Ann Chiappetta

Making Meaningful Connections

Pinch me, I’m Dreaming

| Filed under Guide dogs Poem writing

Since announcing the release of my first book of poems, UPWELLING, http://www.dvorkin.com/annchiappetta/, the feedback has been wonderful. Dozens of folks have pledged to purchase either the e book or printed book, much to my amazed mind. Yes, I am still adjusting to the attention. It’s a practical way on how to practice being gracious, which is also a good thing.

My publisher/editor team, Lenore and David Dworkin, www.leonoredvorkin.com, have been great, too. Other writers have agreed to help promote my book with ads in newsletters. The best was the first sale which took place yesterday.

And so, the newest thread in my own life loom begins. I’ve been giving this experience a great deal of brain energy; questions pop into my head and get me thinking them over. Questions like, why didn’t I do this before? I know it’s a bit silly but I can’t help it. Maybe it is as others have stated, that it is a little bit of luck and lots of patience. I am reminded of a Buddhist message, do nothing and all will be done. I have made a great effort to forego the worry and embrace the joy in this adventure. I do have this little voice cautioning me not to get too carried away, to stay grounded and limit the ego-boosting and remain humble.

All I need to do is go from my office into the kitchen and attack the mountain of dishes or start putting laundry away. Humble tasks for times when I need it most.

by Ann Chiappetta | tags : | 0

Here it is, Folks!

| Filed under Guide dogs Poem writing

Upwelling: Poetry
C 2016 by Ann Chiappetta
Guide dogs, death, and a disturbing dream. Marriage, memories, and intriguing mysteries. Eroticism, abortion, and a wonderfully poetic essay. In this collection of 23 of her short, highly accessible poems from several decades, Ann Chiappetta explores an enormous range of emotions and topics. Travel with her as she moves from illness, death, loss, and grief to renewed hope, security, and serenity.
For sale in e-book ($2.99) and print ($7.95) from Amazon, Smashwords, and other online sellers.
Full details and buying links: http://www.dvorkin.com/annchiappetta/

Ann Chiappetta’s poems, articles, and short fiction have been published in both print and online circulations, most notably Dialogue magazine, Matilda Ziegler online magazine, and other small press reviews. Her poetry has been featured in Lucidity, Midwest Poetry Review, Magnets and Ladders, and Breath & Shadow. She is also a contributing editor of the last-named publication.
Ann holds a Master of Science degree in marriage and family therapy and currently practices as a readjustment counseling therapist for the Department of Veterans Affairs.
She lives in New Rochelle, New York with her husband, daughter, and assortment of pets.
To read more of her writing, go to www.thought-wheel.com
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/annie.chiappetta
Follow Ann on Twitter: AnnieDungareesHere It Is Folks!

by Ann Chiappetta | tags : | 0

How Cool Is This?

| Filed under Guide dogs Poem writing

This is an update on the book project. I am happy to announce that my first book of poems, titled, Upwelling: poems by Ann Chiappetta will be available soon in both eBook and printed versions. It is 61 pages. The photo of the orchid in black and white for the front cover and the black and white photo of Verona, my first guide dog as well as the author pic were taken by my talented sister, Cheryll Romanek. I wish I could share them here bbut I have to save them for the book. The book is dedicated to our Mom, Mary, who died last July from lymphoma.

How did I get this far? I used the three P’s: practice, patience and perseverance. First, I wrote, re-wrote and wrote even more. I recall a televised interview with Michael Crighton which has stayed with me. When asked by a fan how to become a great writer, he said, “you have to write,”. I spent years offering up my work to other writers in critique groups and revised again. I read many poems, took verse writing classes, and concentrated on perfecting the art form. I performed each poem until I was satisfied with how it sounded read aloud as well as how it appeared on the page. This took many years.

Next, I spent a year researching possible self-publishing options, prices, and used the consumer-driven power within to call and email questions, and rejected all but one publisher. Let me tell you, folks, it doesn’t matter whether you are a Rhodes scholar or Mr. Salt of the Earth, if you can pay, you can print and sell a book.

In my inexperienced mind, I was put off by this shadow world of the vanity press at first; one didn’t need talent, only enough words to fill at least 50 pages and the credit card to foot the bill. I was turned off, to be blunt. How would my work, which I thought had merit and meaning and most of all, potential, compare and stand out against some of these other authors who had the money to pay big bookmakers?

