words are for stories

I am sorry for not following your footprints
you know how we want to blaze our own trails
I’m more like the one who hides in the wild brambles along someone else’s path
stopping to pick the gathering moss from my toes
hoping my feet will stain a lovely shade of flowerless green
so I won’t need to buy socks
(too often my happy spirit falls out my sock holes)
damn, I don’t darn well
I am sorry for not visiting your fine table at tea time
sipping is a lost art and I become dumbstruck at the sight of delicate porcelain tuele
I can cower behind a steaming Starbuck’s Venti
latte, latte, latte
blow the foam
watch me smile all day pretending I’m a writer
enumerating every reason why my work isn’t on one shelf
not one, that’s why I dunk three lattes
and seek out your footprints while no one is watching
still, there is my spirit guide
she drinks naught
eats less than sips
her curved feet are bare and beautiful
her wings are tucked around her disheveled robes
she is proud of her life
passion burns hot in her breast
the embodiment of joy in simple musing
she pulls me away from the wild things that grow on another’s path
she kisses my cheek, returns my black socks patched with green threads
then she tosses me back onto the road where I started out
allowing me no words for excuses
“words,” she whispers in her gorgeous velvet-throwback voice
are for stories
spirit-guide-weditsspirit guide sketched this past weekend while at a boisterous high school wrestling tournament

ghost horse

It has been said of the song, Wildfire, it arose from the artist’s subconscious
–a Native American tale about a ghost horse

mythical and sweet
oh, imagine
a golden Palomino mare carrying sunlight upon her hide
how she would warm your aching body
settle your bones

ferry you to another place
distant from worry
away from strife

all you hear
rhythmic patter of spiriting hooves
winged forelocks
lemon-white mane wrapping your bare skin
keeping you secure
she gallops across the planet
without grazing earth

your stomach lifts
your heart steadies
peace she finds
for you
never the same place
but

if you should call her twice
if you should summon Wildfire
to guide you away
she may just bring you
back home again
wildfire

sketched on the way to New Hampshire last week, after listening to Michael Martin Murphy sing his Wildfire

I want to again thank those of you who sometimes read my verse. I’ve been amping up the language or at least trying to. I’m not always comfortable pushing the pub button with some of these posts–last night’s is a good example. I challenge myself to step out of my comfort zone. I hope by doing this, I’ll discover other directions to pursue. I do admit it is fun dreaming up saucy voices–though these ‘characters’ make me the saddest after they’ve been fleshed out.  With each piece I try to get away from who I am and write as if I’m someone else. Sometimes these ‘personalities’ beg the question-okay, AnnMarie–what’s the next move. I’m not always sure. It is this uncertainty that pushes me onward.
Thank you, again.
I’ve called on Wildfire more than once:)

Have a lovely weekend.

writer blocked

“the writing has to be real”
he screams into her eardrums
the war of words hasn’t even begun marching
no matter

he mercilessly continues the assault
“raw introspection must bleed from every serif”
now that’s delicious, she muses
imagining him dispatched with a saber of nasty grammar
hell-vetica she’s chosen – no ascenders or descenders – asshole
the battle is heating up
no support arriving for her open flanks
he is ever wicked and callous

real and raw lay open and bleeding
those nails of her hers bitten down to the core
forever scratching at that mountain
blanks hit her from behind like Kennedy bullets
she almost fantasizes the sun rising over a groundswell

in a show of desperate force
she slams the laptop closed
and swings ’round to lance him with her army of dried-up pens
he’s too quick
elusive bastard
those words of his –
lead cannonballs sinking her fingertips
“the writing has to be real…”

the only thing real in the room right now
is her headache and heartache
empty again
and there’s nothing she can do to protect herself

he’ll be back tomorrow…

sides

sides

 

not what I expected

so far behind where I normally am for this time of year
as I suffer from HOHO OCD
don’t like doing the crazed shopping thing
with the reindeer-like snorting
and elfin foot twitching on some store’s yule tile

many changes ’round my gingerbread house this year
nothing horrid
just many needles simultaneously falling off the evergreen
this mad dropping conifer has been obstructing my path to
holiday hype preparedness

it happened today
while I was feeling very sorry for myself
and all that I had to accomplish
to create another Merry Memory

on the sick side of the pediatrician’s office
two little girls sharing the common bond
of a Christmas Cough and Holiday Hack
I sat there with the delicate daughter
(mind you, not so delicate when it comes to a throat culture, without a helmet she could take out Odell)
one of these precious little girls began singing,
Silver and Gold
then the other darling chimed in

my self-involved brain began singing along with them
an octave lower for the chorus
when they changed up the lyrics
they didn’t sing, “…silver and gold, silver and gold…”
they sang, “…silver and gold and blue and green and red…”
and they kept going
giggling while adding colors

before I knew it
I was giggling along with them
and the cranky old lady that had been sitting on my heart all day
reunited with her Christmas spirit
not what I expected
not at all

For those of you who celebrate, I extend a Merry Christmas
For all, I wish you a warm and exciting New Year full of hope and possibility

Peace, Love and Light,
am:)

A Gift

A Gift

 

our best thinking

a dank sticky corner
burdened oak tops disturbed for decades
by descending mugs
trying to lighten bleak thoughts
ambiguous gouges in once flawless veneer
bear tired witness to
lives emptied into shot glasses
arranged in firing line formation to end pain quickly
gulping down hope for one night’s reprieve
sweating spirits absorb peace into the soul
or harbingers of disrupted thought
lifting glass bottoms
to reach the throat
swallowing for a new life
or the promise of sleep until tomorrow
where the sun will rise
and another day offers

a choice…

spider-she

spider-she

I used the spider here thinking how drinking lures and can trap in an endless web if we crawl too closely for too long…

Big Mike

Dear Friends,
As many of you know, I refer to my 6’7″ spouse as the giant husband. Now, one doesn’t go about meeting giant husbands without first palling-around with other large people. There was one such grand person who I affectionately called Big Mike. Big Mike was a six-foot-four, life-loving, grapefruit-muscled, enormous hearted Irishman. In short, Big Mike was the infectious laughter at the party. He was the one always wearing a perpetual smile. He was Big Mike.

June 5, 1993 was the night I met the giant husband for the very first time. I was hanging out with friends at a small town pub. I was with my dear lifelong friend Joe, and of course, Big Mike. Big Mike was – for lack of a better description – ‘busting up the joint!’ He was letting fly, joke after joke in his big booming voice. The giant husband’s roommate at the time happened to be laughing along with the rest of us. The roommate phoned the giant husband. He informed him of Big Mike’s antics and suggested he come to the pub.

Not too long after the roommate’s phone call, this giant of a man – bigger than Big Mike – was filling-up the small pub’s doorway. His dark hair touched the door frame above and his broad shoulders met either side. As the giant husband stood there, Big Mike, larger-than-life, announced to the room while pointing at the giant husband, “and there’s the biggest man I know!” And the rest they say, is history…

big mike

Big Mike left this world too soon. I find when there is a clear sky and the sun is out, I can almost hear Big Mike’s booming laughter. I painted this portrait of Big Mike for his mother.

Thank you and goodnight. May your dreams be filled with the booming-gentle laughter of sweet spirits…