Thursday, March 10, 2016

New photo of me for the upcoming Intel story - Poem: While Reading Brooklyn - Poem: Back to the Jungle

This foto could be anything atall. Use your Rorschach abilities.

I'm gonna make it be a thick broth with large noodles, slices of carrots, and what are those round wheels in there?

In truth it's all the veggies I wanted to use up. I had HUGE onions and zucchinis. Then after shopping I added, from the salad bar, celery and peppers.

The flavor? Ahem. Well, it's okay. I used Kraft Swiss Cheese, going back on my philosophy of not using the product of a corporate giant, but, hell, I love their cheese.

Now, see the bowl I used? Bot it at a garage sale long ago. When you touch it, the bowl is HOT, unlike any other bowl I've got.

Part Two of organizing my CDs was to put em - just now - upon the shelf I'd painted. I hadn't realized how beautiful the covers are. Smaller, certainly, than the vinyl covers of yester year.

Finished my story for the Intell, even tho it's not gonna run until the day after spring...Sunday, March 20.

Did tons of online research and talked about pagan holidays, Passover, Easter, and a huge service that's held on the steps of the Lincoln memorial at sunrise on Easter morn.

Image result for sunrise service lincoln memorial

The first time I heard of sunrise services - out doors - was when I worked as a therapist at Bristol-Bensalem Human Services.

How exciting, I thought, and always wanted to write a poem or short story about it.

I can put it on my "Wanna Write List."

The strangest thing happened thother morning. I woke up with the thought "Celia Hollander." And looked her up on FB.

Could not remember the names of her other sisters. Her mom was Iris. I babysit the kids. Well, Celia remembered me, this is a truly amazing family. Dad died real young of a heart attack. Mom is still alive.

Since me own mom didn't work outside the home, I was fascinated by the many things Iris did while raising her family. I'd never known anyone like dat. The beginning of a new era of working women, which had started during WW2.   

Did I tell you our Shaker Heights next door neighbor, June Biskind died? We have no idea why, tho. The family all moved to AZ when her husband was jailed.

Mom would call June once a year.

Mom: the switchboard, the connector. Wonder what part of the brain does dat?  Hold on, we'll find out.

Oh, YOU figger it out. These PhDs take 100 words to say a simple thought. 

Tonite I watched the film SPOTLIGHT about the Boston Globe exposing the Archdiocese of Boston and their sex scandal.

Excellent film loaned to me on flashdrive by Robin from the Giant. Scott will watch the morrow.

In my thank-you email to her just now, I wrote: excellent, subtle, underplayed, well-acted, slowly building suspense.

Had a good nite sleep and then - presto - woke up. Wrote a letter to a woman from our group who called me outa the blue.

Brain-injured in auto accident. Can't think straight. Tragic.

Am wearing a pink top from my Macy's shopping spree. First Scott took the pic in his middle bedroom with white walls. You couldn't find me. I was camouflaged. Twould've been perfect if I were hiding from the law.

So we came outside.

Does it seem like my head is poking forward? That I "lead" with my head?

To that point....Right now, next day, am listening to audio book in kitchen called "Remarkable Creatures."

The narrator talks about a woman "who leads with her jaw?"

Coincidence? I haven't yet figured out my Einsteinian hypothesis for why things like this happen.

I'm also submitting stuff tonite to online mags. 

I learned I can write a poem any time I wish.

Here's one I wrote yesterday.


The book has a nice feel to it
the perfect volume
you've come to love

the print ascending
through the cool air
pinkening your cheeks

and find yourself aboard
a ship with narrow stairs
and dearth of toilets
when you have to go

I try not to think of
our own cruise ship
how it shapes up
against this pilgrim
ship, but it can't
be helped

I remember, like she
does, the bright starry
lights of the city getting
smaller, suddenly
you're free, and wonder
how would it feel
to drown?

Our late-nite snack
brought by Medrash
under stainless steel cover
mounds of
scrambled eggs and
burnt toast

Then walk in white
robe to deck, no one
there but the plastic chairs
and rattle of bottles
in the trash

Gasp at the stars
too brilliant for
this mortal mind
to grasp, but bring
a fistful down the stairs
to sleep with and
dream of home.

Just wrote this one.


Firm soprano sax takes us
back to the jungle
no longer five in the morning
with darkness all around
I sprint to the Amazon
hover high in a nest above
the trees

Like the birds, a hello
ceremony is played
from the wood-carved
instruments, their
tiny holes covered with
brown fingertips, how
fast they move, like
mating birds

Back in the straw hut
we women skitter. Bowls
of lizard stew are
served, bringing strength
to our brown-skinned

Will you stay? asks the
man with the lizard tatoo
across his face. He, tall,
muscled, sipping his
tea, cracks a smile.

I muse. 

Image result for african musical instruments blow

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