Welcome to the Official Blogspot for Leigh Ann DiDomenico, MA aka ANNHGIEL!!

Welcome to the Official Blogspot for Leigh Ann DiDomenico, MA aka ANNHGIEL!!
"The Angel with the Crooked Halo"


Leigh Ann is multi-talented creative freelance professional. She specializes in performance poetry, hosting, modeling, acting, and mixed media visual art. Leigh Ann is a COMMERCIAL, BEAUTY, and PETITE FASHION MODEL and ACTRESS and is available for PAID PRINT, TV, and FILM shoots. Will gladly TRAVEL (expenses paid) for work! Leigh Ann is also a nationally ranked SLAM POET, placing 3rd in the nation and 2nd in the west coast region, and is available to FEATURE at theatres, slams, open mics, and on the radio. She is also a published AUTHOR and an ARTIST who creates and sells unique one-of-a-kind furniture and home decor. Leigh Ann's artwork, ANNHGIEL DESIGNS, can be purchased at 4th Ave by the Tracks in Kalispell, MT, as well as custom ordered. Finally, Leigh Ann has her MASTERS DEGREE in Psychology and is an experienced COUNSELOR, TUTOR, and YOUTH MENTOR.


Please feel free to for booking!! Thank you!!

Friday, December 25, 2009

Merry Christmas!! (GNJ Photography)

“Let us remember that the Christmas heart is a giving heart, a wide open heart that thinks of others first.“ -George Matthew Adams

Wednesday, October 28, 2009

Poetry Published in In Motion Magazine!

Just got four poems published in In Motion Magazine!!  

Time traveling, Pussy, Lightning Bugs, and 237 Down... 

Tuesday, September 29, 2009

American Apparel Clothing- You know you want me- quit playing!

"Look into my eyes and hear what I am saying, for my eyes speak louder than my voice ever will." -Unknown

Marc Lorenz Photography

Wednesday, September 9, 2009

Friday, July 24, 2009

Time Travellin... (New Poem!!)

She lay in bed with movie screen eyelids 
And see-through skin, so thin that anyone 
Can read her secrets published in bold print between muscle fibers 
She has always preferred to sleep in the dark; door closed, no night-light 
That way she could focus on the crack of light beneath the bedroom door 
And know exactly when shadows of shoes like two dark ghosts crept across her floorboard
Warning her he was coming 
The signal to surround herself in ice 
She is frozen, still and silent like she’d learned long ago. 
The canopy that once loomed so strong above her 
Is now just a heavy shadow 
Though she no longer has to suck breath through 
The fleshy cage clamped over her lips, 
She fears she will never free the trapped screams 
Caught in the web he left in her throat 
Or his silhouette incessantly slithering across her skin 
She wonders if she will ever be able to collapse into bed after a long day of work, 
Let the soft sheets hug her tired muscles, massage them to sleep without 
She never touches the shower wall 
Cold tile shudders memory from bone marrow 
Of being pressed wet against it, feet dangling, stake driven from crotch to heart, 
She wonders if she will ever be able to 
Dig the crusted betrayal from beneath her fingernails 
It seems such a part of her now… 
Or will she ever disentangle the grief knotted inside her jaw? 
The fear still crawls in the cracks of her lips. 
Her boyfriend can’t understand why she won’t have sex with him in the shower 
Can’t stand the sound of him grunting mixed with the spray of water 
And why she can only have sex with the lights on 
So she can see his face 
Shadowy canopies are hard to distinguish 
That day when she first slept with her head above the covers was so triumphant 
No longer curling into herself, face down, 
Hugging her chest tightly between arms and pillow 
Or the first time she made it through the gyno without sobbing 
Breathed herself through their invasion, patient 
Or the first time she used a tampon 
Or the first time she slept without her bra on 
These are her small victories 
See Daddy’s little princess is trying to grow past her past 
But memory curls itself in her crevices and always knocks uninvited. 
She has become an expert in time traveling 
Only hoping to dislodge these visions from the backs of her eyelids 
Maybe then she could travel back 
Tell him about her favorite t-shirt 
The one she used to sniff 
The one she stole off that teddy bear because she liked it better 
And cigarette stained and dirty smelled like comfort and her daddy 
Maybe then he’d have known how much she loved him 
And he would have only touched her 
To hug her 
Tears encrust around the edge of her chin 
As she surrenders matted hair to wet pillow 
And the kindness of sleep begins to creep into her 
And this borrowed shame curled in the pit of her gut 
Uncoils itself 
Dissolves like his smoke 
Like his swarming saliva 
Like her kaleidoscope irises 
And as her dreams begin to float between bits of filthy consciousness
She makes one last wish
That one day her body could feel like home.

