Monday, February 8, 2016

Awaiting the Snow - Poem: Superbowl Fifty

Wanted to write a poem about yesterday's Superbowl and finally did. It'll appear at blog's end.

Missed the halftime show, so I just watched it here.

My favorite act is Coldplay.

Image result for coldplay  They've been around a long time. 

Undoubtedly you're wondering how I spent the day.

Image result for laura fitzpatrick endo  Saw my endocronologist Laura Fitzpatrick. As you can see, she ate the "Eat Me" pill from Alice and shrank.

She's actually quite tall. I got a good report altho my A1C was terrible! I asked how her son likes the snow. He loves it, she said, and they bought him a small shovel so he can help out.

When I walked into the waiting room it was full. You gotta wonder why all those people are there.

Should they wear signs on front that say "Insulin Dependent Diabetes?"

Or "Thyroid Problems?  Pituitary Problems?"

Dr Fitz told me that 40 percent of the patients have diabetes.

Your risk of having a heart attack is four times that of normal if you've got diabetes. She told me she has two patients with uncontrolled diabetes, they're about my age, and the gent just had a heart attack.

Image result for heart attack   Wonder what it feels like. My dead friend Bill Cardinale knew.

Today I was imagining getting therapy. What would I talk about? I thought a moment and thought of dealing with the death of a friend of mine. Dunno know why it still bothers me. Maybe I should write a poem about it.

I needed gas and the Giant gas station wasn't terribly crowded when I went over. Only got 20 cents off.

Image result for giant gas station

Then I drove over to the Giant Supermarket for my last minute snow run. Oh, the things I bought!

Image result for mac and cheese  From their hot bar.

Couldn't find my fave tea

So I went over to the Coffee Bar and Adryn said, It's only sold here. It was my tea of choice when I wrote my poem.

She and Kathy had just cleaned the floor after spilling the chocolate pudding.

Had I known, I said, I would've licked it off the floor.

I bought some for the very first time, hoping it would be terrible, so I could throw it away.

Image result for chocolate pudding
What dyou think?

Good or terrible?

Before Scott left for the train I interviewed him about the Superbowl for my poem.

I'd eaten at Mom's house for dinner. Brought the two of us a huge salad. Ellen wasn't home or I would've shared it with her.

We had a nice chat but I was anxious to get home bc of the snow.

The streets are nicely brined. While at Mom's, I watched Action News, something I never do since my TV has no reception.

I have to yell when I talk to her as she's hard of hearing.

Ellen made me some strong coffee, a variety of Peet's with a forgettable name and forgettable flavor.

I'd napped earlier at home, choosing Fresh Air to lull me to sleep.

Image result for peyton manning 

Read about Peyton Manning on Wiki.

His dad, Eli Manning, was also a quarterback but played on lousy teams so he never won a Superbowl. He was on the New Orleans Saints, which was derisively known as The Aints, Scott told me.

I'd wrin another poem about Manning two years ago which won a prize from the Montco Community County College. My new poem had to be completely different bc artists do not repeat themselves. 

The below poem is loosely based on Scott's dad.


Father and son
duked it out
in the Carousel

The ole man put a twenty on
the glass table next to
the buffalo wings
Broncos! he called
in a voice that
once rang with
Oyez oyez in a
Philadelphia court room

What are you,
frigging nuts, Pop,
and lay two twenties in
another pile
"Panthers!" from
the southlands
of the country
why do you think
Cam's jersey
reads Number One?

Yeah, yeah, said the
old man, Heisman Trophy
and all thatjazz

Then why?

I'll tell you why.
Manning's an old man
39, a Man 'o War ready
for green pastures
His will to win
surpasses all

It's why I married
your mother, right, Hon,
he shouted into the
kitchen where she was
heating up the eggplant

The doorbell rang
bringing in a cold draft
and a married couple
dressed for the Arctic

Did it start yet, she asked
You didn't miss much, said
the ole man, that Gaga woman
singing Oh, Say Can You See,
nice hips, what I've give to
have a..... never mind

She put the pretzels and
cashews on the table with
a bang, settled down and
watched the game.

Her hubby slept. "Wake
me in the last quarter,"
he said, plunking down
a twenty for the Panthers.

All was white at the end
White for the Bronco's
uniforms, for Manning's
Pope-like visage
daylight streaming
from the Santa Clara
sky, and the old
warrior thanked
the "Man Upstairs"
for his final

Sunday, February 7, 2016

Beatriz's Twin Brooks of Yesteryear - My Tyvek House poem published at last after many a rejection - Feb 7 is the birthday of my daughter Sarah Lynn Deming

Image result for twin brooks condominiums willow grove pa

Image result for twin brooks condominiums willow grove pa

The Twin Brooks of Yesteryear
by Beatriz Moisset

Two small streams traverse our condominium and they give it its name, Twin Brooks. They escape notice by most visitors because they are no more than tiny rivulets that a young person, not me, could cross in a single jump. Moreover, all the landscaping has done much to hide them out of sight. Probably a good part of the water runs through underground pipes. But Nature persists as best it can and a good observer perhaps could imagine what the land looked like before all the earth moving, paving and construction that could place in recent times.

