppin’ to Phantom of the Opera.

To push the coward into using her creative muscles, her ass was recently kicked. If Ms. Levy lived closer, the kick might’ve been literal. Not only an exceptional writer, DS Levy is a dedicated runner and a sprinter. This Midwestern author suffers no fools, yet, she occasionally humors the coward’s ‘artful’ woe-is-me bullshit till KA POW! In the coward’s head, she hears flyover country improv, ‘no flyin’ unless you’ soarin’ with them damn wings on!’

‘The Millie & Billy show,’ as the coward and her large Italian family affectionately once called the dynamic duo, doesn’t come around anymore. Today, two monumental Italians live on between the coward’s ears, in images and inside memories. Though the coward’s monstrous heart has fractured, she more wisely appreciates the brittle quickness of the days, the months and the years.

Back to those boxes of books stored in the coward’s basement, the books her mother and her were going to hawk at local festivals while continuing their search for the perfect anisette cookie, they’ll stay crated a while longer. The coward is no longer enthusiastic over the poems and the images. She notes off tempo-ness in several pieces, stanzas smacking loquacious and others waxing purple-handed. The style no longer represents her. Perhaps it never did.

Should the coward ever grow as courageous as Vito and Carmella, she might one day find herself at some little festival selling monster books cheap, ever grateful for her mother-in-law’s generosity, while seeking out the perfect anisette cookie.

The coward will always treasure creating creatures with redemption in their souls if she herself is willing to look beyond their mistrusting eyes.

Fun fact: When the coward self-published, Love of the Monster, in 2016, her supportive husband gifted books to his friends. Months afterward, one of his friends called him to share a laugh over confessing how his new girlfriend, after reading some monster poetry, ‘got real cozy, real quick.’

This coward wishes you all a warm, safe and wonderful Thanksgiving.❤️dad mom me

was November 20, 1994, really so long ago
left to right: Vito/Billy, coward/dutiful daughter, Carmella/Millie
❤️xo

‘The Iceman’s Helper,’ new poem published for a New Year!

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❤️

’tis wrestling season, my eyes close for 2 months


I listened last night
cresting waves
you
a ship
the gymnasium floor
covered in ocean blue and harvesting gold
home advantage
there you were
every time I closed my eyes
imagining the sea
rather than watching you twist and be twisted

my heart opened them
I must be like you
brave
put myself out there
on the mat
face my fear, my folly, my foe, my friend
when did you become so you

my son

the little boy
I must one day
release into a hard world
with no soft wrestling mat beneath
should you fall
maxmy max is on the right, gold-stripe
so very difficult watching these wrestling matches
hoping none of these kids get hurt
but they do
must keep my eyes open

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

Riding the Cyclone

cyclone milliethey say you can never go back
she did, at 79
the magic of optimism
in her breast
returning to Coney Island
for the ride of her life
a young man locked her in
brave nana, kneecaps knocking
beneath that padded bar
she didn’t look back
only forward
at the dropping parallel lines
stomach lifting steel
smiling, laughing, screaming
on this Halloween
she leaps another year to the right
considering each 365, a dazzling gift
nothing about her has changed much
her remarkable passion
her boundless spirit
why, in 80 years
the only thing that has changed
is the ticket price
her first ride cost twenty-five cents
last month, the Cyclone was twelve dollars

shy party doghappy birthday, mom
xoxo
millie at 79

The Magical Last Light

I’d like to share something that I’ve selfishly kept to myself for many years. It’s free and it’s beautiful.

My favorite moment occurs when conditions are just right: the sky is a foreboding grey, the sinking sun is well onto closing down for the day, and a gentle wind lifts the tree leaves like fluttering butterflies.

The moment begins when the sun’s last rays illuminate just the tree tops. Then it happens–lasting only a few surreal minutes. Nothing else can describe this sight except magical–the magical last light.
trees ligthIt’s truly spectacular. The interior light in my studio softens even the dogs take notice.
dogs studioIt’s like leaving Kansas for Oz…
color treesI hope you enjoyed this moment as much as I. If you take the time to seek out this light, you too will be reminded that all things are possible–even peace on earth…

Reworked old post from 2014, I thought fitting for today 🙂

our blue boys

the mantle has been empty far too long
I’ve been meaning to create another portrait
what else is an empty fireplace wall for?

it seems an eternity has passed
since working with a linen base and liquid pigment
pencil and paper are sometimes sorry replacements

on August 3, I set out my paints
and selected a canvas
large enough for a big dog
yet, not overwhelming
for a little one

our last Shepherd, Chama was a regal type
her stoic beauty typified her grace
I did my best to present these qualities
when I painted her formal portrait in 2002

Appreciating

our current dogs
hmm
Rocky the Shepherd
Mojo the Dachshund
what is it about this dynamic duo
that makes my family laugh often

they are quite goofy
yet, they can be fearless too
as small dogs usually go-
Mojo’s 13 pounds sees 90 in our Pella glass door
and
while a Shepherd cuts an intimidating figure
most times
Rocky acts quite silly

when conceptualizing a portrait
there is but one goal–
doing justice to
the subject(s)
outlook(s) on life
natural as the air they breath

in the case of Rocky and Mojo
I’d say joy
and since purple was not quite right
I chose the colors of a
blissful sky, a wistful ocean,
an icy fruit-sickle on a steamy day

our blue boys…
blue boys.largerBlue Boys, acrylic – 3′ x 2 1/2′
finished a few days ago, in between doing loads of laundry – ah, if only they could help with the chores, now that would be something 😉

Chama (Chama the Shepherd looking at her portrait), oils – 2′ x 1 1/2′
painted in 2002  (sorry for poor photo quality)