I am not used to things malfunctioning. Last week, right after poetry, I went to Officemax and bought a new cartridge for my printer. The generic brand worked fine for a week and then today, when I went to print out my short story "Father and Daughter" I left the room & when I returned all 36 pages were unreadable.
Something's rotten in the state of ...
After group, drove over to Officemax, returned the cartridge, they didn't have the brand name, so I took a chance on anudder generic. Unfortunately I can't figger out how to get the hard plastic cover off the cartridge. Yes, this helpless female had to call her BF, who hasn't heeded her pleas probly b/c he's asleep.
Calvary Cemetery in West Conshohocken. Hey, Rob! That's near you.
Allan mentioned the 'labarum' cross above.
Everyone enjoyed Allan's facility with his native tongue, choosing words such as 'sinuous' and 'pinched,' when referring to some pinched land. Is that correct, Your Highness?
When I worked as a therapist at the now-defunct Bristol-Bensalem Human Services I would often visit another Archdiocese of Philadelphia cemetery - Resurrection - where my then-BF Simon's brother Andy was buried.
I wrote some damn fine poems about that cemetery. Wonder where they be? This was in the heyday of my writing, when I had manic-depression. Don't you love the graphicness of that word? So much better than the silly "bipolar" which connotes nothing except a bisexual polar bear. Gay rights for all!
Allan is also wearing a sexy top... his bald pate, that is. I think bald men are incredibly sexy.
Lemme see your nails, I said. They were a hot pink. Mine are better, I joked, showing her my Reds, which you'll read about in my poem below.
Gnostics, which inspired her story which I believe was called The New Resurrection. Vivid imagery. And a great story.
This image is on Beatriz's FB page.
She brought one of her wonderful pollinator pieces. Endlessly fascinating, this was titled "Bring Back the Native Pollinators: We Need them More than Ever!"
And their numbers are diminishing, of course, as we continue to ravish our planet. Tomatoes are the only plants that truly need native bees.
Linda B was on her way to work and dropped off her next draft of Mr Cat's Revenge. C'mon, Linda, finish it off already!
Diana's Nails in Doylestown, owned by Diana Kim.
So. It's a chain.
No one critiqued these poems yet. Please, do, w/o further ado!
The wind pushed me
along the icy sidewalk
a small person
head bent down
trying not to fall
and break my pelvis
yes, I am almost
old enough for that!
Into the nail salon
I go, Chinese-owned
by a former banker in
Beijing. He now bowed
to his customers and buffed
our nails with a soft brush
that sent shivers down
Diana’s Nails, read the sign,
I daren’t ask, his English
so poor why waste it on that?
I picked out a sassy shade of
pink – glorious as the
underbelly of a tiny finch
- they stowed aboard
to America –
but then I looked
at the older blond to
my left, with crinkly
wrinkles from smoking
and Lordy! Lordiy!
fell in love with her
shade of Red.
Make mine red.
Am I a hussy to thus
appear before the world?
Nails so glossy
they broadcast messages
to the distant galaxies.
I am a bearer of Red
shiny as Snow White’s apple
and the flashy sexy
poppies that inaugurate
UPON READING THE POEMS OF ROBERT HASS
Winner of the National Book Award for
his “Time and Materials” and recommended
by a surgeon in Virginia, I marveled at
the beguiling red cover inviting me to
plunge in for the duration.
Did you mark when Keats wrote his
“On First Looking at Chapman’s Homer?”
and the words, “Silent on a Peak in Darien?”
I lay in bed, on sheets unwashed since two
months ago, my head propped on a golden
cushion, the radio off, no noise at all, save
the barely heard soughing of the furnace
cleared my throat
and began my ascent into
the mind of one of the great poets of our time.
One out of three.
Not a bad batting average.
The Ted Williams of poetry.
In duty to the surgeon
I have finished the book
ran my hands over the
shiny cellophane cover,
applied in a special applying
room at our library,
and can only hope
that breathing the same
space as Robert Hass
will a better poet
make of me.