Where the two brooks meet, a small pond is present. Ducks and geese raise their families there some years. An occasional blue heron visits the pond and manages to make a meal of some little fish. Also, a muskrat hangs around the edge of the water.

I wonder what the land was like a few thousand years ago before Europeans arrived and populations grew and grew to what they are nowadays. There were Native Americans then, tribes distributed across the land. The ones living here were the Lenape (or Lenni-Lenapi). Were some of them camped in the Twin Brooks site either temporarily or generation after generation? Do I walk on their steps sometimes?

I search for information on the original residents of this land and learn that the Lenape tribe covered part of Delaware, eastern Pennsylvania, all of New Jersey and a southeastern part of New York state. The region was known to them as “Lenapehoking,” which meant land of the Lenape. These Native Americans had a matrilineal system, that is children belonged to their mother's clan, from which they gained their social status and identity. Male leadership was passed through the maternal line and eledr women could remove leaders they didn't approve of. Not exactly equal rights but far better than the condition of European women of those days.

So, I try to imagine the Twin Brooks family or families that occupied this area long before our condominium was built and long before I moved here. Perhaps they built their wigwam at the spot where the two streamlets met. Did they grow the Three Sisters –corn, beans and squash– where we have a parking lot? Are there some broken clay shards buried somewhere? Perhaps a little girl lost her doll exactly under my bedroom, the doll her grandmother lovingly made using corn husks and strings. I have no doubt they hunted deer and turkey nearby. Rarely a lost deer wanders into our property, desperately looking for better cover and finding only pavement, traffic and frightening noises.

They must have gathered berries. Still some berry shrubs grow here and there. Chestnuts must have been an important part of their winter food. It is sad to think that practically no chestnut trees are left because of a terrible blight accidentally introduced from overseas.

European colonists coveted the land when their population kept growing, so they relocated the Lenape Indians a couple of centuries ago. “Relocated” is just a wishy-washy way to say that the original residents of the land were robbed of their rights, uprooted and sent to an uncertain fate to the Indian Territory in Oklahoma. There, they had to survive as best they could, making do with limited resources and competing with other tribes already present in the area.

I wonder what we mean when we sing: “This land is my land.”

Image result for pond with ducks


Tyvek is an insulation material applied to the interior of buildings before application of the final material such as wood or stone or siding.

Take this old house by the side of the road
Walk past its leaf-filled ditch and muddy garden
Rip out its walls and doorways
Stay there, don’t move,
Walk among the heaps of plasterboard,
the piles of rubble still unswept
Let it sear you, rush like water through you
And bring you no peace.

Don’t come and fetch me.
I’ll stay here among the ruins,
Quiet, dream-filled,
Lonesome as a stairwell,
Ringing like a bell,
One of a kind,
The house where I live.

Did you mark the days when they
Hammered the outer boards
Across the falling rot of splintered wood?
Did you see how frisky they were
Those laugh-aloud fun-finding fellows
stationed so effortlessly
on tall hinged ladders,
Three of them I counted, workmen
Bouncing words from roof to roof,
Or were they manly jokes,
Nails echoing clang clang
as they went in.
Thick-soled boots snug on tall rungs.

How we couldn’t help but laugh
the day the letters appeared – TYVEK -
blue, dark as mountains,
you’d know those letters anywhere –
ponytailed Y
Take-me-along K pointing off,
Off in the distance at some lonesome star.
How we rejoiced and continue to rejoice
at the coming of the words.

Leave it to us to notice from our
One unstained window
the predicament of the motorists
and the ditch-leaping joggers passing by,

Each one waiting,
querying among themselves,
When will it be finished?
When will the Tyvek be covered up for good?

Didn’t we fool them?
Didn’t we cause consternation?
We simply couldn’t do it.

We let the Tyvek stay.


Millard  "Mike" Grove Deming, died in 2009


Ruth Zali Greenwold Deming

announce the birth of their daughter Sarah Lynn Deming.

Feb. 7, 1974

Image result for ethan iverson


A voice whispered to Mom.
A tiny child will be born
unto you.
You will incubate her while
listening in your small
Texas dwelling to
Miles running the
voodoo down, Ludwig
revving up his Ode to
Joy, while the B&W films of
Kurosawa made Mama
dream of venturing
far from home.

The baby rocked, she
rolled inside, she loved
her dad's Chicken Mole,
Mom's blond brownies,
"chews," a recipe from
Grandma Margie.

Mom swam in the pool
out back under the vast
Texan sky, more sky
than earth, proud of
her burgeoning belly
that she loved unceasingly
surprising herself.

She never wanted kids.

Dr Johnson ordered her
to hospital. Dad drove in
their lime-green Datsun,
there to wait, not long,
before the fruit burst
from her womb.