Copyright Leigh Ann "Annhgiel" DiDomenico
All Rights Reserved
This poem, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.
Please contact: lada.04@alumni.lehigh.edu for authorization for credited use.

Wednesday, July 15, 2009

Poem: 237 Down...

He’s a warm body in a cold bed.
He’s a dream of love
In a life
That’s become blurred
In a whirlwind
Of naked bodies,
Unsteady hearts
And conflict

He distracted me with romance
Until the inevitable disappointment returned me to myself.

The grief I’m afraid to feel leaves an open grave inside my chest
Couldn't fall in love if he tried
There was nowhere for him to fall
But in,
Buried by a confused undertaker,
237 down…

Loneliness has become my closest lover.
Silly Cinderella Story nightmares haunt my daydreams,
Disillusionment knocks on every cracked window in the castle
But I’ve outlawed funeral rites for princes
Scar tissue is so much stronger than smooth skin.

I miss love like home.
3000 miles away from the last time
Someone touched me
Like they gave a shit
Another disappointing affair
Packed up with the garbage

Keeps wrapping itself inside smiling liars
If I’d never known love,
I wouldn’t know
What I was missing
Desperate grasping for the past
In the present
Chains the future

I’ve fallen in love at first sight too many times to count.

I swallow infatuation like a drug,
Addicted to my imagination
Too stubborn to be swayed by the impossible
The Earth shakes from beneath me
My last breath taunts my lungs
Grasping the edge of my death,
I gasp back to life again

My bed doesn’t have guardrails

But rainbows are created in quartz crystals when they crack from stress.
I would have fought for him like gathering my pennies
To pay for fountain flicked wishes,
One by one,
Dreaming for him with each bit of copper
Sunken under ripples
Of childish faith.

Never got past the bent corner on Page 5,
A few words from the abstract stumbled from my tongue
But he never put his feet up
Spent a lazy Sunday
Never dug in

He was a grain of sand that invaded my shell
Scratched my tenderness
Until I formed a pearl,

So how could I ever complain?

With heavy hands I grab my shovel
And begin filling the grave left open too long,
Slowly making solid ground
For new love
To stand on.

Copyright Leigh Ann "Annhgiel" DiDomenico

All Rights Reserved
This poem, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.
Please contact: lada.04@alumni.lehigh.edu for authorization for credited use.

Tuesday, July 7, 2009

Poem: Lightning Bugs

The first time I got sober
Was the first time
In my life
I actually

One humid New Jersey summer night
Me and four guys from ‘the program’
Decided to break into a public pool
For a swim under the moonlight.

On our way through the woods to jump the fence
We were struck silent
By a swarm of lightning bugs.
A soft dark blanket of evergreen trees
Provided a backdrop
For thousands
Of fireflies
Blinking on and off,
Like flash photography in a packed stadium

It was miraculous.

A group of addicts

Awe-struck for a moment that expanded into eternity
A feeling we'd been chasing the whole time we were using.

Eventually, we got to the water,
I told someone I didn't know how to float
And they laughed as I flapped my arms upward
Trying to swim to the surface.

My friend cupped his hands gently beneath me,
Told me to trust the water and let go.
And I finally
What it meant to ‘surrender’
See you can't struggle
And float
At the same time.

A few months later I received a letter from my Sponsor, Rose, about one of those friends,
Said "Greg OD'ed on heroine.
He's in a coma, in critical condition."

When I finally saw him again,
I didn't recognize him.

He'd grown in his sleep,
No longer the small boy I knew,
He was a man lying there,
Still skinny,
But now it was from the atrophy,
Legs contorted under thin covers,
A feeding tube like an umbilical cord,
His eyes were open,
He kept grunting and twitching,

I was scared to touch him,

But Rose started stroking his hand,
Talking to him...
So I did too

Leaned close,
Hey Greg,
It's Leigh Ann.
You recognize me?
I cut off all my hair...
Dreamin in there?"

And just then
He picked up a curled finger,
Started struggling to speak
And tears
Started streaming down his face.

It was like he was using all of his energy
To struggle out of the deep end he'd fallen in,
And fell back.

We left after that.

And he died a little while later.

And I wished I reminded him of the night I learned to float,

Wish I told him that I once saw a woman almost drown in three feet of water,
Flailing out of fear,
She couldn't hear the lifeguard yelling,
"Stand Up!"

And I've heard of people drowning,
Passing out in bathtubs,
Unable to lift face to surface and breathe

And I saw my own frantic flapping
In the tears streaming down Greg's face.

