temptations

I often speak
not often enough
of honesty
when it’s practical and lends itself lyrically
So, here I will weaken myself by revealing
a palpable fear
This dread haunts me in most aspects of thought
Elusive
still I know its talents in matters of temptation
She tries to bend my whim to her words
He employs brute strength to muscle my conscience
They slide plug nickels, never bright pennies
I don’t understand much of what I do
What if we’re not supposed to
There remains a prideful integrity in placating my own selfish spirit
I grip this fiercely
The dismay of losing my voice pales my heart
There are glimpses of things I’ve seen
Wisps of smoke on horizons blazing far above my dark corner
Questions I ask my patient angels on loan and my personal demons on demand
Am I not at their measure
Am I not reaching enough
And my humanness does stall
And my heart does break
She, He, and They come at me in these moments
bending, prodding, soliciting me to fabricate with their designer colors
In weak moments, I fall to my knees in thanks, that I was born a willful child-listening to no one’s voice
but my own

Angel Cone

not where I live

Today, I’d like to write something about me.
Not from a clever place.
That’s not where I live.

Rather, I am someone who picks at her scabs
and watches them fall into Rorschach patterns
on the foot-flattened carpet.

Insignificant silhouettes that go unnoticed,
except by those fascinated with inkblots and
inexplicable stains.

communal totem

why fix this broken machine

why fix this broken machine
the urgency in uplifting messages
broadcast with heavy hearts
misguided mobs leveling cruel ends
by hideous means
refusing to behave
as a beautiful homogeneous group
faith shaken to the core
our vast home, shriveling
wicked minds vexed by calculating brains
broad strokes of ignorance painting world murals
why fix this broken machine
pulling loads up the mountain
carts inundated with hopeless direction
greed, avarice, folly, sickness
wishing upon flesh stars

…still…

despite every sour moment
we suck into our spongy hearts
there is something undeniable
in the endless beauty of man

we are not machines
we are not broken
we fix the pieces that wear over time
we readjust the parts because we have the ability to do so
we restart the stops in the moments we catch our breath
we reignite the stalls when our brothers collapse upon themselves
we do not crush ourselves, over and over again
we reinvent
despite the few who dare to rip the road from beneath our feet
we continue walking up the mountain

there are those who choose to break
there are many who refuse to be broken

Dream Catcher

Dream Catcher

I wish you all a more hopeful, beautiful and peaceful New Year. Here’s to gentility, civility and warm embraces in 2017
am:)
xoxo

are there enough pages

are the chambers of your heart sliced thin
with enough pain between the parchment
to make you an interesting read
have the edges of your soul been sharpened
despite the dull devils trying to wear them down
are those cobwebbed secrets in the recesses of your mind
sell-able
will anyone pull a star down from heaven
and slap it on your blemished skin
the thoughts that crawl up your beading flesh when lights go dim
can those fading illuminations stage a moment
amid a sun-packed universe of perfection
what makes your story
more interesting than your lover’s
will there be enough pages to sew together
after you tear your life apart
sculpt woman

well, this is just freakin’ amazing

well, this is just freakin’ amazing
apparently my little book
has gone “temp out of stock”
on both Amazon and B&N
why I’d love to believe it’s selling out like Harry Potter😉
the reality probably is
because it’s a self-pub title
they don’t take it very seriously
and don’t order that many copies initially
geez
it is still available on my book’s site
loveofthemonster.com
but most folks
are going to Amazon or B&N to buy
darn this selling stuff
I’m going to start peddling door to door
so if you hear someone crying
in your hedgerow
late in the afternoon
it will most likely be me
cover-image-jpeg

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