Donna brought in a very true-to-life poem about leaving her son's development and getting lost on the way home.
I can certainly relate!
Nothing worse than getting lost. It's one of the few things that makes me cry.
She beautifully conveyed the horror of the situation.
We all loved the piece and wouldn't have changed a word.
In Carly's TOPS Group, Take off Pounds Sensibly, she has members write 50 things they love about themselves.
Twenty would suffice, I said.
No, she insisted. You've gotta come up with 50.
We went around the table telling a couple things we LOVE about themselves. Me and Carly voted for creativity. This is something we couldn't have done if other group members had been present.
Each time we come, we make up a whole new entity.
Was just on my bike for 10 minutes watching a show about the GREAT Mr. Rogers. Did you know he was bullied as a kid? Why? B/c he was overweight.
His parents told him to pay no attention to the kids who followed him home from school shouting at him b/c he was fat. "We'll get you, fat Freddy," they said.
He told an interviewer that he didn't take c/o those feelings of anger and resentment until many years later.
One of his sweaters is in the Smithsonian.
Now perhaps you can understand the importance of his show, which ran from 1968 to 2000, some 895 shows.
It deals with FEELINGS. It is okay to have feelings.
He and one of his friends also condemn our culture for our need to buy stuff, protect our stuff, buy more stuff, which distracts us from our primary purpose on earth: to learn who we are.
And, of course, our pace of life - faster faster faster - is rightfully taken to task.
Children today are not allowed to have silence. They have TVs in their bedrooms, he said. When I was at my son's I could not believe what I experienced at the kitchen table over lunch.
Each child had an iPod in front of them. Max paid no attention, but Grace barely looked up to speak.
Began a short story last nite - was up until 2 am finishing it - then went on the bike b/c I overdosed on popcorn.
Pay no attention to this man I found accidentally on a great art website - it's in LA, home of my friend Marcy Belsh, the only person in the WORLD with that name.
Hi Marce! (Not even Marce will deign to waste her time reading this.)
My short story The Mailman was about a lonely woman who lusted after her mailman. Scott liked it and so did most of the group.
Before I present my new poems, lemme show you what I had for dinner.
Melissa Clark of the NY Times made a video of this onion, cabbage, sausage dish. I was starving when I came home and this was delicious. Carmelize the onions, then put in the cabbage, and then the lamb sausage which I bought at the Old World Sausage Factory in Southern France.
I mean in Hatboro. Also add bay leaf and cider vinegar. Scrumptious! Took it over to Scott's to eat with him while he watched the orig Hawaii-Five-O on Netflix.
I parked in the Produce Junction lot and had one more very difficult errand to perform.
Going to my car, a woman in a black Jaguar pulled up next to me.
Dyou know where Kohl's is? I asked.
Yes, she said, I just came from there.
Make a Left at Street Road, she said, it's after TJ Maxx and thus and such.
I told her I'm returning my Shark Vac which stopped working.
I HATE my Shark Vacuum, she said. Hers also doesn't work properly - it spews dust everywhere - ah! to be understood! - she's gonna look again for her receipt, which I saved, thank goodness!
My once-new Shark which worked for less than a year. Here's my post about it. For my eyes only.
This time I ordered a Bissell.
They wouldn't give me my money back, but gave me an $80 store credit. What? I'm gonna return and buy $80 worth of stuff, Fred Rogers?
Of course I'm gonna get my vac then and there. Okay, so it took a while. Spoke to Aaron in southern Texas, with the help of Laurie, the sales girl.
We were talking at the Writers' Group how Marf, Carly and I have such a way with words.... we luv talking to people.
I lightened the load for myself by chatting a bit with Aaron while he was doing his paperwork. "I'm not hungry," I said, "b/c I just ate some peanuts."
The first poem HAPPENED to me while going to my library book club on Thursday. It was a miracle an oncoming car didn't hit them.
The last poem, about the dead animal, happened to me this morning when I was coming home from the Giant after seeing my grandkids.
When I got home I called the police and asked if they could scoop it up. No, said Dispatcher 89095 - they don't give u their real names (?) - but she'd call animal control.
Ah, here's Ruthie now. Sweater by Ralph Lauren, which I bought when my friend Yin Liu was selling Le Coffee Salon in Hatboro, the crossroads of life.
DEER BOUNDING ACROSS DAVISVILLE ROAD
head for the green
we’ve done this
dozens of times
rest is at hand
part of our day
for millions of years
some will make it
most will not
head for the green
cool water we’ll find
soft resting places
for our tired aching bodies
home from the journey
the journey across the street
and those fearsome tanks
that would us kill
come my braves
come my darlings
All, an off-brown
I’d prefer an off-green,
anything but that color
that bodes the sick
From across the kitchen
I toss the bottle of
mag ox into the trash
It’s dead now
I’ll buy more from
Erich or Hannah
My pill bottles
are at least as long
as my intestines
Can you picture them
glued together and
stretching up to the moon?
See them arcing
on their way up
Crane your neck
look higher and higher
In the movie The Wolf of
Wall Street, he took
cleaned out his insides, first,
to get the very best high
he took too many
crashed his car, lost his
wife, and ended up in jail
Me, I just imagine
taking mine all at once
what would that be like?
Lying in my bed
beneath the ceiling fan
listening to Yo-Yo play
the Cello Concertos
I feel an unaccustomed
FINAL RESTING PLACE
What is it this time?
A big ‘un, that’s for sure
A plump goose with feathers flying?
His wife howling by the pond.
See its long striped tail?
That’s all my eyes see
Until, big splotch of red
where Rocky Raccoon
has met doom,
his final resting place
the middle of Davisville Road.
We don’t even give them
a proper burial
Their urn is not
by fire but by
car tires, run with
red, flatten them
until they’re nothing
Like they never existed
never climbed up trees
or knocked over our
garbage cans to find
hardy little creatures
Go in peace.