I was disillusioned. I didn’t have that kind of money. Before that, I tried doing my own desktop publishing, but depending upon friends to “get back” to me was just unrealistic and a burden on the friendship. I could not access the software myself and had to rely on a third person to create the correct format, etc. One printer even refused to handle the black and white prints, which was frustrating to both me and my sister. Another printing company sent me a 75-page instruction book that was more like a programming guide – the techno-speak and desktop tasks were like a foreign language.
I eventually put my big girl boots on and scraped up enough money to pay for editing services and moved on. I did not want my project to interfere with our friendship, so I left well enough alone, so to speak.

I made sure the words were just how I wanted them, then I began the search for the right editor. I also did another thing that ended up being the most helpful: reading books by other authors like me who are good writers and who have already published by looking up the publishers and/or the printing companies. This was the most rewarding step and the last researching piece of the book publishing puzzle falling into place. I am a writer who is blind, I cannot appreciate the visual aesthetics of desktop publishing. I can, however, find the right kind of help to accomplish the task.

What I can say about the process is once you connect with the right people, it will all quickly fall together, so be ready. It may even seem surreal, after plowing for what may have seemed like eons searching for the right people, to be led down a path of dead ends, to expect yet another disappointment, and then be swept up and carried away is quite a pleasant shock.
Yes, it is that exciting, at least for me, but I am a thrill seeker anyway. Wheeee!

And now we are here, getting ready to announce a slim volume of poems written after I began losing my vision. The subjects are varied, just like life. Love, loss, hope, hurt, joy, faith, lust, rejection, trust, trauma, reflections of the human condition. Each poem contributes to the upwelling of emotion and feeling I have touched upon while writing the prose.
I hope you will buy the book, of course, but most of all, I want this book to help heal or change something for the person reading it. I want to hear about the transformative value this book may have upon another person.
Thanks to Lenore for her expert editing, www.leonoredvorkin.com
to David Dworkinwww.dvorkin.com
for his technical expertise and services, and to Patty Fletcher http://www.dvorkin.com/pattyfletcher/
for indirectly leading me to the Dworkins from her book, Campbell’s Rambles.

Stay tuned for other updates and the official release of Upwelling.

by Ann Chiappetta | tags : | 0

Where Have I Been?

| Filed under Guide dogs Poem writing

I haven’t blogged in a while, so here’s a long awaited update. First, I want to tell you all I am in the process of printing my first poetry book. After months of researching publishing options, pricing, and technical limitations, I decided to self-publish. I cannot afford a robust publishing contract, so I turned to printing companies who specialize in copy printing and on demand distribution instead. This was much less stressful on the wallet but I am doing a lot of the set up with the help of friends who have experience in desk top printing. I have chosen the title, cover, poems, and am now waiting for the copy and formatting to come along.

The result will be a simple 6 x 9 fold over and stapled booklet, probably about 40 pages. I will be registering it for an ISBN # and it will be for sale on Amazon and other online booksellers once it is released. I will be writing the press release and selling it, another cost I just didn’t have money to pay someone else to do for me. Best of all, I will be dedicating it to Mom, who was always my biggest fan and a wonderful writer as well. Thanks to the years working on the PR committee for American Council of the Blind and other organizations, I have experience with promoting and using social media to help me.

I’m actually excited to be doing this, can’t wait to take part in a reading and meet folks.

Will people be surprised I am blind? Hopefully they will look at the back cover and see the photo of Bailey and I and not make too much out of it. I also thought of just how much I wish to use my disability as a selling point. I don’t. I want folks to want to read it based on my talent, not because I am a talented blind person. I am a poet and writer who is blind, not a blind poet and writer. Semantics? Perhaps but important to me and to the blindness community as a whole.

Okay, enough for now, I will post more when I get to the next step in the process. Until then, celebrate our Independence and have a great summer.

by Ann Chiappetta | tags : | 0

POEM for a ChangeAngel

| Filed under Poem

Angel

© 1996 Annie Chiappetta

Fashioned by time and space
were born two champions of the human race.
Opposite in gender, one tender, one sleek
fate joined their passions, one urgent, one meek.

