the burning color of this moment
Tag Archives: poem
Thoughts while thinking & repeating
I originally posted this in 2018, my words remain beneath the snow and in the clouds
making art
why must I take art
art is not something you take
it is something you give
I can only draw stick figures
fire begins
with simple sticks
none of my sculptures look right
you’re in good company
now-put all your wrongs together
and make art
The words are a riff from a piece I wrote back in 2014.
The unfinished sculpture images shown above – my latest work
His name is Abraham GS Bardo (name inspired after the prolific author George Saunders)
When finished, Abraham will inhabit a cemetery with his dearest friend the raven.
Words blasted from the past
A piece from 2014 published in the Avocet…was it so long ago…
5 am peaceful
wishing it were contented spirits
dusting the cement grass with glitter
not winter’s freeze
my dachshund’s paw prints
sweet as a postcard
one might send a faraway lover
I linger in the numbing quiet
let the moment warm this blanketed silence
hushed low like swimming beneath water
where despair drowns then floats away
in bubbles and dancing reflections
don’t want to twist the frozen doorknob
and go back inside
I’d love to remain out here
5 am
with the sparkling dust
and all that glitters
in the beauty of this silence
when the world is so peaceful
the original marker art that posted along with the poem in 2014
hope you’re all managing these days
am:)
Can We Just Runaway…
A pencil sketch I made of my dear friend, DS Levy, when she was a child.
(Inspired by a childhood photo DS shared with me taken by a childhood friend)
The ‘poem’ above was written this morning after feeling overwhelmed by the news. I wrote it to remind myself that we can’t give up the fight for our country – a country where empathy, kindness, compassion, fairness, equity, science… – you know – the good stuff that makes us human – once prevailed
We are better than the sum of this current government
We are much better
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
It is with a heavy heart that I update this post.
Holding My Friend to a Promise (originally posted 12/9/24)
For over thirty years my friend Robert Milby has been reading his poetry throughout the Hudson Valley, NYC, Long Island, NJ, PA, and New England. An engaging speaker, Robert has made 1,500 public appearances and has done hundreds of readings, open mics, lectures, presentations, participated in radio commentary and festivals, and has been spotlighted on independent tv shows. Robert has shared his enthusiasm and poetic talents through reading and writing workshops in schools and culture centers and has been a guest poet at higher educational institutions.
Robert’s numerous works have been included in magazines and anthologies. Add to his stellar resume and his four poetry books, his chapbook, Gothic, Orange was published through the County Historian’s office in 2018. He has been a Kirkus Reviewer, a “Best Poet” winner and a longtime Woodstock Poetry Society member. In 2017, Robert was honored with the title, Poet Laureate of Orange County, NY. His relentless devotion to poetry has never ceased. Until now.
Robert is battling stage IV pancreatic cancer. As a freelance writer, he has been unable to work for the past nine months. I understand this is a difficult time of year to ask for donations, but any amount you’re able to make will help Robert pay for his mounting medical expenses. (Go Fund Me link)
I would have given up reading my work in public, if not for Robert. His dedication and encouragement inspired me to share my own work beyond the written page. A deep-reader and researcher, Robert promised me that he’d share his voluminous knowledge of UFOs over coffee one day. I am holding him to that promise.
Thank you in advance for your generosity. (Go Fund Me link)
Heartbreak
Beside the bright berries of the mountain ash, the bird’s eyes are dull. His heart — races. Will this be the creature I save? Into its parched mouth, I administer a drop of water. The frail ribs expand up and down like a bullfrog’s throat. The dull eyes go glassy. The breast stops flying.
My small sweating hands wrap the limp bird in tissue. I dig out a hole and bury the tiny thing beside the tree. Tears fall. The ground turns moist. I mutter a child’s prayer for things I don’t understand. The morning sun shifts. The ground has nearly dried.
Should I stand beside this grave for the remainder of my life—
This piece is dedicated to my children
Helen’s Flight
I leave my husband, daughter, homeland, and slip away in the dark shroud of night.
The orange-red glow of the moon is veiled with clouds, Artemis’ hand already at play in this.
My own hand wraps around Paris’ fingers, my heartbeat is the phantom of Menelaus’ footsteps behind me. The ship waits at Gythium, water lapping its sides, gentle like my fingers stroking Hermione’s face.
wind whispers
a crow caws
Apollo’s triumph
We board the ship, my feet numb like ice. My skin smells of the salt-spray of the sea, the night air,
the heavy-wine scent of the watching gods – I know they are there, have known since Paris sent that knife-gaze into my heart. His hand cups my face, the thief coveting his prize. We raise anchor, and sail with the dawn.
the sharp horizon
a knife across the sun
blood in the water
—Caroline Hron Weigle
This gorgeous poem was written by the lovely Caroline Hron Weigle. Remember her name – she is an up and coming historical romance writer.
I painted the piece above a few years ago. I’d never given much thought to her name before – now she has one.
I hope you’re all doing well.
annmarie:)
going backwards ain’t how growin’ goes
blue grass blew up under there, landed there, over there
you see, look here bled blue on this over here
so they sang over there, banjo’d blues ‘round those mountains
got a banjo too, but no bluegrass livin’ in these olive eyes
listen here, do you hear the weary sky humming da blues
below her womb, flesh ‘n bone spawning bitter gods
swelling wellsprings of madness
manic rivers drying, warm water shattering man-walls
cause he be screwing the planet ‘n mother earth be pissed
don’t we know, going backwards ain’t how growing goes
great grandpapa’s mighty oak just felled by climbing fire
man ‘n his man-guns knocking things ‘neath blue-blue sky
no seed sown with lead, no gilded heart embraces love
listen here, do you hear the weary sky, how she hums da blues
she be blue, oh, so blue hummin’ above —
this mankind of ours screeching and scratching below
don’t we know, going backwards ain’t how growing goes
this piece inspired by a newly black-topped parking lot
here’s to looking up at the sky – still blue – still lovely
am:)
anntogether 