So I went on FB and asked Jay Bhatt, librarian at both Drexel and Abington. One of his correspondents gave me the Hindi words.
The group joked that he may have given me the wrong words, like..... use your imagination!
CARLY wrote a delicious story about her favorite aunt who, 100 yrs ago, wished to live in a splendid place. And she did!
Budapest. (Buda-pesht. Half of my family are Hungarian Jews. And hungry, too. Tonite is our Bonfire at Tamanend Park.
Allan, the Poet Laureate of Hatboro, PA, brought in a fascinating piece on the cemetery at Valley Forge National Park.
Naked and starving as they are,Alexandra Scott was born with a rare form of cancer. She was eight when she died. She is buried at the hero's cemetery b/c her family founded Alex's Lemonade.
we cannot enough admire
the incomparable patience
and fidelity of the Soldiery.
- General George Washington
Here's Alex.
There's also a female pilot from WW2 who's buried at Valley Forge. Women weren't allowed to go into combat as they are today. But this woman was flying her plane and died in a head-on collision with another plane.
Speaking of death - and when are we not? - I got important feedback on my story And Mushrooms for Dessert - we hope dessert has two S's - about a man who attempts to murder his wife.
My second story which I began this morning at 11:30 am is called Saving Sarah. It's a total fantasy about a physician who will become a drug addict but is saved by Eddie Washington. The real Eddie works here:
The second poem was something that happened to me last nite.
The first poem may become a series called....
CHASING AFTER THE
MAILMAN
The
ritual begins:
lace
on my black sneaks
place
sunglasses over eyes
hold
letter in hand
and
then run.
More
like a trot
now
that I’m sixty-eight
though
I could certainly run
if
the Nazis marched up
our
street.
Today
as I carried a letter
up
the high hill
I
watched for a moving object
the
way frogs do
craving
to see Ken
the
white-haired fellow
who
limped after a fall
and
now has an Ace
bandage
across his
arm.
“Did you get that
on
your rounds?” I asked.
He
hates when I ask personal
questions,
but I’ve already
found
out his last name and
that
his wife, well, never mind.
“We
took down a tree in the
backyard,”
he said of his North
Wales home. But it was a
woman,
today,
a shy thing of a girl. In
mailman’s
shorts and a 1960s
ponytail.
“Can
I help you?” she asked
as
if I were a little girl lost.
“A
letter for you,” I said, and
she
opened her hand, that contained
a
red Netflix envelope. I put my letter
on
top. Knowing, as only an American
with
faculties intact, can know this secret
language
of how to be quick as a bird.
Ken,
like me, is not relaxing today. We
are
two of a kind: Work or
peace
be-gone.
HOWLING IN THE
NIGHT
The
night was calm
I’d
just stepped outside
in
the wee hours to
welcome
the stars
and
the planets. Perhaps
I
would see the deer family
who
live in the small but
wild
forest behind my house.
I
went back inside, skipping
really,
with the joy of being
alive
and under the stars,
and
sat myself down on
the
swiveling chair in my office.
My,
I was tired, but had two hours
to
go before I finished my
busywork.
The maudlin music
of
Brahms played on YouTube
-
perhaps that first piano concerto
that
ripped my heart apart when
I
was sixteen –
and
then I heard it. Unmistakable.
Through
the closed window.
It
didn’t happen very often
but
when it did, you were stunned,
stupefied,
imagining it was you,
and
whoever it was howling,
howling
and screeching in
the
wild forest behind my house,
we
all die, but this. This sounded
like
torture.
Head
in hands, I said a silent prayer
and
switched from Brahms to
Daft
Punk. That was no good so
I
put on something from my childhood:
two
whole hours of the sounds
of birds in the backyard.
Mr. Fox and his family, safe in their underground den,
dined,
without forks and knives, on fresh rabbit.
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