Saturday, August 10, 2013

Coffeeshop Writer's Group - Welcome Tatiana Heller! - My poems: Our Bill - Who am I?

And a lovely time was had by all.

High quality work!
 Deep concentration by Tatiana and Beatriz.

B wrote one of her marvelous nature essays: The Monarch Butterfly as a Poster Child

In her well-wrin humorous essay, she talked about people at nature centers photograffing the lovely monarch, except they've mistaken its identity.

Monarch butterfly only eats milkweed plants. Pennypack Trust in Huntingdon Valley, has plenty of milkweed.

This is a Viceroy MOTH - they come out at nite - which can be mistaken for a monarch, but certainly not

The Swallowtail Butterfly

Allan and Tati went to Lorimer Park in Abington Township where they saw loads of butterflies.

"They were dancing and prancing around," said Tati.

I showed them my bruise I got when Scott and I biked there. I hadn't biked in a year and fell off when I was making a U-turn.

 Linda and Carly listen intently....
 as do Martha and Allan. Hmmm, are they passing notes like schoolchildren?

I told Allan he could pass for my BF Scott from behind... the sexy bald dome.

Here's darling Baldie on the chiropractor's table. He tore a quadriplex from having too much sex.... I mean, from exercising too much.
 Ruth Z, tilting leeward.

I keep a wrinkled blue shirt in my car and bring it inside to over-air-conditioned places.

Gee, I never got a good look at my sandals. Hadn't realized how high up they go.  Bot em a couple yrs ago in Ocean City on sale at the end of the season.
 Here's Brianna, Marf's grand-daughter, who waited patiently for Gram. She volunteered at a summer camp, but as we know the end of summer is a-comin.

Dyou know the beautiful lines:
"Sumer Is Icumen In" is a very old English song which can be sung as a round. It is the oldest example of a round that we know of. The composer is unknown. It was written down around the middle of the 13th century by a monk but we do not know whether that monk composed it, or whether it had been composed earlier.
The title means "Summer has come in". The round can be sung in six parts. There are also two parts which can be repeated again and again (an ostinato) throughout the piece. The language is Middle English and is based on the dialect spoken in Wessex, England at the time.
 Listen here on YouTube.
I'm actually listening to the Blues Show on WXPN now.

Linda got feedback for her very imaginative Chapter Four of her novel "Time for Love." She also wrote a short poem with the same title.

Martha bought this fabric of a world map and made a blouse out of it, as well as a tablecloth. Raw talent! She also does the counted cross-stitch.
Three poems today from the prolific Marf.


by Martha Hunter

It must be a demon
that takes over my mind
when faced with the prospect
of public engagements.
Poking me with the pitchfork
of doubt and self consciousness,
Bringing up the old fears of
“not good enough’.
Agonizing over clothes and hair
Packing a suitcase sized purse
with enough extras to supply a
weekend’s stranding on a deserted road.
Dreading the drive,
sure this will be the day of the
accident I’ve been expecting
all my adult life.
Uneasy at seeing no place on the road
with a bathroom
to ease my nervous bladder.
Then we arrive,
and the hotel is gorgeous,
the food elegant,
The company joyous,
Not a one looking at my
clothes or hair,
And the couple,
heartbreakingly sweet
in their fresh love for one another,
causes a recommitment
of those present to those
early ideals of sacrifice and service
which is more a bedrock than
romance and passion.
The sun sets on a glorious day
of shared rejoicing
quite apart from me and my crazies.


Carly and I both said we're both awaiting death by automobile.

Marf also wrote a poem with the terrific title MAX AND DUDIS, about a retarded girl who mispronounced people's names and was brutally honest with people.

Max and Dudis were actually Marf's late parents - Jim and Eunice Macdonald. Eunice is an extremely unusual name, not on your Top Baby List Names.

We knew of a Eunice Podis back in Cleveland, who was a famous pianist.

Here's her obit. She died at age 86 in 2008. I'm gonna listen to her later on YouTube.

Gosh, I've got a lotta homework.
Tati, as Allan calls his wife, gave great feedback. She hails from Russia, a city near Moscow. She emigrated with her parents. Her dad is Jewish and yes, they give Jews a hard time.

Everyone does, said Beatriz, with a laff. Sometime I'll share my poem "Nazi Waters" with the group.
Wedding rings please!
Tatiyana Heller
Allan and Tati
Talking about watches, here's Carly's.

Carly read three short poems that were really good.

Noises pollute everything, she wrote. How dare they disrupt her personal space?

If I had a mind, I could remember her two other poems.

Allan read a superb intro to one of his cemetery books.

Carly said, "Now I know what you mean by 'tight writing.'"

Not an extra word in his piece.

Here's what Scott and I had for dinner.

Our garden zucchini served as al dente pasta. I sauteed the mushrooms and peppers in olive oil, then poured over it Muir Garden Spag Sauce, rated numero uno by America's Test Kitchen

Here are my two contributions:


In memory of Bill Sanders
December 31, 1963 - July 13, 2013

A drunk your whole life
you were part of our neighborhood,
liked, if not loved,
in your stupors that had you
swaying like a windmill
smelling none too good
but that was Our Bill

Memories, we have a few.
William Adams, whose yard you
claimed for your own,
met you after you’d
walked the tracks to
the Oreland Inn
“the last of the old-time
tap rooms”
booze couldn’t ruin
those walkin’ legs of yours
Sweet Bill.

When William mentioned his
growing like a beanstalk next to his house
he heard a chainsaw
from his upstairs office
looked out to see the
top of your head
swaddled in the red bandana
you always wore
gave you a C-note
a six-pack and Marlboro Reds

You cared about everyone
asked how my new kidney
was doing
I was moved by your concern
while wondering what could be
done for you.


A masterful gardener
you taught me
names of weeds
Creeping Charlie
and assured me my maple
was not a goner, like you were.

You knew, yet didn’t.

Booze, your forever companion,
swelled your liver
with each delicious
slurp you poured down
your once-virgin throat
as your mother rocked
you in the cradle of her love.

Why stop?
You were caught,
a bear in a trap,
and accepted the chains
that would one day call you
home to the Sweet Jesus
you loved

He waited for you on
that sweltering day in late July
when the cicadas
sang their songs of joy
and the aloe vera
waited for you in the family room.

When you breathed your last
in the nursing home where
they put you after your fall
you were in and out of
the nurses hurried in
when your heart flat-lined
by then you were greeted
by your dead mother Joan
and Sweet Jesus
as you cried out, “Do you love me still?” 



Nervous breakdowns, I was told,
leave a tiny child inside.
Is that why I step onto
the backyard deck
and greet the birds
“Hello guys? Who is
visiting me today?”

“Who are you, Ruth?”
said Phil, the crew-cut
admissions officer at Goddard College.  
I was taken by surprise,
a sheltered girl from Cleveland
who read deep books but
never thought deep thoughts

At sixty-seven, you know what?
I don’t care who I am.
Oh, sure, I’m a repository of
all my history,
sandwiched like a Dobos Torte
inside my aging freckled shell

When I step outside
I answer to no one
but the honesty of the sky
and the innocence of the new stray
cat who streaks across the backyard
hiding behind the forsythia

Who am I?
A woman who loves nothing more
than walking on her own two feet
around the block on Cowbell
Wave when you see me striding by.



No comments:

Post a Comment