About Gwen Ames

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So far Gwen Ames has created 13 blog entries.

Snow on the Brain

Artwork by Marguerite McDonald The very first sighting was a fistful of specks, a flurry of confetti or ash. We call it Snow on the brain the doctor tells me (shrouding the truth in beauty and mystery and mesmerizing solace). He says it again, Snow on the brain but by now I am drifting - Published in The Healing Muse Marylou DiPietro - Snow on the Brain video

Snow on the Brain2023-08-09T09:18:58-04:00


Artwork by Marguerite McDonald The eye hides inside the skull's planet, buried deep like a seed or a stone. There is one vision, one hand to cast a shadow, one clearly defined line running along the lid of one woman's life. One single ramification. Below the eyes a murky triangle of white has surfaced, a merciless reminder of the senses which have not yet petered out; nose mouth tongue a wedge of [...]


There Must Be Something

There must be something to this dreaming, every day I wake staring at the same high ceiling, thinking, There must be something to this dreaming. Since it is only right there be blossoms in Spring, fruits and berries in July, selfless harvests in the heart of Autumn, There must be something to this dreaming. It is only fair this bell inside me should start up ringing. That I should not pare down my small fruit [...]

There Must Be Something2023-08-09T09:20:08-04:00

Portrait of the Painter Zakovsek

Mr. Schiele, you have painted a portrait that leans in my direction, an angle, sharp on the page. A scarecrow, slanted and sad, posing for birds: bones, knuckles, wrists; he cups his cheek inside his hand's hay the empty hand hangs straight out in air. Buttons on his coat fade into texture, like eyes into face, melon soft and hollow. His long thin neck can barely hold his head, so it rests inside his small [...]

Portrait of the Painter Zakovsek2023-08-09T09:20:20-04:00

La Petite Mort

In hotel rooms where mattresses are firmer than and sheets yellow when we fall between the crevice of our sex is only step away around that sharp corner where shoulders and toes mark the very end of your bed is so like an army cot and we are caught in a crevice a canyon cracks in yellow sheets and yellowing like old skin you touch me and coming like falling on me like some ancient [...]

La Petite Mort2023-08-09T09:20:28-04:00

Sheila Shea

I don't care what you say about Sheila Shea, her teeth rotted out, her hair silver gray. Say anything you like, "She is skinny as a rail and damn she was pretty in her day." Poor old Sheila no pity for her now, a few rough sticks over her bending head, the farm almost down to nothing never had a man to work the chores though Sheila could sow half the fields of Kerry (by [...]

Sheila Shea2023-08-09T09:20:47-04:00

Aunt Nell Dreaming

Collage by Mary Dauphinais I I catch you rushing against the wind, the reeds bend opposite, the lines around your mouth draw deep shadows against the sun. You hold your hands together to protect them from the cold, making yourself a circle. I dream of returning from Ballinskelligs Strand with three small shells in my hand ("They look like eyes," you said, "two for seeing in, and one for seeing out." "Chinese [...]

Aunt Nell Dreaming2023-08-09T09:21:00-04:00

Intelligent Design

It happened on the day we stood upright for the very first time coming face to face with our mirror image coming eye to eye with that which we would come to name: man and woman, Adam and Eve, the one and only original sinners, the human being. Was it our own reflection we fell head over heels in love with? Did the possibility of love and passion and sexual gratification arrive fortuitously on the [...]

Intelligent Design2023-08-09T09:21:49-04:00

African Violets

African violets bloom in kitchens. Tiny hair filaments fuzz their wings, unbearable to touch. Pink petals, like silk skirts, keep them from being wild. - Published in The Syracuse Review Marylou DiPietro

African Violets2023-08-09T09:23:17-04:00


I wake, enormous, and in the pit of things. Children are crying in the distance, children who have not been fed for days, their mothers' breasts have gone cold in their lips. Pigeons eat the crumbs they crave. I wait for mother Four purple candles are set in a wreath upon the mantel. My sisters and I are angels, together we feel the pit, the sad, lonely grasp of things. The fruit grows around me [...]

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