Retrieved Lillian Burnley poems

At last count, I do my work on three computers. Yes, tres confusing. I'm upstairs in the Study working on my desktop where the bulk of my writing resides, impossible to locate all the poems. Must be a hundred or more. I sat here for hours reading the contents of my documents, trying to find my Mrs Burnley poems.

I'm still missing one, a story she told me about a "contemporary" of her son's, an acquaintance, who jumped to his death off a bridge. Gee, lemme take one more quick look.

OMG! I found it. I entered the word "bridge" in the search engine and up she came.

I've found a couple which I'll print below. Here's the hastily composed one for her retirement party. I asked the M C if I could read it and she said Yes. I can't remember who that might have been.

At the party I made the acquaintance of state rep Tom Murt and wangled my way to sitting next to him. I always try to sit next to an interesting person and learn their story. What a story he had, deployed to Iraq in his early 40s, a war we should never have entered, this Republican confided to me.

Is it too much to ask my readers to read these four poems? Stories, really. They're called narratives.

FAREWELL TO MY FAVORITE LIBRARY DIRECTOR

On the retirement of Lillian Burnley

I shall miss you
Lillian Burnley
more than you'll know.

Our quick chats
squeezed between
mountains of work

Your colorful blouses:
large flowers blooming across
your body as if clinging
forever to the one
they love most

The way you spoke so kindly to your staff
the way you refused to take credit
for the greatness of the library
though really it was yours.

When I saw your rock as paperweight
I knew we were kindred souls
You are that rock.

They can hire a million librarians.
Graduates from famous universities
the Librarian of Congress himself
But nowhere will they find another
you, another Lillian,

The only woman who
when I call you on the phone
answers as if she were
expecting my call
all along.

- Ruth Z. Deming
March 9, 2007
Williamson’s Restaurant


WHAT I SAW WHILE WAITING FOR MRS. BURNLEY

They said Mrs. Burnley would be along soon
after she finished helping the elderly gentleman find
a large-print biography of Winston Churchill

I saw them in the stacks, their heads together,
lifting one book, then another, and putting them
back on the shelf, like the slow peal of bells.

While waiting for Mrs. Burnley, I saw a
book lying on a table that no one was sitting at.
“The Chinese Way,” it read. From my perch near
the reference desk, where I intended to stay
first in line, I stretched my arm over to the
table and slid off the book.

I hadn’t much time to learn about Chinese ways.
Mrs. Burnley could return at any moment.
So I started reading as fast as I could about
a concept called Qi. It had something to do with
balance but I couldn’t pay attention because I
was arrested by those two letters – the Q and the i.

I am talking here about looks
and looks only, not the deeper meaning of things:
the tall rounded Q with the tail of a cat – how suddenly
beautiful it looked to me now – with the i
standing in its shadow.

I snapped my mind back to book,
but, alas, it was too late.
A mother and child were coming my way,
coming, it seemed, to stand behind me at the reference desk,
I was shaking with fear that my sense of peace
would be violated by unsyncopated noise.

But there was no noise at all. It was all done in silence,
the mother and child locked in that eternal power
struggle that dominates the universe.

The child’s knees stiffened in disobedience as the mother
dragged her across the floor like a mule a plow.

At the last moment – glory be to God! – they veered toward
the children’s videos – and I stared with everlasting gratitude
at the stubby pencils placed there for the convenience
of the patrons.

“I’m so sorry to keep you waiting,” said Mrs. Burnley,
as she hunched up her skirt. She is a remarkable woman,
a woman with dangling eyeglasses and black nurse’s shoes
that go "squoosh,"
the only woman, who, when you call to find out the
capital of North Carolina, answers the phone as if
she were expecting your call all along.

MRS. JACKSON WILL RETIRE IN APRIL

May I say Mrs Jackson that you shall be missed
that is what the greeting cards say anyway
You shall be missed.

I however shall not say that
Forgive me.

Instead I hugged you when you told me
you were leaving
your shoulders heaving

I came round to your side of the desk

and instead of grasping your knees and
kissing your sore water-logged feet
put my small thin arm around your
corpulant shoulders
saying, It’ll never be the same
without you
meaning
I will never be the same without you.

