The danger is that my blood sugar zigged and zagged all day long.
Sent in my two writings for the Montgomery County Community College Writing Competition. The instructions were very poorly written.
Both Martha and Freda read my selections and said Yes! Martha read my 250-word fiction piece - Soulmates - and said it made her cry.
I'll print the poem - Krissy and Tom - at the end b/c the font is different. I chose the name Krissie as I read part of Chrissie Hynde's memoir Reckless. I've always liked that name. But I won't name my next child Krissy.
Ada sent me an Inquirer article about new music awards. Mark Padmore, British tenor, was among them. She knows that Sarah and I stayed at his country home near London when we visited Paris and London in 2013. On FB, Sarah said that she attended the award ceremony. I spose it was in Manhattan.
I knew I wanted to write him a letter of congratulations. A letter? C'mon. A poem. I called it I DO NOT WANT TO SPEND MY LIFE TRAVELING. He said that during an interview. In the poem I quoted lines from his songs.
It only cost $1.20 to mail. The closest PO - Bryn Athyn - had three cop cars in there - so I went to the Huntingdon Valley PO, with a bag full of stamps.
I thought they'd like our American stamps.... two gingerbread houses and one Ingrid Bergman.
A lil over a week ago, I wanted to get some of my unpublished short stories published. Literary Yard has never said No to me.
W/o even revising it, I sent over The Obituary Writer - quite long - and they published it.Am guessing it was rejected 8 times prior. Even tho I knew I liked it, I had little idea what it was about or how long it was.
Creatures of the Night will be published by The Lengendary. I've never heard of it either but it's great to find a new venue. The editor gave me a nice compliment about the 'devastatingly painful events' of my late brother David's passing.
KRISSY AND TOM
Krissy at
the red light
awaits the
lovely green
arrow and
here it comes
made to
order. With deft
hands she
makes her left
but –
what’s this? – a truck
crashes
through, she honks
as quickly
as Jimmy Rollins
throwing
home, proceeds
down Davisville,
thinking of
her car as
a grey trotting
mare,
well-fed, its shine
reflecting
the day’s December
sunlight.
Kremp Florist on
the left
mouths “special deals”
red
poinsettias – should I? –
she
wonders. Nay, Blue Bloods
awaits her
on Netflix. Tom Selleck
regal
behind his thick mustache
needs her
help in solving Tuesday’s
crime. A
crazy woman, Jennifer, heard
God speak
from a tree. The crime is
solved,
thanks to her perspicacity.
Watching,
while munching peanuts,
Krissy
remembers when she, too, was crazy,
little
Krissy, locked up behind thick
steel
doors. Wasn’t it Kubler-Ross,
the Death
& Dying doctor who said, The
only people
who speak the truth are the elders
among us
and the psychotics.
Krissy
drove hundreds of miles cross country
watching
flocks of sheep on the Great Plains,
tall thorny
saguaro in New Mexico,
a total
of ten
years on that Secretariat of hers
until she
left her psychosis behind.
Damn it
all! Being normal is not all
it’s
cracked up to be. “Boring, if you
ask me,”
she said to the maple tree.
- Ruth Z.
Deming
Note: The Montco instrux didn't say where to put your name - sometimes they want it 'blind' - so I stuck it on at the end.
I DO NOT WANT TO
SPEND MY LIFE TRAVELING
“I have been a man
of
action and have
fought
for my country at
sea”
One
of those tiny fruit
flies
we find that hangs
around
the apricots in
the
market took a liking
to
him, and perched
atop
his ear.
What
the fly knew of music
would
surprise you, his
double
set of wings made
such
a delightful noise the
honey
bees came ‘round to
listen
and hum along.
Padmore,
newly awarded
a
Musical America
Award,
called
the wife and kids,
blowing
kisses over the
transatlantic
phone, then
turned
his attention to
the
odd itch above his
satiny
ear.
With
his tenor’s silky
fingers
he lightly tapped
the
winged fly then pledged
his
protection as he spun
“Heav'n smiles once
more”
across
the room
With
his open honeyed mouth
notes
spun like silver swans
gliding
along the gilded
ceiling.
He, Padmore, as
a
lad, knew nothing of
open-mouthed
opera,
as
he and his terrier roamed
the
plains searching for
seashells
and shiny rocks
then
slipped home just
in
time for dinner.
What
was this, then,
finding
himself fifty
years
later on a stage
dogless
and mostly
hairless
named a
winner
of a contest he
hadn’t
even entered.
I
will sing to the end of
my
days till the stars
fall
from the sky and
Vicky
and Maisie and Elsie
must
peel me off the stage.
And
bring, if you
please,
chocolates.
Cadbury
Dark with the
caramel
filling. Run on
down
to the corner store.
We’ll
share.
<>
When Scott and I were napping together I had a mild anxiety attack about sending the poem. It's very different!
ROCKFORD FILES WITH SPECIAL GUEST STAR
They’ve
all been on, James Woods, Buddy Ebsen, Marty Milner and now a phone call on his
answering machine summoned him.
“Hey,
Scott,” said Garner in his slow Los
Angeles drawl. “We’re hiring an extra, a train fixer, call
me right away.”
The
limo picked him up at his blue rancher on Cowbell, his girlfriend waving
goodbye.
Rockford himself took his
duffel bag at the airport and placed it in the back seat of his Firebird.
The
car screeched and took off on the famed Interstate, slowly at first, then
finding an opening, Rockford
switched gears and zoomed through a slowly chugging line of
cars.
Scott’s head swiveled back and he looked at the unfamiliar surroundings. The
sun
was blinding his hazel eyes.
“Ya
wanna try it, buddy?”
“Sure,”
said Scott, “when we get to the trailer.”
They
came to a smooth stop. Who do you think was waiting outside, beer in hand?
“Rocky!”
shouted Scott, grabbing his hand. “Water for me, I’m not old enough to drink,”
he laughed.
“How
old are you, boy?” asked the dad.
“Why,
today’s my birthday,” he said, pushing his red Phillies’ cap back on his head.
“Fifty-seven.
We’ve got these cold Decembers back in PA.”
Rockford found his name on
an endless online blog, knew he was a train fixer, a left-handed mechanic.
“We’re
having some trouble with some cheap golf carts we rented for our episode “Who’s
the Robber Here?” with – ever heard of Sharon Spelman, Scotty?”
“Nope.” “Oh,
she’s a pretty one.”
Scott
looked around. Just like on TV, with the beach off in the distance. He’d make
sure to get in a swim.
“Wanna
grab some chow, bud?”
Scott
chuckled. “I’m not much for tacos but I tell you what. You take me to a place
that has a salad bar and I’ll fix any old goddamn thing you have and give you
my autograph.”
“Sold!”
cried Rockford.
<>
Don't just sit there with your arms crossed. Get up and cheer.... or boo.... show some emotion.
BTW, when I submitted my work to The Legendary, I went a little out of character - believe me, these editors don't brook no nonsense, and I said something like, Mayhap you've been waiting for years for Ruth Z Deming to finally submit her poetry.
Oh! here's my new photo... it's my FB photo.
No dice. Can't find it. Here's the old one.
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