Ann Chiappetta

Making Meaningful Connections

Catnip Anyone?

| Filed under Guide dogs Poem Relationships

Our daughter, April, moved out six months ago. We are now empty nesters, at least most of the time. Wouldn’t you know it, April and her partner, Danny, decided to practice parenting by adopting a kitten. His name is Noodle because he loves to eat ramen noodles.

He’s now about eight weeks old and is black with a little white patch on his chest. He’s at that funny stage where he runs sideways and gets scared after he gets up on something, cries until he’s rescued. Adorable.

Right now, as I write this, he is stalking us around the Livingroom, shooting out from under the furniture and popping at our ankles or doggy noses, no claws, thank goodness. Papa is not sold on the little black demon, mewing his distress. He is getting used to Noodle, though, coming up and sniffing him. May wants to mother the kitten, sometimes a little too much and Bailey is just a huge doofus who doesn’t know his own strength of curiosity. We caught him trying to nibble a tiny paw, so he is on the watch list.

Noodle loves boxes and the laser pointer is the only way to get him out from under the bed when we want to catch him. We are careful with it, as the dogs also love the laser pointer.

I think with time Papa and Noodle will get along. We are not forcing interactions and taking it slowly. He’s a lucky little kitty and he is already well socialized, likes to ride in cars, goes willingly into a carrier, and has come to trust our dogs.
Play
By Ann Chiappetta

Ebony kitten stalks its prey
Amid discovery of
each day. Fearless hunter dives
tags the target, then
hides to find another.

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Noodle in a box looking up at the camera.

by annchiappetta_nxovue | tags : | 2

Self Advocacy and Poetry

| Filed under blindness Poem writing

I don’t usually post poems here because submission guidelines for other magazines will not accept an author’s work either previously printed or posted online. But I just have to share this one. Thanks for reading and please share it with others who love to read and write poetry.

The inspiration for this poem is self-advocacy; I’ve learned that standing up to bureaucratic requirements, what I call nonsense, often wears down the complainant resulting in the complainant dropping a case. It also re-traumatizes the person each time the person must respond to filing deadlines, written statements and affidavits, as the person must, to an extent, relive the experience to be witness to it.

This poem attempts to express the resolve and power of circumstances one must choose to endure when planning to grab the rope of advocacy and pull back, often against a much bigger and stronger opponent.

Tide
By Ann Chiappetta

Hard packed sand softens
With each step, like thoughts
Yielding Cool and unbidden under foot

Sun Descending, I walk from east to west
Sea water surges
Scours away thought-foot prints

Hope and resolve walk beside me
I persevere, unable to alter the course.

Though the dunes rise to the left and waves
Grab and pull My limbs on the right

I stay the course.
Tears taste like the tide
and like the wet ambition of the fisherman’s net
ego escapes, pours back into the sea.
2020

A Forkful of Thoughts

| Filed under Poem writing

Catherine de Medici’s Fork

By Ann Chiappetta

To pluck tidbits from a trencher
soils delicate hands
even a lady’s dagger, while beautiful
cannot hold softened morsels
a spoon compels one to slurp — or drip
How excited was I
to find bordering neighbors
otherwise equipped.

I returned with this implement
A gift from a Venetian prince.
a slim handle with four tines
to spike and transfer a tidbit
From table to fair lips
Graceful and delicate
Behold, unsoiled fingertips.
2020

by annchiappetta_nxovue | tags : | 0

Audio Tracks

| Filed under Poem writing Writing Life

I’ve been experimenting with poems using the non-visual senses focused on specific items. The styles differ but the impact should resonate in some way emotionally as well as recalling sensory memory. I wrote this using one of my favorite food condiments.

The audio link is above the printed poem.

Dill and Brine
By Ann Chiappetta

Green and curved, bumps
diminutive gherkin cornichons
curved Kirby’s
Aromas bewitch salivatory glands
Jarred in glass
Brine Of herbs and salt vinegar.
Infused Tantalizing tartness
Wicked on the tongue
Olfactory humming with anticipation, the crunch
The layered satisfaction
Of Perfection.

2020

Found Poem for NPM

| Filed under Poem writing

Horoscope

Found Poem
By Ann Chiappetta

Peacefulness wells up within the soul today,
coloring the entire day with an aura of calm.

You may fear your tranquil mood will be negatively affected by
the chaos of routine and the demands of others, you
will likely feel compelled to seek serenity
in which to nurture your mood.
A soothing personal space,
withdraw into it. Ohm.
achieve deep relaxation and slip into a reflective state.

Should distraction be the case, consider
taking a few moments between tasks today
to retreat into the depths of the mind. Through
meditation or introspection,
maintain a peaceful state even
when chaos erupts.