The proof of her departure
was mounting
a horse nearing the finish line
dragging
limping
rolling on the gravel of the race track
ready to be put out to pasture
broken
You had lost, in bygone days, your stance as thoroughbred.

I watched in silent horror as the clues
mounted
and tried not to look:
magnified computer screen
orthopedic shoes
walker
and now some contraption
the final indignation
a knee-high blue boot

Once at a program you hosted
I sat in the back
and imagined you as you once were
a girl
with a beautiful face
opulent breasts
that enveloped three children
eyes big as the sun

Not as you were that day
behind the podium
a full-jowled diabetic
tethered four times a week
to a machine where
people lost the battle in the wintertime
gallant Napoleons meeting
their Waterloo,
gauze bandages
littering your
bruised arms
meaty arms
dripping like the silk
of an empress's dress

You believe in an afterlife
We are not descended
from apes
but made of immortal fire
in the image
of our Lonesome Creator
who needs us to keep Him warm

Long ago
Your God sent you Bob
to row you across your
sea of dreams
till death do you part

never dreaming
that your keenest sense
O Librarian
would become
your long swiveling
Buddah ears.


THE WRONG BRIDGE

On Fridays, Mrs. Burnley sits in her chair with arms
at her desk in the library while
I, a disciple, wait for orders on the other side.
We are talking about tragedies
about terrible things that befall people -
slowly: like the inching in of a disease
or quickly: like a tree smashing your roof.

Now Mrs. Burnley tells of a suicide
suffered by a friend of her son's.
"It is something," she says,
"to lose a con-tem-po-rary."

Yes, he was dying from Hodgkins,
married only two years, I think;
two years and
didn't want to be a burden.

Can you blame him?

So he drove to Allentown and
dove off a bridge, a good way to go,
we presume,

But, alas, the bridge wasn't high enough,
Not one of the gigantic ones,
this was Allentown, you see,
a small city with small bridges.

So he dove
and lived
not for long,
but long enough.

"Why?" I asked Mrs. Burnley,
"why in God's name didn't he
drive further -
to Pittsburgh
the City of Three Rivers -
Surely the bridges are higher in Pittsburgh!”

Then stood on top,
gazed at the Steel Town and the
lit-up tall buildings,
thought of his wife's hair
her wedding eyes
the kids they'd never bear.

He could've dove at night
when the buildings were all lit up,
his figure would be just a
piece of coal
falling into the river below
a piece of coal dust
the color of his wife's eyes
falling onto one of the three rivers,
O, Widow that I am.

Now, after I published the Bridge Poem on my blog, a woman killed herself by jumping off a bridge in England. Oh-oh, I thought, I better take it off the Internet so no one gets any ideas.

So, don't get any ideas, you hear?

It's been a long time, Judy - Hello Grace - Poem: Helicopter Man

Armed with foolproof directions for the 40-minute trek to the home of Judy Diaz, whom I haven't seen in a couple of years, I pulled up to her condo and photographed it.

Not much of a picture, but it's good enuf to remind me of all the fun times I'd spent at her house. Judy will move to Boulder, CO, to live near her son Michael and dtr/law Tory, whom I have already immortalized in my poem "Lakota."

Traveling down Street Road to find her place was like being on a speeding interstate highway, except that gaudy signs assault you from either side of the road. On my way home I saw a spectacular sight I wish I could've photographed:

Our Lady of Fatima, a Spanish-style church and school, stood like a bulwark of integrity, while behind it, the Philadelphia Race Track flashed huge screens summoning the public with fireworks to come gamble inside and bet on the horses.

Yep, right into the confessional with you, after you've spent the family money for a day at the track. Thank you Father Meehan for absolving me. Judy and I used to work as therapists at The Atrium in Bensalem. Our suite of rooms is now an accounting firm. See above.

Judy's house is filled with antiques. Her mom was an antique dealer and Judy inherited many of "Mother's" things. Since she's showing her house, she can tell that young people sniff their noses as these once-priceless objects. One man insulted her by asking, "Will it be easy to remove the kitchen wallpaper?"

She and I are both Luddites and proud as hell of it!

