Thursday, July 6, 2017

Chris Amato to the Rescue - Poem: Defense against Gloom - Birthday Greetings for Iris

Now the truth can be told. I was driving around with expired ....


registration stickers?

It was the holiday weekend and no one would see me. Except for Chris Amato on Heaton Road.

Nice guy, personable. But does he know how to fix cars?

Yes! He gave me four new tires. Said mine were threadbare. So now I've got my Emission Sticker and the Registration Sticker in the front window.

You just don't wanna get a ticket! The worst time was when I pulled into the Upper Moreland Police Station the only way to get to the library.

Don't worry, they were huddled like football players in a conference call.

My sister Ellen had recommended Chris and the boys.

Wrote Defense Against Gloom this morning. Photos first.


A fresh cup of coffee.
The poetry of Lord Byron.
A new pair of socks.

The blue house on the corner.
The John Deere tractor mowing
across the street.
Green against green.

Watery survival of the
floppy-eared caladium
Heavenly blue color
of the many-petaled

Umbrellas of all different
colors carried down sidewalks
and avenues and the unknown
Bear Boulevard.


The fresh cup of coffee I'm drinking now, courtesy of Pal Iris.

My sock drawer is in the living room. I found a pair of dead socks at Masons Mill Park, brought em home, washed em and wear them upon occasion.

You cannot go barefoot in the kitchen in the summer. Your feet stick like suction cups to the floor.


Mailed the Fleishers a thank-you card for hosting me and Scott. Found Mailman Dante up the street who tucked it into his Satchel, Paige.

The cover was from the Michener Museum. The back was stapled with a bunch of cardboard and then covered with aluminum foil. I kept stapling and Scotch-taping so it would remain intact.

The coffee is very good. The Jamaican from Iris.

It's her birfday today. Guess I'll write a poem about her. Let's see. It's 2:47 now. See you in a few.  3:18 pm.


When she arrived at Goddard College
in the rolling hills of Vermont,
she was already a poet, had a few
paramours back in Brooklyn and
dressed with panache.

Literature and men were her
calling. So sophisticated!

Over the years this daughter
of Gertrude and Harry rode
the Wild Horses of the Plains
toward social justice, like
Uncle Sammy, urging her
steed onward to challenge
the evils of this world.

Still does.

Her friends gather like
honeybees online, but I
call her The Coffee Maiden.

Here I sit on Red Couch sipping
a luscious Jamaican Blend she sent me,
a tribute to her many-colored
progeny, her generosity, her
I'll be there for you, always.

Let's sing the Birthday Song
together. I suppose Gabby will
have the first piece of cake,
but do save me a big piece, so
I can imbibe my Dear Friend
Iris, the poet activist from
Goddard College.

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