Saturday, October 25, 2014

Coffeeshop Writers' Group - Good turnout - Good nail polish - My two new poems: Caroline's Spoon and Division in the Darkness

Linda and I attended The Willow Grove Bible Church last nite - see my poem below - where every other Friday they host a band and an art project. For $10 we each painted an acrylic painting under the tutelage of Abbie, whose studio is in Hulmeville, PA.

Neither Linda nor I followed directions - which was fine with Abbie - and we each did our own thing.

Linda painted a Christian ship of hope.

Her poem, which we all liked was titled The Last Atomic Holocaust Movie Supper. 

"I dreamed a dream," it began. She dreamt it on a Wednesday and poetated on a Friday.

Solomon Grundy was born on Monday, christened on Tuesday.

Handsomely hatted Floyd liked the poem, esp since it contained lines about his fave movie, Dr Strangelove.

He told us about Trinity, the nickname for the first atomic bomb, which was detonated in Alamagordo, New Mexico.


Twould be nice if this were a bicycle helmet, but it's the Trinity Bomb. 

Beatriz wrote an essay about what happened to her at the Willow Grove Post Office.

She's quite weak from her chemo and when she walked in the door, she didn't notice that a "well-dressed black woman" was behind her.

The woman yelled at her for not holding open the door.

Beatriz, a kind soul, told her she didn't see her but the woman insisted on making a fuss.

In the story, Beatriz yelled at her, telling her she was an old lady and the woman had obviously been "snubbed" and was taking it out on her.

The entire post office applauded and the woman apologized.

Photo of Carly from my 'stock photos.'

Her Metamorphosis is about a dream trip she and Charlie want to take. They've been talking about it for years.

Floyd knows a couple who are doing it right now. They go "where the climate suits my clothes" - lines from the Grateful Dead. Their mailing address is in South Dakota, where cars do not have to be inspected, and neither do the cars in Maryland.

Floyd knows his music. He emailed us a rhythmic piece of his thoughts as he was listening to Led Zeppelin's "Dazed and Confused."

Listen up, right here. 

Stand up and take a bow, Floyd!

Allan Heller will give a performance of his work next week at the Hatboro library. It's on my calendar. He's investigating the possibility of having brain surgery for his Parkinson's. A woman in his support group said she's 70 percent better after having the surgery.

Use your imagination and see what you think Carly is doing here..... eating watermelon? biting her nails?

Am listening to the Blues Show on WXPN. Sadly, Jack Bruce of Cream passed away today. He's considered one of the greatest bass players of all time. He ruined his liver with drug abuse and had a transplant years ago, but died of liver failure. 
Wiki - Bruce died on 25 October 2014 from liver disease in Suffolk, England, aged 71.[20] His publicist Claire Singers said: "He died today at his home in Suffolk surrounded by his family."
 

While blogging, I lost the entire contents of my blog, but decided to do it all over again.


 Donna's poem was about A Perfect Day. She and her daughter Danielle went shopping together. Donna bought some boots with buttons down the side and her daughter bought a sexy and elegant dress for her upcoming trip to London with her future in-laws and fiance.

Three people remained to read my newest short story, "Moses The Man." Thanks to Carly and Donna for reading my lengthy short story.

I had absolutely no idea what was gonna happen in the story. Let it percolate overnite but that didn't help a bit.

Am pretty happy with it.





DIVISION IN THE DARKNESS

My car knows the way
to the small lit-up church
where I go on Friday nights
to drink coffee and listen
to music but it is the
getting there, the driving over,
down the dark streets with
porch lights calling out like
beacons leading lost soldiers
home from the wars.

I am searching for Division Avenue
Off on the left
a huge grassy field
hosts thousands
of feet who play soccer
and baseball
under a blazing sun
and hidden stars

I looked at a house
overlooking the playing fields
how I wanted it
to cheer my depressions
when the mood was upon me
but the rooms were like
small caskets 
cheerless and gray

The small lit-up church
appears before me
A sign announces
Fresh Ground Coffee House
where the Decaf is free and so are
the pastries my pitiful pancreas
won’t let me eat.

The Decaf will do. 
I am there only an hour and come
home with a painting filled with
concentric circles, dots and dashes
an encoded message I fail to
comprehend, and a hot cup of
Decaf I sip on in the car.

I find my way back home
Division is empty, not a single
car down this lonesome road,
so I turn up the volume and
sing out of tune.

At home, I flood the upstairs
typing room with light that
blazes out into the darkness,
piercing spikes that a careful
astronaut may notice as
she circles the only planet
we know that has life.

Even the pens and markers
in my blue Walt Disney cup
burst with life and bright colors
and the cup feels cold as
I stroke it with my hand.
 
CAROLINE’S SPOON

In memory of Caroline 
November 28, 1922 – July 17, 2014


Meaningless now
spoon stamped
“stainless Japan
the cellar”
on sale in one of the grand
old buildings in Cleveland
our ancestral home
hers too
her mother a
gray-haired sylph
in topknot
sold furs
at Higbee’s
dead at one hundred
and three

Caroline married for
love not furs
Irv admired these
spoons as they dined
on matzo ball soup
with soft carrots and
translucent onions

“Easy to hold with
their flat bottoms!”
he laughed. Their
mirth spread across
the kitchen thinking of
their own fat bottoms.

Brian, by now, was
a late-night teen,
like the spoon,
he was adopted,
a misfit
miserable with
downturned mouth.

They tried everything
before juvenile
detention gave him
confidence
his life was over.

“So let him join the
carnival!” said Caroline
in that husky voice
bursting, I swear,
with love.

His seed impregnated
a lovely woman
Holly saw something
in that boy’s eyes,
his own mother may have
seen it when she offered
him up

Caroline was Mom’s best friend.
They met at the distribution warehouse
on St. Clair where the smell of sweat and men in
undershirts and crushed cigarettes
trailed them back home

Their friendship never expired.
When we moved next door to
Pennsylvania they laughed
over the phone, and when I answered
she’d say, “Ruthie! How are you?”

We worry about Brian
now that she’s gone
he did not visit
during the waning days
but lays in bed now
picking his lips
till they bleed
asking for
forgiveness.




1 comment:

  1. To clarify, Ruth: a woman I met at the Parkinson's walk, not in my support group, said that she was 70% better after DBS (Deep Brain Stimulation) Surgery.

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