Judy and her ex-husband Andy traveled extensively. She bought these b'ful objects in New Delhi

Now let's step outside into her backyard. She is a master gardener, though most of the garden has bit the November dust.

Dazzling fiery-red pyrocantha. She gave me a scissors so I could snip the thorn-ed wonders and bring them home to my window sill.



I also took these morning glory pods.

What we won't do for a little bit of beauty!

Hopefully the pods aren't the same as those in "Invasion of the Body Snatchers." Don't go to sleep, Dana Wynter, don't go to sleep.

I drove home with a satchelfull of DVDs and VHRs she lent me. I was so exhausted, I lay on my couch and watched - and slept through parts of - a documentary about how the Mormons poured millions of dollars into defeating Proposition 8 in California, nullifying gay marriages. Though Jesus Christ is a god of love, the Mormons hate gays. God speaks directly to the senior prophet of the Mormans. He gave the word to Go all out and get them gays.

We all have temptations, say the Mormons, we're not perfect. Sure, we may be tempted to wander and try having carnal relations w/ the same sex, but it's up to us to know the difference between right and wrong. And, lordie, lordie, I swear on the memory of Joseph Smith, our founder, that being gay is wrong. It says so in the Bible.

A little therapy and medicine will fix it. Interviews are done w/gay men who were giving aversive conditioning w/electrodes and drugs to quell their natural urges. A few men killed themselves after the sessions. Utah has the highest suicide rate in the nation, according to the documentary, with gays killing themselves b/c they can't take the pressure from the families.

On to more pleasant things, but we've all got to be aware of what's going on in our community, Mitt, don't you think?

Grace left her phone here.

Champion walker. She's wearing "Chucks."



Grace, 15 months, changed her m.o. when she came to Bubby's yesterday. Instead of going straight for the stairs, she headed for my kitchen. That is, after she made sure the living room was to her liking: Hmmm, I don't like these books on the coffee table, I think I'll sweep them to the floor. What? You're listening to WXPN? I'll find something better.

She loved my kitchen cupboards, esp. a box of flex-straws I have. She would take one out and hand it to me, and then another and another.

Mom, said Dan, she'll do that until there are no more straws left in the box.

After they left, Scott and I went for a walk on a new trail at Pennypack. The boy scouts had built a bridge on it. We walked a good 20 minutes and then there were no more signs so we never did get to the bridge. We did not wanna get lost in the woods that are Pennypack, so we grumblingly turned around.

I think I'll go to my poetry group, after all, I told Scott. I'd cancelled my appearance saying I had too much to do (kidney memoir). I did complete a new poem, which you'll read below. I still can't look at it tho I'm pleased with it.

After I printed up 9 copies I decided not to go. That's when I called Judy Diaz and invited myself over.

The one and only....Helicopter Man!

THE HELICOPTER MAN

At almost midnight
I step outside
blinded by my living room lights,
tottering a moment on my
front porch steps,
I hear it:
a small buzz a few houses down
the crickets have left
the bumblebees too
the distant sun is
closing us down
here on Cowbell Road

beneath a streetlight
a man I know only as Mike
faces the sky
performing a ritual
for his wife and his sons
sacred as the prayers
of the Algonquins
he prays alone
as I back inside
to leave him to his:

Mike is the Helicopter Man.
his tiny model
with its dreadfully pumping wings
soars above the denuded maples
can the planets view it?
pick up signals from the electrifying whirr and buzz?
or see the sweating blue-eyed man with cragsome brow
whose intensity
wills the plane to soar ever
higher?
What he doesn’t realize is
he is out there
casting a cosmic spell over the
sleeping inhabitants of Cowbell
asking the gods that no harm shall
come to our quiet street,
as a fistful of feathers
falls unseen to his feet.

Garbage Night - The Empresses' New Clothes - Poem: My Five Stages of Grief for the White Fence

Nicole and Baby Grace. Nicole wrote on her Facebook page that Grace now weighs over 9 pounds. Believe it or not, when you hold her, she feels very heavy. At our New Directions meeting last nite, Fontaine said, "How's the baby?"

"Fine," I said.

"How much does she weigh," she asked.

"How come nobody asks ME how much I weigh," I said.

