Monday, August 31, 2015

The good die young - Patrick Otis Cox - Wendy Davidson - Death of Blogspot Photos - Letter to Editor - Two new poems: The Fading Edge of Light and If on a Winter's Night

No photos on here, Folks, Blogspot has changed their 'photo mode.' Apparently they don't accept a shot from a camera.

Click on this link - it's the website of Patrick Otis Cox, who died last week of a massive heart attack. His wife - Yin Liu - found him dead in the other room. A sight she will never forget.

I apprised my Writers' Group of this last Saturday.

Before the Giant Coffeeshop and Weinrich's Bakery, we met at Le Coffee Salon in Hatboro,  owned by Yin.

Everyone made a comment about dying suddenly. Many said they'd prefer dying in their sleep.

Do we have a choice?

I'd saved so many great photos for my next blog post.

Obviously, though, this is a major loss for me.

Who out there can help me?

Today I had a Letter to the Editor published in the Intelligencer. Hope you don't mind if I print the entire thing below. Scott helped me write it.

I read Mike Fitzpatrick’s Aug. 23 column with incredulity. Like a smooth politician, the Republican congressman from the 8th District writes without saying a thing. He mentions “protecting our nation.”

We spend more than the rest of the world on defense, which needs to be totally overhauled. The VA is woefully underfunded and our veterans suffer horribly. Many are depressed or homeless and end up killing themselves. Will you work on this, Mike Fitzpatrick?

What does Fitzpatrick mean by “growing our economy”? He offers no solutions. We’ve done nothing about renewable energy and getting away from fossil fuels. Republicans like Fitzpatrick are owned by the fossil fuel corporations.

As for his “reforming our government,” the national Republicans want “no government.” They’re almost anarchists. What about a fair tax system? Will you work on that, Mike Fitzpatrick? He also talks about bipartisanship. What planet is he living on?

When Congress returns in the fall, perhaps Mike Fitzpatrick can make a strong stand on these important issues. Dare I say he might follow some of the teachings of Pope Francis, particularly on our threatened ecosystem, when he arrives at the end of September.

Ruth Z. Deming
Willow Grove
Wanted to end the Letter on a hopeful note.

I'm always racing against the clock.

By Thursday I must finish If On a Winter's Night, by Italo Calvino, wrin in 1979. Very difficult to read. Sometimes I luv it, something I hate it.

Look! Photo is straight off the Internet. 

Image result for italo calvino

Image result for patrick otis cox  Here's Patrick and Yin off the Internet at a party at my house.



Well, Calvino, my library club has chosen
your, shall we say, Bach Theme and
Variations, in font form, for our August
selection, fitting, perhaps, as the
leaves pitter-patter to the ground
not caring a whit to dazzle us anymore
just as you, at sixty, lay eyes closed
thinking perhaps of one more book to
write, no use, as rivers of blood closed
the curtains of your mind.

I’m enjoying my relationship with you
feet propped up on my red
living room couch, sipping black
coffee through a matching straw,
“sensitive and sensible soul” that
I am – how kind of you to say that –
jotting down notes for the writing club
a week hence

You’ll appreciate this, Calvino. The
library director thinks “club” has an
elitist meaning, and might change
our name to “group” as in “groups of
Jews riding the trains to Auschwitz”
Your Italian compatriot Levi survived
but then plunged headfirst from his

On to the lovely things of life
Right outside my window a
mourning dove – huge, long-tailed
freight-train gray – sways back and
forth on the branch, we know not

My copy is a paperback. In the
original Italian, the reader took
a paper knife and slit open the
pages “cutting our way through
a dense forest”

We meet Ludmilla, a fine name,
denoting, oh, a tough Russian
blonde, the definitive Brunhilde
in golden armor who – and I’m
turning my head now – has
thrust herself in Siegfried’s
funeral pyre.

There is no end to these tragedies.
We may have succeeded in saving
the monarch butterflies, easier
than the Muslims, Jews, Pro-Choicers,
these quick-flying demigods have
eaten from my milkweed puffs
in the front yard. See them flying
skyward toward the heavens?

Gone in a wink
like life aboard
the trains or
sitting on the
red couch.


I came up with an ending for this poem similar to the "Change your life" ending of a Rilke poem. Our new member Rem Murphy thought of the Rilke poem, which I couldn't remember.

Read Archaic Torso of Apollo here.

And weep, if you're a poet like me. 


That time of night when
the moon plays peak-a-boo
behind Charlie’s dogwoods
and I slip on my sandals
stand watch on the front
stoop, gaze upward for
the stars’ glitter
then take off downstream
on Cowbell.

Pumping my arms
I glide like an ice-
skater down the slope
my shorn white hair
catching the evening
breeze. What will I
see tonight?

A pacifier on the lawn
of the new people. I
toss it toward the door
then step lightly across
newly mown grass
dying in the street.

A huge chalk drawing
in the street shows
a female child with
two large cavities
above her waist.

Is this imagination
I’m seeing on Cowbell
Road? Or a prophecy.

Shall I stand outside
the window on the
lower slope and watch
the Phillies’ work their
magic on the big screen?

Greyhorse has many changes.
“I live in the grey house,” Carol
once told me. Why then the
Dumpster in front? Wayne is
moving her out. Miss Dee Mentia
has moved inside.

Do I have the stamina to make
it up the steep hill of Greyhorse,
this blink of a thought is quickly
changed as I peek from afar
in open windows and then
I see it
illuminated by the moon

A house bathed in light
its whiteness like
marble from the tombs
of Italy, Michelangelo
hovers near.

Who would I be
if I lived in that house?
A grand dame driving a
Mercedes? The leader of
a political party? A novelist
appearing on the Morning

“In other life,” my friend
Pam used to say. I am in
no hurry. Let me stand, in
my blue evening gown,
bathed in moonbeams,
and ask the gods for
an easy exit when
my time comes.

Happy birthday number five
Grace Catherine Deming.

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