Wednesday, April 12, 2017

Finally get desktop upstairs fixed - Plethora of Poems

My neighbor George, orig from Colombia, schlepped my computer over to Joe at Classic Computers to be fixed. For 8 months, nothing would DELETE. But I've got all my stories and poems up here. It's where I do my composing. I use an old operating system, a simpler operating system, which is fine by me.

Joe fixed 148 "infections" in two days. Told me he himself uses MalwareBytes, so George installed it for me. He's 23 yrs old. Really sweet kid. The whole neighborhood loves his dog Chico he got from the pound.

On Netflix I watched most of a doc on Joe Cocker. Heartbreaking. The guy couldn't stop drinking and drugging. He was at Woodstock. Watch a clip here.

Scott and I watched the TCM film Fort Dobbs, starring Clint Walker, who I used to watch back in Cleveland when he played Cheyenne.

The dude is still alive at 89.  Virginia Mayo was also in the film. Scuse me while I find out what happens at the end. Oh, a young Brian Keith tried to rape Va. but guess who saved her.

Dyou understand what's going on?

On the trail, an outlaw called Clett kills a Comanche who's about to bushwhack Gar, saving his life. Gar doesn't trust him, though, because Clett is carrying cases of rifles that he could be selling to the Indians rather than to soldiers at the fort.
Clett tries to take advantage of Celia, but even though Gar comes to her aid, Celia no longer trusts him because she's found the jacket Gar stole. It belonged to her husband, so Celia is now convinced that Gar murdered him, making her a widow.

Image result for clint walkerThe new thrift shop in Hatboro called Heavens Treasures closed at 8 pm last night. I drove over intent on buying new shorts and then sleeveless blouses.

Found many new pairs. Nothing worse than being cooped up in a tiny fitting room, balancing on one foot at a time while you try on a pile of shorts.

Rule: You are never gonna lose weight. If you can't snap the top button, do not buy the shorts.

Managed to find about 4 or 5 pair which are hanging in the laundry room downstairs.

Wrote an absy fantastic poem about my new purchases but Facebook, for some reason, would not lemme post them.

I kept a copy of it on Notepad, which disappeared when my downstairs laptop uploaded an hour's worth of useless shit.

I rarely let myself go on FB unless I've got a poem to put on there. It's 5 am now. Shall I go offline and write a poem?

"A lotta great art goes down the drain," said Neil Young, who I'm listening to now.

Watched a fascinating true story on YouTube. The story of Nurse Edith Cavell. Now I'd heard of her but I never knew her full story.

She was tried by the Germans b/c she saved both British and German soldiers, and was branded a traitor. She was hanged.


Be silent
Be silent when you wake up
in the morning light drizzling
thru your lavender drapes

Listen to the sounds of the world
whether the cars splashing up the
street – oh, so it rained last night! – or
the mournful whistle of the passenger train

Are you afraid to hear the
whispers in your own mind?
Give them room
Give them space
They have a right to be heard!

There’s that squirrel again
outside on the back porch
the same one I saw last week
Peering at me as he nibbles
an acorn – or is it a dreidl? –
as the world enfolds us both, unconcerned.


"I think there's a basic human need
to express to other people," said
the once famous guitarist, known
as "The Godfather of Fusion."

He died the other day in a hotel in
New York City. Did the concierge
know who the white-haired man was?
Had he heard him play?

Before his final sleep, we imagine
him looking out his third-story
window, strains of a new song
knitting in his restless mind.

Guitar case in the corner next
to the desk, he blew it a kiss
as he shut off the air-conditioner
and climbed under the cool sheets.

Watching the white ceiling
he looked forward to having
an English muffin with
orange marmalade for
breakfast the next day.


I awaken to the smell
of coffee. How can
it be? I live alone
but for the occasional
mice who visit, real
ones, not like in
the cartoon Cinderella.

Why, it's the coffee
filter, deposed and
reclining in the
recyclable bin
doomed to be
ground to bits
come Thursday

Today's not a
coffee day. How
much sleep can
a person miss?

On the other hand
perhaps I'll make
just a small cup
bring it outside
to greet the day
and feel warm
all over.


Though April bodes to be
free of snow, though no man
is a Nostradamus, I must
hearken to the brave
pillars of snow that
have yet to melt in
the warm sunshine.

The supermarket has
gateways of smokey-
gray mounds: Enter
and partake of
my goods.

Bring your bonus card
and cacophany
of coupons that
hold up the line.

But it's not like
we're in a hurry
and neither are the
smokey-gray pillars
that piddle over
the asphalt.



Lovingly draped over my
wooden drying rack in the
downstairs laundry room

are my new summer clothes
all of whom met for the
first time as they

spun around the washing
machine, twirling, dancing,
laughing perhaps

as dirt of the ages
stormed out the filter

I read an article in
the Times that a man
was so distraught
by the death of his

He became a Rosicrucianist
so he could meet her in
the way beyond

It is not unthinkable
that at this hour in
the night

My new apparel are
dosey-doeing with
one another

Linking arms, each
one wishing to be
the first chosen

to be worn on what
promises to be a
warm day of sunshine

where the owner of
the shorts - all with
mandatory pockets -

will place acorns, tiny
pine cones, and other
toppled-down offerings

from Mother Nature on
our Let's-Keep-It-Blue

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