"It's all about the baby," said Fontaine, who ran the Family Group last nite. Neither she nor I are in the family way.

Leave it to me to put up an unflattering photo of me clothes-shopping at Impact Thrift. I went on a non-manic buying spree for my Fall Wardrobe. Luckily, if you're an old lady you get 25% off. My entire bill, which included a Susi garlic press for $2, a new griddle-for-2-eggs to replace the one I burned to death this morning, cuz when I was making my pear sauce I turned on the wrong burner, and a red thermos just like the one I used to have. See, we don't change all that much.

They didn't believe I was an old lady until I told them I'm sixty-four and a half. BTW, in the photo above, I tried on a blond wig. Wendy, my dresser from Impact, said she liked my real hair better. I would model each of my tops for her.

The clothes are smooshed in the car underneath a huge newspaper stand I got from my sister Donna, a barista at Starbucks. They were throwing it out. Said her manager, You must be a hoarder, Donna.

Far from it. She has a magnificent condo which is filled cheek by jowl with things to tickle your fancy, a home version of Ze Barnes Museum.



While there I had a chance to watch Oprah! Aha! So that's who Oprah is. I'd heard all about her. She had Ingrid Betancourt on the show who was released 18 months ago from SIX YEARS' captivity by guerrillas in Columbia. There were about 18 hostages altogether and most of them denounced her behavior b/c she talked back to her captors. Reminded me of the John McCain (remember him?)Vietname prison camp stories.

How else can I bore you to death? Let's see.



What's more b'ful than looking out the kitchen window? See poem about the fence at blog's end. Those were my poem-writing days. Hopefully, Bill Kulik will shake rattle and roll me so I can begin anew.

Autumn fruits are now available. While most of them are hard, like apples, pears are soft and juicy. I ate half for breakfast and then cut up 3 Bartletts for pear sauce. Boiled it w/water and a stick of cinnamon.

When I gave my last breadbaking class at the Abington Library, I brought cinnamon sticks to grate into the bread. Half a dozen of the kids had never seen a cinnamon stick before so I gave them each one. They began sucking them and really enjoyed it. Better than cigarettes, I told them. Then we launched into a discussion of smoking.

I ate two heaping bowlsful of pear sauce, along with my homemade whole wheat bread.

Would you believe that this bread dough made two big loaves? I like to listen to music when I bake bread. Lucky me! Selections from Mozart's Cosi Fan Tutti were on.



I love to sightsee while I drive. Everything looks so beautiful to me. Hmmm, dyou think there's something wrong with me? Ah, I'll find comfort in Bill Hess who feels the same way I do.

Railroad bridge, a deeper shade of purple, newly repainted.

Scott suggested I stand on the street corner and hawk papers. I drove SweetLips to the train station tonite amidst a beautiful lightning storm.

I'm listening now, not to music, not to the news, but to the sound of pattering rain and faraway toondar. Hope my backyard maple isn't hit by lightning.....oh no...what's that sound....if you don't hear from me, don't read my diaries when I'm gone.........

MY FIVE STAGES OF GRIEF FOR THE WHITE FENCE

First, there was the broad joy of
waking up to the hammering
of workmen next door,
making my coffee and carrying it out
to survey their work,
a trio of men in
swashbuckling belts like
gunmen of the wild west,
handsome, golden earring, fuzzy beard
all of it that makes men what they are.

Kindness makes them all the more masculine:
Elucidations for me of the partitions of
shiny vinyl
pure
clean
white as the snow
that would later
crown the top
forming a white wall of alabaster,
an illusion of safety,
against the unstoppable
inevitables of the world.

From my kitchen window,
the fence forever free
from earthly woe,
thanks to science,
unlike us,
men and women of the world,
the barcoded fence manufactured
in parts of the world where
people have no need of fences
live in huts not houses
and go home to nurse
their babies and sleep
six to a bed.

But I an American
thrummed with joy for my
neighbors,
their two young daughters
who gave me cushions
for my couches,
until suddenly I realized
I was banished from their world.

By nightfall, the fence was in place.
No picket fence, as I’d imagined,
but rising taller than a man,
a fortress keeping guard
like a Lord o'er his Vassal.

