It was Martha and Carly's b'day this week. They each bot treats for the group from the Giant. Pardon my honesty, but the cookies and cupcakes looked barfingly unappetizing.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME by Martha Hunter
She thinks I'm old
daughter of the dinosuars
plodding along the downside of life's mountain
my mind disintegrating with every passing footfall
my oft recounted memories - mythological
She, smarter in her 13 years
than I in my 60s
for after all, her science teacher
taught them about the eventual death of brain cells.
She doesn't know that inside ever grandma
is an 18 year old beauty
replaying history on endless loop
hoping for a different outcome.
She pats my hand,
and shouts into ears that work just fine,
HAPPY BIRTHDAY GRANNY AND MANY MORE!"
wondering as she says it,
how many more can there be
in one so old as I?
*****
You'll understand why I wrote the following poem upon ordering a barfingly rich drink. It was scrumptious! When I got home my blood sugar was a disgraceful 279.
THE GIANT COFFEE
CARD CLUB
We
call ourselves the Coffeeshop Writers Group
cuz
that’s where we meet
I
have written all manner of poems and short stories
entered
them
in
prestigious magazines
expecting
rejection
receiving
rejection
won’t
stop me from trying
First
thing I do when I get to the group
is
get me a decaf
a
small buzz is always nice
nothing
dramatic like
a
full-blown mania
but
that was in the past
I’ve
worked my way up
so
that today the decaf
is
free with my Club Card
what’ll
it be on this last
Saturday
in June?
None
of the coffee’s any good
I
doctor it with
cinnamon
which floats on
the
surface
like
grease on the griddle
impossible
to
homogenize
I'll order a
free cup of cold decaf
ice
clinking on the bottom
I
feel ashamed to enjoy it
while
Alan dies of lung cancer
in Cleveland
in Cleveland
Who knows?
maybe Cleveland Clinic
has
a pilot program
to
keep him alive
the only one his
crippled son
loves at Beth Israel
the only one his
crippled son
loves at Beth Israel
Ever
feel helpless?
ever
feel like standing
beneath
the big ole moon
and
craning your neck
and
saying
Please.
Please.
Please.
Martha Hunter wrote:
A CALL IN THE NIGHT
She struggles up through a dream,
briefly wondering where she is
A coldness grips her stomach
Calls in the night rarely bring good news.
A voice gives her the message
no mother wants to hear.
She wonders,
is this a cruel joke?
She thinks to hang up in disgust
But her hand grips the phone too tightly
to let go.
She doesn't want to believe it's true.
Primal instinct holds off the force of the blow
An island of motherhood
in an ocean of tragedy.
She'll do what she needs to do
And collapse later.
Her son needs her now.
And now, gleaning from my stock photos....
Beatriz had a bout of exhaustion so she stayed home. I spoke to her and she was laffing about it. These episodic cycles have occurred since she was in her thirties. She will get tested again to see if it's a certain type of bug bite she got while living in Argentina, altho it never showed up.
Her son is exhibiting mild symptoms b/c it can be contracted in utero.
What was God thinking?
There's no treatment, said B, but at least she'd find out the cause.
Linda Barrett below. All these fotos are from my archives.
Linda and her 83-yo mom just joined LA FITNESS!!!
Linda shared a chapter of her sci-fi novel. Some idiot at a writer's group she goes to at B & N told her she could get sued for writing about the SEPTA transportation system.
He's probly jealous of her imagination.
Donna Krause was nervous about reading her new poem "Alone at Night."Since she was widowed a year ago, she hates being alone esp at night, when she sees eerie shadows on the wall.
Everyone thought it was a wonderful poem.
Carly Brown .... Carlana
Carla and Donna have become good friends. They encourage one another and read their poems and other work to each other.
Donna asked Carly "What's happening with your story about Nails, the roofer?"
That gave Carly the incentive to get back to work on it.
Carly read an obit about the roofer - nicknamed "Nails" - who died a natural death and transformed it into a suspenseful story about a roofer who falls off the roof.
We loved it and are looking f/w to reading more at our meeting next Saturday.
Auteur! Auteur! of the next poem. Oh, here she be, riding the NY subway with daughter Sarah Lynn:
OF A TUESDAY
EVENING IN JUNE
it’s
late
but
the coffee’s hot
and
I am reading
on
my red couch
Remains of the Day
it’s
taking off, finally,
is
it the coffee that
makes
it so?
I
stop for a sip
and
a “think”
the
cup between
my
legs
warming
my
inner
thighs
The
back jacket
calls
the novel
“brutal”
but
like a
bad
marriage
we
quickly accept it
marveling
at the
author’s
roundabout
language
sentences
so long
you
hurry to
the
finish line
So
many stories
like
my own,
the
needle marks
I
glance at casually
in
the crook of my arm
made
at the last blood draw
Don’t
worry,
I’ll
be around for a while
I
lift my still-warm
but
not hot cup
and
bring it to my lips
how
fresh it smells
I
made it myself
Roasted
Sumatra
When
Stevens the butler
and
star of the book
decides
to alight
from
his Ford
where
he is motoring
about
the famed
sloping
green meadows
smooth
as a tear
I
insert the bookmark
switch
off the light
and
whirring fan
then
open the door
for
one last look
smell
the misty rain
which
wants
nothing
to do with me
and
hoping for a
crack
of thunder
or
something
exciting,
since the
book
is not
and
about
to close
the
door
see
a giant
orange
moon
plum
over
the
street light
and
the sleeping
baby
birds,
swallows,
this time,
we
think.
This book by Kazuo Ishiguro, b. 1954, is on The Guardian's list of 100 Best Books. Kazuo was born in Japan but lives in London. Sarah suggested I read it.
DRIVING HOME ON LOWER YORK ROAD,
BUCKS COUNTY
This
is the kind of road I like
hilly
with vistas
green
meadows
farmlands
sown with corn
The
Sox Lady
art
galleries
and
restaurants
the
well-heeled “others” go to
The
gray Ford pick-up is behind me
never
saw his face
but
it’s the kind of man
I’d
choose were I looking
and
I always am
I
try to be a good
road
companion
soaring
well in front of him
then
braking to show there’s
traffic
up ahead
Meanwhile
the erratic
Lexus,
who should know better,
is
holding up the fast lane
with
the narcissism
we
expect from the
nouveau riche
I
am unconcerned
as
I sip my Columbian Decaf
I
bought back in Peddler’s Village
when
I got off the bus from New York
I
could be home on my
red
couch
watching
the birds out the window
but
I’m in the front seat
sipping
hot coffee
with
my right hand
watching
my man
in
the rear view
and
thinking of home.
The
light is green
I
take off at great speed
breaking off our brief affair
my
car a steed racing toward home
I
turn the radio off as I climb
my
hilly street
so
the neighbors
will
think me sedate
and
orderly.
Could
my frontyard pink Buddha give me away?
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