See, I've spent most of my life running away,
In fetal position,
So afraid of my own darkness,
I let it eclipse me.

But at night…

Dark skies hold the moon like a womb.
And dreams only come to life in closed-eyed surrender,
And fireflies only light up in the darkness.

The first time I got high,
I thought I found
What I was missing.
But sobriety
Allowed me to teach children to catch lightning bugs
For the
First time.

Outstretched gentle hands
Coaxed them to land
And showed them
Saw awe
In child's eyes
As they watched flourescent lights blink out and in
And then took off
Chasing bugs
And I knew
I was witnessing
A miracle.

I got 16 days sober today.

Lucky enough to remember Greg's story without having become it,
My soul being birthed
Like the sun
To a new day
And I only hope

I still know how to float.

Copyright Leigh Ann "Annhgiel" DiDomenico

All Rights Reserved
This poem, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.
Please contact: lada.04@alumni.lehigh.edu for authorization for credited use.

Sunday, June 28, 2009

Poem: Pussy

The intricate delicate

Gateway of creation.

Recently tired of the three am
Ring ring,
'Hey baby, Wanna come pick me up?'
And men using me for sex, calling ourselves 'friends'
I became tired of being seen as just
A pussy.

When I was 20 years old...
Haunted every time I pulled up my warm sheets and closed my eyes to sleep
With invasive images
Of my five year old sheets being coldly taken off of me,
Held down in bed and raped...
I used to start fights with every cat-callin car drivin by,
Immediately reminded
That I was just
A pussy
A cute petite chick to stick their dick in

My first poem book had the word 'PUSSY'
Large black letters on a white background, taped to the cover
This was to remind me of what I didn't want to be and motivate me to spit poetry

See, Pussy is what we call ourselves when we mean weak,
When we mean cowardly,
When we mean- something to be ashamed of

But how could something so desired be so hated and so abused?
How could something so powerful be so beaten and so bruised, used?

See this myth of creation we've been brainwashed to believe in
Tells us that
Came from him
Was made specially for him,
A toy
For him to play with, have his way with
But if we're really made in the image of our Creator,
Then it's clear to me that

God is Goddess
The Creatrice
And that
Came from


See if the chicken came first and the eggs from inside her
And if life grows enfolded in her soft dark warmth for nine months
Preparing us for birth,
Then in whose
Fucked up backward garden could
She have possibly came from his cracked rib?

Crack one for me.
Make a baby.

See it's not men who spread their seed,
But fertilize the seeds
Already planted inside her from birth.

The creative force of the universe is female.

Always understood to be such until
There was a deliberate attack on the religions of the Goddess.
No one mentioned those ‘idols’ they were told to smash
From those ‘heathen’ religions
Had breasts.

in the Judeo-Christian tradition,
Purity Laws, and
Came at the same time.

Marriage began to track the father line.
Prior to this our family tree was female.
Every strand
In the web of life it's roots created
Was red,
Connected by menstrual blood.
Doesn't come from a
The blood that nourishes babies,
This blood
Was considered sacred.
This was before the Purity Laws
Which deemed menstruating women
"Dirty" and
And made it a sin
To touch
A woman while she was bleeding,
When before
It was a
To fuck her while she was bleeding.
But the power of her blood was not yet forgotten,
Which is why they created
To mimic menstruation by creating blood on the head of a penis.

But we're not taught this.

See our roots are female.
And our fruit is female.
And every child up to three months in the womb is


That's why they twisted the myth.

Told us Eve was the downfall of Adam
Gave us the illusion that the abundant Earth surrounding us
Isn't a garden...?
Created a
From Our Mother Earth
And the Divine Feminine
So our power
Could be controlled.

Divide and conquer.

I wonder
If Our Mother is suffering from empty nest syndrome...
Lovingly pushed us out of her nest
So we could find our wings
Which she knows she can't flap for us,
Does She miss us?
Thunderstorm tears for us
And hurricane our pain

Does she wait,
Her children

Sought after

We birth
We suffer
We break
And we survive

So call me a pussy.

In fact, I think I'll write the word
On my new poem book

To remind me
To be proud
To be seen as


Copyright Leigh Ann "Annhgiel" DiDomenico

All Rights Reserved
This poem, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.
Please contact: lada.04@alumni.lehigh.edu for authorization for credited use.

Friday, June 26, 2009


"Living is a form of not being sure, not knowing what next or how.  The moment you know how you begin to die a little.  The artist never entirely knows.  We guess.  We may be wrong, but we take leap after leap in the dark." -Agnes de Mille