Coffeeshop Writers Group - Trio of Talents - two new poems: His Daughter and Morning at Otto's

Just came from mom's, as I often do after the writers' group.

She has a hard time walking so the two of us walked up n down her driveway several times. She used her walker.

I enjoy her company.

  We tucked a red rose into the pocket on her walker, which I cut off with my pocket knife from the next door's overflowing sweet-smelling rose bush.

Am mildly pissed cause I wanted to drop off Dan's birthday gift, but his wife vetoed it b/c they're having company. First, he said Yes, then she responded in the background.

Here's the book, which I'm reading, until I give it up (to God!)



This morning, I drove my cross-the-street neighbor to the train station. We left at 6:30 am in the dark and falling rain.

She'd been up since 3, packing. She's flying to Florida to meet her mom at their condo. See poem at end.

When I got home, I decided to go out for breakfast. It cost $15 including big tip.

I took notes at the table, but never referred to them, while writing the poem.

I love going by myself. Got a little reading done

  Reads like poetry. Brown died in 2004 at age 53 of a heart attack. What a heartbreak! The guy was famous for writing terrible short stories but pursued and finally got good!

No, Matt Fuhrer of Authorized Camera Repair is not a priest. He was working next door and bought his lunch, a new item at the Giant. Egg salad sandwich on a soft roll. Swoon! (For both the lunch and the man.)

Kenny from the Giant took this photo of us at meeting's end. I'm wearing my new used sneaks from my friend Ellen R.

 We'll start with Martha. This is a 'stock photo' I have of her.

She read two excellent pieces, creative nonfiction is the official name.

M J GETS CAUGHT is the story of her misadventures when she attends Kutztown University, where she graduated as a communications major.

Free from the rules at home, she dates a variety of "oddballs" and possibly a "sociopath" or two. When she and a very nice but very pushy guy were parked in lover's lane, he got aggressive, but she was saved by a bright light.

It was a police officer, who asked her, "Aren't you Mr. Mack's daughter?"

ABIGAIL AND THE PREACHER was about a young lady with a stubborn streak who was about to be inducted into a polygamous malevolent cult when she saved herself.

More to follow next week.

Carly, who has the wonderful habit of hugging everyone, brought two lovely pieces.

But, first, a word about my new used clothes. I gave some flowing wide pants - with floral patterns - to her.

The clothes are airing out on the back porch b/c they smell like they were washed in Chanel No. 5.
Perfume! I hate it. Achoo!

Also, you'll see my black canvas.

An image of the rose will appear on the canvas.

About a year ago, Carly wrote a story about NAILS, the nickname of a roofer, who she read about in the obits.

She composed a nice story about him.

Now, she wrote another story, this time about a true story everyone but me has heard of.

THE ANNIVERSARY  GIFT concerns a newly married couple, madly in love with one another, and the woman gets a brain tumor. They're gonna move to Oregon where "doing yourself in" is legal.

WALT'S GRIN is about a story by Marion Callohan who wrote about a mentally challenged young man who "takes a risk" every time he tries to meet new friends. His mom, Patti, pushes him in a wheel chair.

Note to Carly:  If you wish, you can leave comments on the digital version of the Intelligencer. I do this upon occasion.

My two poems. Told Marf and Carly I was really scared I wouldn't remember how to write a poem b/c it's been maybe an entire month since I've wrin a poem.

So I went into the 'poetry department' of my brain and tickled it with some music by Alison Krause



I really got into the first poem I wrote - His Daughter - and was totally there in my living room writing about it.

HIS DAUGHTER

Hate to bother you

oh I hate to be a bother

Come in, I enthused

and watched her step

over the threshold

I’ve never been inside, she said,

her eyes going upward to the

cathedral ceiling as I saw my

house anew

I moved the black Glad Bags

of used clothes from a woman who

donated ten grand to the Southern

Poverty Law Center in a manic flight

and bade her sit on the velvety

red couch.

I always thought of her as

Charley’s daughter, the man I

knew more about than even

his own wife. She was a celebrity

in my eyes. His fingertips, I said,

weren’t they sliced off?

Yes, he told the woman to turn

off the machine and she thought

he said “turn it on.” They buried him

that way, the man who saw his

future wife at church and said,

“I’m going to marry Nan.”

Linda, with an easy smile that

flashed moon-white teeth,

learned what she could of this

older woman across the street

whose light goes on and stays

on at three in the morning,

while not a car drives by or

a dog barks.

As the psychiatrists say,

I am “guarded” but she

does not know that. As she

talks about the neighbors,

one in particular, the rapist

up the street. If he’s like his

twin brother, dead from drinking

at forty-five, he’s got no teeth

and is a kind man when sober.

They put them away for a

long long time, that’s what they did back

then – he must’ve been drunk when

he sawed out a window unit

and entered the stranger’s bedroom

but not her, the penis he was so

proud of, failing,

damn, he must be the laughing

stock of Graterford.

I leaned forward and stared.

Her body was like a stuffed sausage

one of those Bratwursts they have

at Otto’s. Her gall bladder,

she said pointing. When they scooped it out

her body couldn’t process fat and

she “ballooned” up.

Must Charley’s daughter remain a

maiden aunt to the end of her

days? A purveyor of fine tales

to women who would listen?

A watcher of the moon

rising over the dogwood

in the front yard of the

house her father built?  

*

But there was a second poem I must write. And fast. Time was moving on. Group was at 1:30 and it was now 12:45 pm.

*

A MORNING AT OTTO’S BRAUHAUS

God is crying raindrops

as I pull into the parking

lot, I cannot pay attention

to his grief right now, and

seat myself in the bright

room, next to the window

where God and the rain

have disappeared.

Am surprised at the

table of Koreans

below a mural of a

castle in Rhineland

and push away thoughts

of God crying for the

Nazi-baited population

and the death of my people

The Koreans surprise me,

not because they have ordered

fluffy waffles and various types

of sausage, but, when I look up

from my menu, they have bowed

their heads in prayer.

A God-denier, I like that.

Samantha says she will give me

coffee for free – it is Lucas, strong

and deep, addictive, if you let yourself –

free, because I only order the three egg

omelet with ham and peppers and two

types of cheese.

I have diabetes, I tell her, and …..

“I know,” she says. “My husband

has it.” He sticks the needle in his

big fat belly. “Oh, I have the fat belly,

too,” – she shakes her head no

“mine’s filled with black and blue marks” – his is

too, “that’s why I use my butt and arms,” I laugh.

The coffee goes down easy.

I am thinking of getting take-out

to sip on all day. What? To have

Parkinsonian symptoms in my

typing hands?

The yellow egg dish arrives

like The Magic Mountain of

Thomas Mann, the onions

are crisp and delicious

as Samantha, in a Heidi of

the Alps dress, with low

cleavage, arrives often

to check on me.

I have come to this faraway

place, not to forgive the Nazis,

but to pay homage to Stephen

and Arleen. We last met here

two years ago, when the seeds

of his cancer were percolating

like hot coffee in his gut

plotting their attack.

Hitler’s attacks were broadcast

all over the world, but Stephen’s

virus was guarded, its brigadier

general biding his time. A sadist,

he cared not about suffering,

only about the triumphal march

that was a knock-out, total

victory, that he watched

at Goldstein’s Funeral Home

in Southampton.

Wiping my mouth I stood up,

pushed in my chair, lifted up

my blue hood for the rain,

and walked out.

“Thanks, Samantha,” I

waved, and walked out

into God’s gentle rain.