Assured of their Purpose, onward they rushed
One robed one armored, toward the evil to be crushed
Paladin and Saint, one sword, one cross
their path was clear, neither knowing fear or loss.

Traveling to Chaos, where Asmodeus dwellt
brimstone spires flanked the path to Hell.
Here, sinuous demons chanted with fanatic glee,
Here, souls shrieked indefinably.
Here, the Warrior crumbled, head clasped
consumed by his terror and collapsed.

Her Purpose thus was finally conveyed
by throbbing palms, her cross becoming a blade.
Merciless upon the Hordes she pounced,
lopped off heads, hither and lo they bounced.
Then, in double fists or rage,
She cornered Beelzebub, and impaled his shade
Devouring his remains as the righteous mage.

And now She journeys to her love, to her soul slleep
to recline beside Her Knight, so sweet.
true of heart and hope she Spirals toward the Gate
Her Paladin, arms open, awaits.

by Ann Chiappetta | tags : | 0

In the Moment, Sort of

| Filed under Poem writing

In the Moment, Sort of

 

Today is Sunday, what I often refer to as catch up day. I usually spend it working on the computer, doing chores, and watching some television. Now that it is football season, the TV will be on in the background so I can follow the games.

 

The weekend is also my personal time to write, work on my assorted novels-in-progress, and tidy up any poems I’ve been writing.

 

I wrote the below poem because I was inspired to investigate poetically, how I could express what being in the moment means to me. Being present is also a skill therapists work on with clients to assist them with not sliding back into the past, which leads to many poor outcomes. I also wanted to explore the sensory perceptions of being present, not just the thought of it.

Thanks for reading.

 

Present

 

By Ann Chiappetta

 

Here and now, in the moment

Late summer sounds

cricket chirps in the hall

The rhythmic creak

Soon quieted by cool temperatures

 

Mindful echoes

Suburban activities

The hum of railways

The acrid stench of highway fumes

Broken by a sweet

Ribbon of honeysuckle or lilac

Voices, car doors, and barking dogs

Replaced by after dark stillness

By dew, new grass, skunk

 

Presence

Human touch

Holding hands before

Slipping off to sleep

A hug and kiss from a friend

The release of laughter or tears

During a phone call

 

A sense of doing, being

Awareness of the body, of blood

Breath, and purpose.

 

2015

 

 

by Ann Chiappetta | tags : | 0

Talking Through SorrowTalking through sorrow

| Filed under Poem writing

Talking through sorrow

 

On August 7, a friend lost her husband. He was recovering from a bone marrow transplant and died of a secondary blood infection. He was 54 years old. We talked openly and honestly every time we met. She would tell me how he immigrated here, how much he loved music, how lonely the king-sized bed was now that he was gone, and how her daughter was coping with the loss of her father. The last time I saw her, I found myself talking about my dad, who died on January 16, 2013. I think of Dad every day but don’t speak about him unless I am with family. This time, however, I told her about how Dad hunted, let me help him cut and wrap the deer carcass while my Mother and sisters ran into the house, horrified. To this day, I do not find it so horrifying. Sure, the deer was dead but it didn’t bleed or have guts spilling all over like on the Walking Dead.

 

Dad taught me that the deer’s spirit allowed him to take its life and he honored the sacrifice by making sure it was used to feed and clothe us. Besides cooking the meat, he traded the hide for gloves and even sold the long white hairs from the tail to a company that made fresh water fishing flies.  The antlers were fashioned into hooks and gun racks.

 

I found myself telling all this to my friend and she listened to me just as I had listened to her. It was one of the most meaningful ten minutes I’ve had in months and I am so grateful that we were able to share our foundest memories of our loved ones.

I miss you, Dad.

BORN IN WINTER

 

I was reared in winter

tumbled in drifts deep as my hips

made snow angels and an igloo

in pop’s sleeping garden.

 

Daddy taught me how to fillet fish

butcher deer;  Waste nothing

or its spirit will be sad.”

I brought the head to Pop

my sisters disappeared into the bathroom,

“Bambi’s mother is dead

 

I’m a child of a hunter, a wife of a hunter

I understand their desire imprinted

upon their souls before they were born.

But I’m thankful for supermarkets.

 

by Ann Chiappetta | tags : | 0

small success

| Filed under Poem writing

This poem made into Magnets and Ladders www.magnetsandladders.org  a small online journal and won an honorable mention.

