Daniel Kennedy is a writer and teacher from rural Pennsylvania. He holds an MFA from Virginia Tech, where he won the Emily Morrison Prize in Fiction, and a PhD from the University of Houston’s Creative Writing Program, where he won the Inprint Donald Barthelme Memorial Prize in Nonfiction and the Provost Teaching Excellence Award. His writing has appeared in New England Review, The Florida Review, Appalachian Review, The Carolina Quarterly, Arts & Letters, BULL, and elsewhere. His work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and listed as a notable essay in Best American Essays. He is an Assistant Professor of Creative Writing at Angelo State University.
outside my daughter’s window, the woodpecker hammering the aluminum gutter knows nothing other—than what he knows
this incensed bird will wake my teen who already sleeps fitfully beneath the creatures who suffocate her dreams: they claw earth; pollute water; rape land; tear friendships; rend families; decimate futures they alter climates they type in ALL CAPS
the woodpecker continues his assault on the gutter outside my daughter’s window if this red-headed madcap mirrored humanity at all, he might desist but he doesn’t know anything other—than what he knows
the hammering bird hunts for his brand of love; his brand of sustenance; his right to expand his territory; his need to collect like-minded-birds who would adore his amplified walloping
so, I must continue thinking of ways to deter him—or at the very least send him elsewhere but how unkind would that be—he’s only a bird after all the inane walloping is coming from elsewhere
(Prisma pencil pecker created about ten years ago)
I hope you’re all managing okay. I take in every headline without breathing
A gleaming motorcycle arrived via flatbed to our suburban ranch. Six children are warned not to touch its chrome and attitude. Dad has never ridden a motorcycle before. He tells us he’ll be back later — he’s taking the bike across the George Washington Bridge. Wearing a button-up shirt, plaid Bermuda shorts, black knee socks and brown loafers, no one ever looked more badass.
II did this sculpture at 17 years of age. It was the only one, of four sculptures, to return home without crumbling. Sadly, she did eventually break apart. I never gave her the fighting chance she’d deserved.
I wasn’t interested in school. It was difficult for me to take direction from anyone. I was one of those perpetual daydreamers. Perhaps, if I’d listened to my art teacher, my sculptures would’ve survived.
The image shown here I call Grieving Woman in Clay. She was about two feetlong. To this day, her image remains in my studio. The loss of her long ago, is what prompted my return to clay 44 years later…
I hope you’re all managing with this weather. am:)
reconstructed resolutions lower the ball to the ground the ball won’t rise again till the crowds gather next year when the lovers and the true believers return in celebration when the partiers piss and vomit on sidewalks and in alleys
My Resolution(s) this year I’ve gotten better at accepting multiple versions I’ve barreled through decades and broken over waterfalls I’m pumped to shred the rowing muscles
this year I’m shoving specific plans into my eye sockets not the usual well-formed outtakes, no more excuses —here—I wonder if I’m bull-shitting myself with words as I often do
or maybe, I’ve gone and done it—reshaping thoughts into tangibles maybe I have, because this morning, facial recognition can’t recognize me could it be this year’s resolution, this thinning skin I wake in each day more forcing my handheld device to decide who I am?
but…my new phone requires an app update… I remain the same (use your words, AM)…
time carries the words, the dreams, the light she throws down faster than a gaudy ball dropping on a bombastic evening she grinds to enjoy a loved one’s pain she grins as voyeur to our last moments she slows if I watch her red digital clock counting down as my soup warms
I’ve come to realize this—dreams, words the very pace of time is up to me, to you when these things travel swiftly, we’re doing good work busied our worlds between seconds, minutes, hours
this morning, I placed flint sparks in my pockets
today we will do good work we will shoot firecrackers to light the night sky we will dirty the dark street a little to say—we were here to see, to smell, to hear, to taste, to touch every burning color of this moment called life
The television tucked behind sliding woody doors – like a Christmas surprise. Counting down the days till Rudolph would soar above our shag-carpeted family room. My sisters, brother and I waited. And when that bulb-nosed deer finally arrived, we watched him save cinematic Christmas. All of us resting our laurels on orange shag. Each of us smiling.
Every Christmas, I retell my children how today’s young lot miss a wonderful life. The escalating thrill, that building joy of patience – of waiting – waiting – and finally – experiencing the ALL of Christmas. There were no multiple viewing times, streaming services, faces staring at ass-pocket phones – we traveled together in one pocket of time. Playing outdoors, watching holiday shows, building snow people…
And yes, though sometimes not by choice, we’d have chosen it anyway. The uncanny warmth, the holiday magic bursting forward when we celebrated together.