Cultivate serenity
ensure a quiet, private place to retreat
quiet the cacophony
when worldly concerns devastate and overpower us.
Build havens of tranquility Within the home.
havens of stillness provide quietude
leading back to inner peace.
commune with ourselves, Cultivate a serene atmosphere
sustain the serenity in the soul.

Tears for a Warrior

| Filed under Poem Relationships writing

Tears for a Warrior
By Ann Chiappetta

I am thinking of my friend today
Caught in the viral war,
Being forced to use the last vestiges of strength
To find safe haven in this epidemic.
Where no safety is found.

This person, this friend, this man
With AIDS, who has defied all expectations during
Another epidemic
has survived
And I wonder, with sorrowful thoughts
If he will defy Corona like He did HIV.

This man, this person, this patient
Is surviving with minimal care,
Enforced clinical Neglect cut off
from us, suffering
Wracked with fever, lumbar pain, and mobility loss
Brought upon by quarantine.

Twenty-five years ago, he faced death and came back
I will find him in the places between dreams,
Make conversation on the astral plain
This is all I can do, dream and hope
my friend Will hear me.

March 30, 2020

First blog post

| Filed under blindness Poem Relationships Writing Life

My first blog post on word press was on November 7, 2008. Since that time, I’ve completed 315 posts and attracted almost 500 followers. I hope to keep going and love to blog. Stand by for some older poetry and a new book. Until then, keep reading and writing.
https://www.thought-wheel.com/task-of-the-day/

by annchiappetta_nxovue | tags : | 0

Old Poems Like New

| Filed under blindness Poem Relationships Writing Life

I began writing poetry in earnest after finding out I was going blind, in the early 1990s. Looking back, the poems I wrote during this dark time was a way to cope with the inevitable grief and loss I felt, and would feel, for a long time. Progressive vision loss infiltrates one’s sense of hope and resiliency,
Two emotional Aspects Which Appear in many of the poems written from the 1990s. The poems are also an inventory of sorts, and, as I become reacquainted with them, I am, in turn, becoming acquainted with my feelings and emotions during this time of fear, depression, and anger. I also discovered I’ve grown beyond these feelings and emotions and have learned to accept my disability and embrace the creativity and how much healing I’ve done since then.

Here is a song I found, written for a friend (really).

The Child Inside
Song lyrics

By Ann Chiappetta

family devotion died
the day he went away

The child inside
still cries when you sleep
The pain
makes you feel incomplete

He’s made a mess of your memories
He can’t come back into your life
And though you deny it
the reality cuts Like a knife

The child inside
still cries when you sleep
The pain
makes you feel incomplete

Don’t try to replace him
Sometimes lovers walk away, too;
discover why your heart
desires demons dressed in blue

The child inside
still cries when you sleep
The pain
makes you feel incomplete

2000

The Words Keep Coming

| Filed under blindness Poem Writing Life

I am often asked about the process of writing when being interviewed. Folks are curious about the manifestation of creativity and how it influences writing poetry. While I am certainly not an expert on the subject for anyone else but myself, I strongly suspect the Muse bestows the inspiration upon each of us in a unique manner. We do have gross similarities, like the tools we use, i.e., laptops or hand-written pages, etc., but we also diverge once the synapses fire and begin the journey of creation in each of our minds.

For example, I often dream my writing ideas. I’ve been awakened by lines of text, images, and what I call mental films playing along in my head. This is a curious thing, because I’ve been blind for over thirty years yet I continue to dream as if I’d never lost it. Full technicolor, for sure.

Recently I awoke from a musing and it resulted in a poem, the first poem written in 2020. I also somehow created a fantasy story with a swashbuckling immortal character named Von and a humanoid species called Felini, cat-like creatures with names like Tika, Shona, and Flame. Where the story will take me, only the muse knows but I like where I’m going. I wish I could share the poem, but, now that potential publishers and literary magazines consider posting on a blog “previously published” and will reject an author’s work because of this, I must hold such things aside until published. May the Muse be with you.

Poem from the poetry collection, Upwelling; Poems C 2016 availible on Amazon and Audible
DREAM
© 2016 by Ann Chiappetta

Sleep-film portrays lurching scenes of Disney World
damp pavement trod on by millions of feet.
You stand on the recently dried cobblestones
of Main Street U.S.A.
A somber overcoat hangs on you like a dish rag.
emancipating your regrets.
Tears and mumbled blessings
mix as our faces touch.
Your cheek is cold and cancerous.

Sleep-film shuffles

Scrambling through the Florida downpour
A Barker lures us inside.
My florid yellow jacket drips
Your loose, somber coat is as dry as a shroud.
Inside, double doors lead to a great hall.
Black tie patrons rotate on the dance floor like dolls.
Your arm sweeps in the gala affair,
“A gift for us to remember me.” you say.
I’m aggrieved by your vanity

Flash point warnings ignite around us
like confetti stars
the dolls applaud as they fall.

Fear not, here is something written and previously published.