National Poetry Month

thanks to my dear friend and fellow writer DS Levy for the tee-shirt gift, and thanks to the handsome model, my dear little teenage son

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it is

well
it is
done
a book
mine
thin and monochromatic
beast and verse
love and madness
what we do to ourselves
what I’ve held
and continue
to store in my own heart
through personal trials
and gentle outward observations
it is
done
a book
for my children
something to hold in their hands
one day
when they need my heart nearby
I might be here
when they seek my heart
but if I’m not
it is

I’m of the old school belief if something is worthwhile eventually it will find its way, not a wonderful sales person for my own work, I must make an effort especially for my talented and generous friends and family who helped me realize this first publishing dream, so my friends, my very first illustrated book of free verse (some call them poems, my father believes poetry should rhyme – these verses do not) is available on my booksite – loveofthemonster.com
cover-image-jpegI thank you – how very exciting it is this morning to write this as the first white of winter presses against my studio door:)

enter title here

it is very quiet
the realization of a deep loneliness
apparent in the sound-sucking carpet
in the dim light of way past midnight

acceptance of what I need
not always found in my words
or my forms
something undeniable
presses my mind ever forward
forces my fingers to choke pencils
don’t always know which way
to
shove the compass needle
magnetic attractions don’t always apply

searching for something to shove inside the attic
to store inside my soul
maybe

treasures for the grand kids to find
hope for my older self to embrace
there is the first effort
before the wheels start spinning again
what now?

enter title here

Baby Elf

Baby Elf

my book is nearly ready to be launched into space, my mind is more nervous than my hands

festooned chaos

since Halloween is near and my soon-to-be printed (yea) book
is due mid-December or earlier (yea)
I’m posting the only verse in love of the monster
that pays direct homage to this most wicked and deliciously sweet celebrationfestooned-chaos-text-color

love of the monster, is a black and white illustrated book
color was added here to protect the innocent;)

building paper boats and childlike ranting

The Blue Angels are flying over my house. A few years ago they flew so close by I swear I saw an upside down helmet and a smiling face. To fly. Freedom in the sky. In the clouds. I often think it so very ironic that only eight minutes from my house sits a small airport with a landing strip long enough to land a space shuttle–one may have landed here years ago, can’t remember– and I haven’t traveled anywhere in such a long time. I often watch these enormous military planes descend marveling at how they stay afloat in the air when they carry the weight of the world.

It has been a struggle of late, deciphering where I dream my words flying. Used to be so much clearer. Things have grown a bit hazy and the atmosphere thick. God, how many of us are out here, everywhere trying to do the same. Yet, this does not change our itinerary, does it. I’m no different. I waste more time struggling on the ground than flying in the air. I’m growing tired and losing a bit of chrome polish. We all suffer in our own way. I’ve created a personal flight plan that includes spreading thin with just enough left to light coat a piece of paper with tired ink.

My frustration is creeping up and it will culminate one day into pulling the plug on all this social media. And the ‘whys’ as to what I’m doing continuing to write online when I should curl in my cave and go at my muse like Ali. I find the media of media more and more distracting. How much time do you continue giving when time is not bottomless. So much speaks to the musts of social media today. To get your words anywhere, to make them fly maybe even rocket you must pilot the spacecraft. I’ve been trying with all my heart to stay the course. I write myself into places that take me away. Create people I don’t know–maybe I do–I’m not ever really sure where any of these folks come from. Yes, sure we all know there are pieces of ourselves that go into our art. Art imitates life in that order and this is nothing new. It is old. Too old.

I am working on an illustrated book of verse. I’ve mentioned this before. I am not a salesperson. I’m not shy just not wonderful at touting my own work. I was an art director for a publishing company before my daughter was born. I did that job really well because I sold other artists’ designs. Today, I keep thinking, “okay, AnnMarie you’re gonna print a bunch of these books then what.” I dislike pushy tactics. Dislike when instant messages tell me to go read this or that. I won’t do it. I can’t. My innerchild is obstinate and bullish which makes my whole plan sort of ironic–self publishing. You pay a self publisher, yet you still must provide a marketing plan extolling all the wonderful ways you’ll PUSH your endeavor. Pushing art, adds a whole lot of romance into the notion of beloved muse. When this book of mine is ready, it will be placed here and other venues. Will all this matter. Time will tell. At the very least, I will have something my folks can show their friends and something my children can take with them whether or not I’m here.

In my heart, I naively believe in tossing your paper boat into the raging sea. If it you built it true, it might stay afloat. If you built it really well, hell, maybe it will magically take to the air. To the sky where you can soar into the clouds. Like the Blue Angels.
Caroline and Max spiritSpirit mural (based on DreamWorks movie) I painted long ago and since painted over