The baby's eyes followed
Mom's finger, the most
beautiful peach she
had ever seen.
Sweet as honey.

Hello, Sarah, said Dad.
They named her Sarah
with Lynn in the middle
necessary for calling
when in the other room.

The smiling little peach
grew and grew
a daughter most perfect
finding Ethan the perfect
man, the fruit that girded
their loins continues to
unfold: jazz, boxing,
novels, mentoring boxers
at the gym, and Sarah's
own brand of kindness
and delicacy, sweeter than
the Girl Scout Cookies she
sold door to door.

All hail Sarah Lynn.
See the cardinals, the bluejays
and wrens in my front yard?
Their melodious cries shout
Happy Birthday, Sarah Lynn,
blessed among women.

Happy Birthday, Sarah Lynn.

Saturday, February 6, 2016

Part Two - Writers Group At B's Condo - my short story The Man Who Disappeared

What a treat to see Fran Bareikis Pulli!  And of course it's always great to see Marf.

Fran read a wonderful poem about her parents' bar called "17th and North Broad, - hope I got that right -  the address of her dad's tap room called "Adolph," short for Adolphus.

Notable lines include "each floor a cosmos to itself" - "I became a dreamer of love stories" - "A cloud of intoxicating smoke" -

The bar was on the ground floor. On successive floors lived members of the family. Fran "adored" her older married sister.

The bar was not co-ed. A separate entrance was for women. "No topknots or tiaras here."

Sometimes "negatives" like the above are very effective visually. Everyone remarked how visual the poem was. At her sisters' she learned to play checkers and cards and even beat her teachers. She also learned to crochet.

Allan Heller suggested she submit her poem to The Sun Magazine. 

You should see the blankets Beatriz made. She has a whole pile of em.

Marf was chilly so put one around her shoulders. Mon dieu, how does one make such a blanket like this?

Fran's poem continued that she fell asleep "when the music stopped" - the jukebox. "A small part of me still lives there."

What's happened to Adolph's tap room?

Image result for condos philly

Martha Hunter's "Jazmine and the Bull Rider" featured the prologue and first couple of chapters of her already written novel of 35 chapters. It's good enough to be a Harlequin Romance Novel. Sure hope she'll submit it.

Very descriptive, lively, humorous and compelling enough to wanna read more!!!

The fellow in the Philly's cap introduced himself as Rem, short for rapid eye movement. He made me copies of the newly deceased Paul Kantner singing in the Jefferson Airplane and in another group.

Most of these artists who used drugs died early deaths.

Murph read a couple of chapters of his novel, based on fake dream sequences, which flowed effortlessly from his pen. He talked about radio stations he would listen to all across the world, including Radio Ankara and Radio Moscow. He listened to the voice of Arabs in Cairo, "on the hour you would hear the chimes of the bell tower of the University of Cairo, which sounded like the BBC's Big Ben."

Had Rem gone overseas for his research? Had he taken time off from the Roslyn post office to fly across the Atlantic ocean to research his novel?

You've got a brain. Figure it out!

His own father had a Grundig radio, while Judy's dad had a Blaupunkt.

Image result for grundig radios   They still make the Grundig.

Image result for blaupunkt radio     Blaupunkt is still made in Germany. Judy's beloved father who died when she was - what? 18 - listened to this. He played with the Philadelphia Orchestra, both violin and viola. I told her I composed a story loosely based on her parents called The House on Lincoln Avenue which will be published in a year or so. Hopefully we'll still be alive, I said, remembering what happened to the main character in Summer Vacation.

One of my fave lines from Rem's story was "Get a life," a friend once told him. "You truly are the king of useless information."

Image result for ramsey lewis   Holy cow! Ramsey Lewis is coming to the Kimmel Center. He's 80 years old.

If I wasn't such a chicken, I'd go see the show. Jimmy Sutcliffe could get me comp tickets.

Hey Jimbo!!!

When I went to bed last night I was exhausted from working on the News Roundup for the Compass. Really interesting stories, all condensed by my colleague Ada.

Wanted to write a new short story for our group today. Had absy no idea what to write about.

While making my breakfast today, I listened to the audio book The Rest is Noise, by Alex Ross. Wonderful true stories about composers.

Image result for alex ross the rest is noise   Jean Sibelius, who put Finland on the map for classical music, went to pieces later in life. The pressure of being 'the best' in Finland and living up to his reputation in general turned him to alcohol for solace. He couldn't stop drinking and he claimed to be working on his next symphony but he contracted composer's block. He disappeared for a while.

That got me thinking and I came up with my story idea.

Entitled The Man Who Disappeared I worked on it after taking a nap in Scott's bed. I was just exhausted.

The group liked it and I'll take a look at their comments now.

Hope I correctly covered the Waterfront, Elia.

PS - Just got an email that The Poets Haven will publish my poem Tyvek House. It's about a nearby house on Terwood Road. I AM ECSTATIC!!!! You have no idea how many times it's been rejected.