 

Keys

By Ann Chiappetta

 

Jagged

little metal Alloy trinkets

open tumblers

Strung together on rings, tied

To thongs or clipped to lanyards

 

Brass or silver toned

taste like cold blood

When clamped between lips and teeth

While Struggling to open the door

After Marathon shopping sprees

 

One might surmise keys are replaceable — after all

What is a locksmith for?

 

hand slips into pocket

fingering objects

touching the stories

Represented in physical sentiment’s

 

A pewter policeman’s hat, a plastic starfish

A silver dog bone

 

If someone else found these keys, would they know? Would

They understand the life

The symbolism

The unrevealed memories

 

Of a charm for a   father

Or a mother, gone

and the bone

Signifying the bond and love

for a guide dog?

 

Just trinkets

inserted into slots

And forever remembered with each turn

The opening of a  door

into a heart.

 

2014

 

 

by Ann Chiappetta | tags : | 0

new poem

| Filed under Guide dogs Poem

 

Lost Keys

By Ann Chiappetta

 

Jagged

little metal Alloy trinkets

open tumblers

Strung together on rings, tied

To thongs or clipped to lanyards

 

Brass or silver toned

taste like cold blood

When clamped  between lips and teeth

While Struggling to open the door

After Marathon shopping sprees

 

One might surmise keys are replaceable — after all

What is a locksmith for?

 

hand slips into pocket

fingering objects

touching the stories

Represented in  physical sentiment’s

 

A pewter policeman’s hat, a  plastic starfish

A silver dog bone

 

If someone else found these keys, would they know? Would

They understand the life

The symbolism

The unrevealed memories

 

Of a charm for a   father

Or a mother, gone

and the bone

Signifying the bond and love

for a guide dog?

 

Just  trinkets

inserted into slots

And forever remembered with each turn

The opening of a  door

into a heart.

 

2014

 

by Ann Chiappetta | tags : | 0

Second try: Post NoPoWriMo

| Filed under Poem

Post NaPoWriMo

 

April was National Poetry Writing Month, hence the acronym above; it was tough and I feel successful about it even though I didn’t write 30 poems in 30 days. I feel good about it because I wrote two haiku poems and one poem free verse style of which I am particularly proud.  I’ll re-post them below. Let me know what you think either by replying to my blog post or by emailing me: dungarees@optonline.net

 

First, the haiku. There is one line of traditional thinking that states that haiku should never be titled, that it takes away from the juxtaposition of the impact of the words themselves. There is another, more modern line of thinking that says the poet can title haiku.  I’ll compromise and sum each up in a one word title.

 

Sunrise

 

Bird songs of sun light

Welcome sounds delight the soul

Awaken the mind

 

Changes

 

No chill in the breeze

Rejoice in the birth of spring

How soon we forget

 

I also posted the next poem and dedicated to Vietnam Veterans. This poem took a week to write and tweak, so I could say that even though I didn’t write any new material each day in April, I did allow the Muse to take me on another creative journey that culminated in the poem below.

 

Lost Something along the Way

By Ann Chiappetta

 

Youth yearns for action

The best soldiers eighteen to twenty one

Because that’s the way to make ‘em.

 

Things were different back then

Molded and forsaken,

Sent to serve

 

Jetted to another continent

Touching down in a humid foreign hell

Splotches of Olive drab upon shades of green

Toe tags and body bags

Shades of sorrow buried

With ordinance and trash

 

Dangerous to feel, so don’t

 

No safety — well maybe

Caught in a reprieve of minutes,

in beer cans and tokes

Brotherhood in chaos

 

Metal birds carry them

Innocence drained

With the fluids

flowing out onto the deck plates

In the teeth of fear

Feed the guns, starve the soul

 

Welcome to Vietnam says the pilot

 

Heat, terror and cold fire

Burn indelibly

Birthing specialties

Like alcoholism, addiction

mental illness

Homecoming meant shunning

Insomnia,

Welcoming darkness

Homelessness

Ending it all

 

They were once

The boys of summer who could smile

Love and trust

And who

Lost something along the way.

 

2014

Dedicated to Vietnam combat veterans

 

 

by Ann Chiappetta | tags : | 0