His friends called him Bill, the rest — Vito
I remember other men gathering ‘round him at parties
Women telling him what a handsome figure he cut
He smiled in that tall, broad-shouldered frame
His eyes were as piercing as his deep voice—
terrifying as a child
remarkable in my adulthood
I believed any criminal in my father’s path
would immediately surrender themselves
to this larger than life FBI man
Judicious and fair with or without his law degree
His life stories from working an ice truck at seven years old
to duking it out on a golf course at seventy
were mesmerizing in detail, entertaining in delivery
The temper — he possessed a fierce one
No patience for silliness
but all the time in the world for family
I reflect often on his driving force
his charismatic personality
his soft side
Not a day goes by when I don’t miss him
HAPPY FATHER’S DAY to all you wonderful fathers!❤️
revised this older piece this morning, sort of where my mind is floating right now
can’t remember when I sketched this, I’m thinking it was a few years ago
hope you’re all managing okay — AnnMarie
“Quarantine and social distancing have brought up a lot: anxieties, memories, and even new observations.
Throughout the week we’ll publish selected works on our website and across our social media channels (an audience of about 25,000).
Share your stories.“ —From Whispers To Roars
I’m honored to share my new piece in ‘From Whispers To Roars,’ a wonderful indie lit mag. Please click here or on image below to read other wonderful works of self-expression during these difficult days.
I hope you are navigating okay in the world as it is right now.
This morning, I’m listening to a woodpecker attached to the metal gutter, a floor above my studio.
For a few weeks, every morning, he’s been happily pecking away.
His reason for pecking is not what you might think.
I wrote this poem this morning and wanted to share❤️ ❤️
honored to have my prose poem We’ll Always Have the High Chair
published in Free Lit Magazine
“Free Lit Magazine is free and published bi-monthly with a mandate to be committed
to the accessibility of literature for readers and the enrichment of writing for writers.” – Free Lit Magazine
We’ll Always Have the High Chair
We laughed. Chuckled while swimming in the YMCA pool. In my kitchen or yours. During our walks. Shopping and smiling. Over coffee.
Dad often asked, “How can you always have so much to talk about? What the hell is so funny all the time?”
Constant conversations. Endless phone calls when we lived only a few miles from one another. And now, I can’t remember much. What did we talk about, mom? What was always so funny all the time?
I’d give anything to hear you laugh again.
I remember when Caroline was five months old. You and I decided to try my first born in her new high chair. She was a tiny baby, and had what we called a minnow-head. We placed her in the chair. She tilted sideways and that bitty head slid to the far corner. There she sat grinning with those sweet bow lips. From that moment, whenever either of us said, Remember the high chair, we’d laugh.
This morning, you keep spitting out your meds. Don’t seem to remember why you need to swallow them. With a despondent voice I ask, Remember the high chair?
Your eyes crinkle as drool dribbles down your chin.
before touching the door
a kiss to my cheek
be safe leaping out my throat
off they go alone
maybe with friends it will be dark later
at the stadium, at school, at the mall, at the fair, on the street,
alone, with your friends, in the city, in the suburbs, in the building,
at the theater, on the road, at the beach, at his house, at her house,
at the airport, on the plane, on the bus, on the boat, in the Uber, in the lake, on the river . . .
a magnificent bubble shielding their human flesh
a bulletproof amulet delivering them unscathed
we know, you don’t have to tell us every time
yea, I do