Raining Ice Again

You have been in your head too much
this doesn’t work for you
You are a doer. You must stay busy and engaged
Right now, you are not. You are tired and in pain
Your mouth is dry, your skin is dry. It is cold outside
…You’re an idiot.
I’m bored of this already
This needs to be erased
I need to go for a walk

Off a cliff. dive into a dream of cold water
I want summer in Lake Superior
I want her freedom
Her sweet clean air

It is winter. White and dirty and grey
I slept like shit again last night.
My neck hurts. Blah
That is what I feel like
Blah blah blah
I am wasting my living
Far away
I am giving it all, for what I can’t grass anymore

I used to be something like ham

I used to be something like ham.

or was it the plate full of ham juice… I can’t recall now.

I am a washcloth – at least that is what I have gained

from my surroundings and what I am used for

I miss you too.  More for selfish reasons.

when I was with you I was

a friend

a ham friend but still a friend.

I think I had blood and cellular division

Now its all cotton and wrinkles

repetitive motions and now now now

What happened to the past

When did the future disappear

What where these things

Was their point so sharp

they had to be discarded completely

I don’t know.  I wash things

I scrub the beautiful living and the containers

that hold things that life uses

Perhaps I will transform again

maybe this time into a clock

or a tire

If I am lucky I will turn into a friend again

and my use will no longer be of concern

Maybe  you’ll pour me glass of ale

and let me drink it, smiling and singing odes

instead of dragging me across

the spills as I am now

update on annieepoetry



Its been a year in this new town – this new world of cars and prairie.

 A year since I started to blog -post my poems and my thoughts about this mad world.  

I still long for Lake Superior.  I still long for friends who care for me and poetry and art and music.  But I am learning the true sacrifice of writing, of growing old, of loving.  Some years you are a lone.  Some years you spend inside your cardboard box and the only comfort from the isolation is going to grocery store and looking the clerk in the eyes.  Hi in there…. Its hard for me to reach out and say -play with me.  

I get so obsessed with writing that I forget to go and mingle with people.  I forget that poetry is a performing art and one of the many reasons why I was drawn to it in the first place.   As I get older (still too young to be president) I have the urge to sit alone.  

The days rush by so fast with daily activities of cleaning, shopping, and caring for my family, of reading, painting and writing -now a year has passed.  

Husband is doing good at the job, got raises, and working hard.  Daughter is adjusting, and learning so much.  Reading well and learning to ask great questions…. that I don’t always have a meaningful answer for.  She is learning to connect with the world and see the patterns, some skewed and false, others true.  My little teacher, showing me love and justice.  And she paints, this girl with the focus and heart of an old woman.  

Spring is coming to southern Wisconsin. The birds are twittering. I heard geese flying above.  People can be seen on the sidewalk.    Living in this condo, this city of normal. 


I have been feeling out of the loop, out of the world. I have been walking around with double vision -inside my body and outside of it -watching.  Its strange.   I keep listening and watching -looking for the first time and the millionth time.  Being an artist -a writer is not what I would have chosen If I had any smarts.  But being dumb and full of passion, a dumb kid, an animal playing this is where I am and  know – I love it.

 There is so much about my life that I love  -husband and daughter, writing – having a place to rest my head at night, food, ale… Scotch.books…  music.. that I can’t say that dreams don’t come true. In truth, my dreams are coming true, rolling on top of me, the universe bends for me and says get on my back.  My luck dragon, the universe.   But I want more. I want to write better. I want good friends as neighbors.  I want family closer…  want and want, despite having everything I need.  

That is one of the things about me that has stayed constant.  I strive and dream, and want utopia for you, for me – for the world. and that to me would be artists,music -dancing and singing, working and creating, loving and growing and learning. I don’t think I will ever lose that desire, that longing.  If I do, smack me and tell me to get real.

I Use Poems

I use poems the size of war.

I write them in the morning

after the pretty city motions work.

When other citizens shop

for beans or rake progress

I arrange sounds that fuck people.


So high they get, after my oos and aahs

they promise not to kill again 


how do i manage to write

photo-204.jpgI wear to many layers and when I write, I slowly pull them off as my sweat stings my flushed cheeks and as my inner bunny says “fo don’t write that, people will know you desire carrots and long pieces of chalk,” but I ignore the little bunny. Most people think the little bunny will help them get ahead, ( and they are right) but the little bunny won’t help you make art. You have to do that inside a cardboard box, alone. You can’t let anyone in until your done gnashing your teeth and screaming, “fuck.” Then the art becomes alive just like the bunny. And the bunny grows to accept it. And you, the hand, learn to do it. Pretty soon that’s all you can do, and your locked in your cardboard box gnashing and breaking bones until you no longer desire to get out, until you decide to just fall asleep. That’s when the words and pictures begin. That’s where your friends and family visit you, that is when it hurts the most to be friends with a bunny. And yes to make art, you have to hurt, on purpose, all the time, you have to carry the galaxies inside, and wear enough layers that no one notices your insides are exploding. You have to say “Bunny, it hurts to love you and make art, but I’ll do it. I will. Want to spilt a carrot?” Of course reading the classics is a good start, but you need to tame the bunny before the bunny will guide you in and out of the cardboard box, or like most people say, the bunny hole. I find that term to be offensive though, and so does the bunny, so never say it to the bunny or else, you will never be his friend and he will never lead you to the cardboard box. And you need the bunny to find a box. And a box to do your art in

Where am I going now that I am content

photo-391.jpgI’m twenty-seven, have a six year old and I am married to a math genius. I’m a dumb hyper kid. I write poetry. Lately about war. Right now I am watching c-span 2. I don’t know if I can trust the General speaking. He looks honest. My brother is a soldier. He’s going back to war.I just graduated from college with a writing degree. It helped. I have realized that punctuation will not kill me.My husband is interviewing for jobs, and soon he will get one, and we will move away from Lake Superior.We have made many friends that we don’t want to leave but jobs are scarce in the north, and so we plan our departure. I leave a part of myself and take a part of this town, this land, these friends with me. There is still sand in my blue jean pockets.I don’t want to leave. Marquette is my writing home. My place to stretch and run and play.  Is the peace I feel inside from maturity or is a product of my location?  The slow mornings of writing, the looking out to the blue, the song singing, the thimbleberry eating and bunny, bird, squirrel, watching. The silent steps into the night sky and brilliance of the stars. The twitching northern lights. The brisk nights standing by a fire with a hot tea with honey. How far away will I wonder from my lady, the great lake before I won’t be able to shut my eyes and visualize her? I may never return. It maybe to painful, to innocent to return. I may have to stand off, far and attempt to forget the life I had. I will surely make a new one. I will not find better views or friends. I will not hear better poetry or drink better coffee. But maybe I’ll find a substitute. Madison, look for me.  I’ll be the chubby kid with the fistful of poems and the coffee stained frown.