The Bowl of Clavicles
Late last night, my stocky papa who smiled and made great Italian meals died
This morning my father’s steel face melted into my mother’s collarbone
Early this morning, my fierce father died quietly in his sleep
Moments later my mother’s tear-laden eyes poured into my collarbone
A sad piece of subtle strength and perseverance dedicated to this day of Memorial tribute.
am
A March 2024 sketch done with a ridiculously large Ticonderoga preschooler pencil
“Little Karole” would blossom into a six-foot-tall, gorgeous woman who’d live an amazing life as a stained glass artist. And much later, she’d become my beautiful mother-in-law.
perhaps it is my 60 years of age inspiring the words below, it could be that the majority of my new friends, most in their 70’s and 80’s, continue to open my eyes in every direction but down
“to live”
I don’t believe the phrase “to live” means escaping our burdens
I don’t believe “to live” means transforming ourselves or collecting accolades
I don’t believe “to live” includes acquiring wealth or building empires
I don’t believe “to live” means ignoring the past or focusing on the remaining years as we age
I never believe “to live” is expressed through curated media or grinning images
I do believe “to live” creates dubious comparisons of one against the other
I do believe the phrase “what it means to live” suffocates dreams before they begin
I do believe “to live” finding strength in our efforts amid others indifference
“to live” brave in our ‘individualness’ while accepting others in theirs
“to live” caring for ourselves so we can care for others
“to live” stepping forward when we’ve lost someone behind us
And I always believe “to live for today” when it is tomorrow
am:)
Bringing the Misfits Home
A Sentimental Christmas Memory
we embrace every relative
load up the wagon, pack in tight and leap onto the highway
Staten Island to New Jersey
chrome steeds try galloping past our Country Squire, but Dad fantasizes he’s lead stallion
from the rear-facing seat, I watch the mesmerizing herd of headlights
trail farther and farther behind
no other man (driving 90 miles an hour) will ever replace this depth of faith
my fierce childhood possession, always
into the cold, dark Jersey night, we arrive home
the V-8 shudders, the presents cushioning our sleepy heads rattle
my little sister’s pigtails shift on my shoulder, I shake the bones to wake us up
Tima’s barking gnaws the sleep crust from our eyes
while we unpack every last ounce of Italian cheer and clamp our gifts
beneath all available arms
my brothers, sisters and I march like weary soldiers across the snowy lawn
we trudge up the brick stoop and into our warm home
pajamas quickly managed, we mime brushing our teeth
Mom tucks us in and kisses our cheeks with her smile brighter than winter
I surround myself with stuffed animals, swaddle in blankets
and stare out my bedroom window to search for the blazing star of my picture books
(I’ll later learn that I’d been praying to Venus all along)
tomorrow, like clockwork, Emile will stop at the corner of our street
yell out in his mildly, terrified mailman voice, “WHERE’S TIMA?”
one of us will step into the cold to coax our hefty German shepherd
away from her favorite place on the front stoop to bring her inside
and just like that, Christmas is officially over
(Opening image, 1980 – Christmas Tree)
(Image directly above, 1980 – my little brother, Vito, me and our goofy shepherd, Rosie
Unfortunately, I couldn’t find an image of our childhood shepherd, Tima, a much more serious-minded shepherd )
Hope you’re all doing well ❤️
am:)
For those unfamiliar with the poem The Two-headed Calf, it was written by Laura Gilpin (1950-2007). This force of nature came to me by way of my dear friend, DS Levy.
Ms. Gilpin’s tragic, yet beautiful portrait reminds us of the choice each one of us can make regardless of our circumstance or time on this earth. The Two-headed Calf is taped to my computer where my singular brain absorbs it daily.
When I was a child, my brothers and sisters often visited the Blauvelt Museum (shown below) to gaze at its many taxidermy displays. One animal in particular always tore at my heart — the two-headed calf mounted on the wall above the mantle who looked through me with her six dark limpid eyes. How I wish I knew of Ms. Gilpin’s poem back then.
Hiram Blauvelt was a philanthropist, conservationist, art and animal collector. Ironically, Hiram was a big game hunter, and his kills provided the conservationist displays.
“Through his big game and private wildlife art collections, Hiram hoped to promote the cultural value of wildlife art and the need for conservation of its subjects and their habitats.” “Founded in 1957 as a natural history museum, the Blauvelt Museum introduced students, scouts and youth groups to the need to support wildlife and habitats conservation. Visiting artists created drawings and paintings from close observation of the specimens.”
In searching for the images for this post, I was elated to learn of Blauvelt’s direction. When the ‘hunt-then display to promote conservationism’ philosophy fell out of favor, “…the Board of Directors of the Blauvelt-Demarest Foundation decided that the original objectives would be best achieved by redesigning the museum to feature the works of contemporary wildlife artists, built on the artistic foundation of the Blauvelt’s early collection of works…” And among its many wonderful events, today’s Blauvelt also hosts an art museum residence program.
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
My beautiful mother, Millie with our beautiful bitty newborn, Caroline
Happy Birthday, Daughter!
Happy Earth Day!
Hope you’re all managing okay❤️Stay safe🙏
“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
Stay safe❤️
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❤️ ❤️
Stay safe, keep busy, and if you have sky available where you are, every once in awhile look up at the bright blue and the night stars 🌹
anntogether 