Then at New Year’s, how we gathered again. Our home open to all relatives and friends. We watched the ball descend while ringing Uncle Jimmy’s silly noisemakers. We stayed up late. Everyone woke to pancakes and a new year of unknowns shrouded in mystery and love.
My childhood was the last generation of un-instant gratification. ‘Twas a glorious time indeed.
This little cat is my daughter’s beloved Clam. I sculpted him as a special Christmas gift. Clam was adopted months ago. This was his first Christmas with us. I’m happy to report that both Clam the Cat, and Mojo the Dachshund, are peacefully hanging out.
I do so hope you all are doing well. And a happy, happy New Year to all! am:)
One of my favorite holiday shows is Mr. Magoo’s Christmas Carol (1962). I adore the soundtrack and belt out the songs (much to the chagrin of my family) every December.
“…We can’t afford to have a hen We will some day I vow So I suggest you dream of then and prize what we have now…” — Mr. Magoo’s Christmas Carol
I recently jumped into sculpture and began my adventure using air-dry clay (lots of muss, but no heating element needed). I’ve asked Santa for polymer clay (bakes in standard kitchen oven). One can achieve much higher levels of detail with polymer clay.
The werewolf sculpt above was created with air-dry clay. I learned 1,000 ways how not to sculpt with this first bulky attempt.
A merry, merry to all who celebrate. Warm wonderful days to all!🌲 Stay safe am:)
Yesterday’s post highlighted an artwork I painted for my son. The painting – Washington’s Last Cantonment – was created after I’d painted a canvas for his sister.
For the acrylic (above), I used several old reference images – some of the fish – like the large koi – were directly inspired from those images (apologies to the brilliant artists – I’ve been unable to locate their names to properly credit) – a few of the other fish swim in my head – and now – on my daughter’s apartment wall. She’d requested the specific water color…for interior decor ‘matchi-ness’:)
Both paintings are 4′ x 2′ – each a labor of love. As much as I don’t enjoy painting landscapes, water scenes run a close second. I find the most joy in creating cryptids and creatures. I don’t know why or what to think of that. Perhaps, I shouldn’t ponder fangs and claws too deeply. These thoughts might reveal lurking images in the sub-basement brain;)
Looks to be another cold beautiful day here in the Hudson Valley.
Herbie The Lovebug is a Volkswagen with blue and red pinstripes and the number 53 on his chassis. In his movies, Herbie never fails to rescue his owners whenever they need saving. They need saving a lot. Herbie once traveled to Monte Carlo for a race. He goes many other places too. Racing is his passion and he is creative at winning.
A few months ago, Dad brought home a Volkswagen. The little bug sits next to our Grand Squire wagon. But it never appears diminished. Our little red car has no pinstripes or racing number, still I know it is kind and clever. Whenever Dad drives it, he always smiles.
(Each week en route to the gym, I pass by this poor little Volkswagen. I finally remembered to take a picture before driving by. Always, when I see this little car, I travel back to the little car in my childhood driveway — the red bug who had the power of getting my ornery dad to smile.)
Holding My Friend to a Promise (originally posted 12/9/24)
For over thirty years my friend Robert Milby has been reading his poetry throughout the Hudson Valley, NYC, Long Island, NJ, PA, and New England. An engaging speaker, Robert has made 1,500 public appearances and has done hundreds of readings, open mics, lectures, presentations, participated in radio commentary and festivals, and has been spotlighted on independent tv shows. Robert has shared his enthusiasm and poetic talents through reading and writing workshops in schools and culture centers and has been a guest poet at higher educational institutions.
Robert’s numerous works have been included in magazines and anthologies. Add to his stellar resume and his four poetry books, his chapbook, Gothic, Orange was published through the County Historian’s office in 2018. He has been a Kirkus Reviewer, a “Best Poet” winner and a longtime Woodstock Poetry Society member. In 2017, Robert was honored with the title, Poet Laureate of Orange County, NY. His relentless devotion to poetry has never ceased. Until now.
I would have given up reading my work in public, if not for Robert. His dedication and encouragement inspired me to share my own work beyond the written page. A deep-reader and researcher, Robert promised me that he’d share his voluminous knowledge of UFOs over coffee one day. I am holding him to that promise.
anntogether 