Sunday, November 30, 2014

Who's Gonna Help Me Eat my Leftovers? Walk in the Pennypack - Poem: Burials

Scott and I tackled many leftovers at lunchtime.

He took the shrimp cocktail home to freeze. The curried chicken salad with grapes is delicious, but the fruit raises my blood sugar. This is the way you think when you have diabetes.

Just ate one of Sarah's fab deviled eggs, the best ever. Scott and I used to party at his sister and brother/law's in NJ, where a woman named Carole made great deviled eggs. Sadly, her husband, Steve, is being ravaged alive by cancer and has hospice at home.

Very nice man. I sent him a card awhile ago. It wasn't a get-well card. I just wrote that he had so many things to be proud of... raising a terrific family and a wife who was a great cook.

Linda Barrett lives seven minutes away from me. She and mom Jane had plenty of leftovers from Thanksgiving.

We walked the beautiful Pennypack, passing Tony's Tree, which was well taken c/o, by Tony's brother, Michael.

Look what the deer did to these saplings.

No loitering, young lady.

We saw no birds or animals, not even a single turkey, but we did see some interesting scat that we couldn't identify.

Was trying to cheer up Linda who feels she's lost her ability to write.

Said Scott, Ruth thinks that all the time. That she'll never write another poem.

We were naming things we were thankful for - our families. I told Linda she should pay money and hire a professional editor in order to help her get her work published. I told her I did dat when I wrote my novel. 

She'll never do it and it's not a question of money. It's of valuing the thing you do best and investing in it.

 Bob, across the street, put up his Xmas lites.
 He had to keep up with the Demings.

Promised myself I'd write a poem for this blog post. After dinner of delicious leftovers, I sat down and began to think. What happened today that really stuck in my mind?

Aha! I remembered. This was reported to me by Scott and was easy to visualize.


It’s a bad week for
back yard animals. Squirrel
lies in hospice, cheeks
scratched and bleeding,
lying in fallen
bed of leaves.
We grieve for him
as he takes his
last look around
the pale gray sky
his blanket

Plump gray dove
torn from flight
devoured on the run
lies, feathers scattered
on the grass
his tombstone a
reminder of life's
short run.

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