Monday, January 25, 2016

The day after the blizzard - New poem: Mountains to climb

 What's your Rohrschach on this long tail of ice hanging from my rafters?
Breakfast omelet. Am listening to the absolutely interminable Ice Queen story by A S Byatt. She's a very poetic writer, greatly honored.

When we have time, Dear Reader, we shall read about Antonia here.

With or without cheese, I asked Scott. The lentil soup was made in the slo cooker with lentil beans, dried tomatoes, and a felicitous blend of spices.

Scott shoveled me out today, being very careful not to wrench his bad back, which he ices every 20 minutes.

I'm not going anywhere as I live on a very hilly street and will wait a while. 

Was gonna post some photos my sister Lynn sent me this a m.

One of her town house and two or three of her meals.

She is a great cook.

Why, you ask, are they not on here?

They all came out upside down and looked simply terrible... I'll show you now....

I have been waiting all day to go upstairs and submit to various online journals.

I haven't procrastinated, just had many other things to do.

Am drinking some tea that Yin brought me.  Can you see me walking carefully up the stairs and bringing it to my office?

Just submitted five poems to Velvet Tail.

Just submitted three poems to Goblin Fruit.

Most importantly, I submitted all to Hektoen International: The Psychiatrist Who Disappeared (true), The Ninety-Nine Steps (fiction) and the poem Seven Minutes in Hell.

Gloom Cupboard awaits my submissions. Can you see them jumping up n down and doing cartwheels? They just can't wait to rejec.... I mean, accept me!!!


On Martin Luther King
Service Day a blizzard
is brewing at the nature
center where I volunteer.
My fingers slowly freeze
as I carry the clippers
to a tree I must free
from smothering vines.
The icy ground has no
purchase for my boots
as I fall on my way
to the trees who
await their freedom.
Clip! Clip! Clip!
Dr King of the three
names was shot
to death
by Ray of the
three names,
James Earl Ray,
southerners both,
on opposite sides
of the copper penny.
I walk to the edge
overlooking the
Pennypack Creek.
I watch myself
being pushed
over the edge.
The killer walks
away, as I am pulled
under in my thick
layered clothing, my
pink socks underneath
leaky hiking boots.
Submerged, I think
of Martin and the
many mountains he
climbed to get his
people free.

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