They'd walled me out.

The Great Wall of China,
really, the Great Wall of Cowbell Road,
that stands as a silent monument
to the isolation of people.
They did not mean it thus,
or did they?

Friends always we had stood together
shoulder to shoulder,
sipped iced tea on their patio,
talked tulips and squirrels.

Why this hasty retreat?

It grows more loathsome by the hour,
its inhumanity,
slap on the face to our
gregarious humanity.
I can no longer stroke its smooth cheeks anymore,
but must plant climbing vines to repossess
what once was mine,
must replace their coldness with my fire.

Sleep is the great healer. Of all wounds.
Of Life itself.

Over my morning coffee, I assay the fence,
once again,
as my yellow archangel claims its place along the ground.
For nothing is ever ours.
Nothing.
The fence can never be theirs,
nor mine either.

To Whom does it really belong?

Happy Father's Day - Happy Graduation Day - Poem: Happy Father's Day to Dan / Bethayres Market

Twas a weekend of partying for me and Scott. His best friend since grade school Mike Kramer and wife Donna had a party for their son, Cole, who graduated from Abington High School.



In August, Cole will go off to Pennsylvania College of Technology, up north in Wellsboro, PA, near the Grand Canyon of PA.  

He'll study electronics. Like his dad, a peerless car mechanic, Cole is good with his hands. He's very tall like his mom's side of the family, six-two.

Mike Kramer and Scott met in grade school. For the first time I met the whole family:

Doreen is the oldest. She's married to Jeff. She has two kids Jason, who's very tall and can barely walk since he fell and broke some bones, and whats-her-name who's going to be married. Altho the Kramers are Jewish, none of em married Jews, but this girl who will be married looks Jewish with her dark locks. She is absolutely gorgeous!

Her future husband is a nice guy who was wearing a Phillies jersey. Yesterday:

Jimmy Rollins stepped to the plate in the fifth inning of Saturday's 7-4 Phillies win over the Chicago Cubs at Citizens Bank Park and ripped a line-drive single to right field for his 2,235th career hit, which moved him past Schmidt as the franchise's hit king.

Scott told me Schmidt was there to shake his hand.

After Doreen comes Mike.

Then comes Wayne who drove up from Maryland in a shiny white car.

White, said Scott, shows the dirt, black shows the dust. Scott's thinking about buying a used Honda Fit which is black, not his preferred color.

The youngest is Stacey, who's married to a Philadelphia cop, Hank somebody or other.

On the way home from their house, Scott asked me, Think I should've married Stacey? They had one date and then Scott ran for his life.

Mike and his wife Donna made potato salad which was my fave thing at the party. Let's hear it for potato salad!


That called for a second injection of 10 units of insulin.

Scott loved the roast beef which they bought from Sam's Italian Market. I ate the meat balls, which were delicious.

Scott wrote Cole a generous check and included my poem. I purposely used the word "mazel tov" which the kid has probly never heard in his life. 

MAZEL TOV ON YOUR GRADUATION

A Cinguin, syllables 2-4-6-8-2

He leaves

his Legos

behind. Amazing things trans-

pired. Child no more. Working man.

Go Cole!

Today Scott n I crossed the Tacony Palmyra Bridge and drove to Evesham Township NJ for the Father's Day Celebration with Danny and Debbie Rohrer. I was disappointed I forgot my camera but you can snag some photos off FB, like Danny above.

He works at Parx Casino. His wife Debbie has the 'itches' and can't fall asleep. Her doctors are terrible and can't find what's wrong.

Loads of people there this afternoon.

I gorged myself on one organic hot dog with mustard and a cheeseburger with only one half of the bun with onions and tomato and ketchup - mmmm-mmmmm good - and Carol's deviled eggs. I stopped at two, although her nephew Zack had six. He's about 13.

The birthday cake - Matt had his last b'day as a teenager - he's going to art school and wants to have his own line of men's fashions - so it was his b'day as well as Natalie's my mom/law who will turn - yikes! - 80 next year. She shore don't look it!

The cake was from Shop-Rite. Vanilla cake with chocolate frosting. Very rich. Very delicious.

Scott, I said, please give me my insulin pen again. I shot another 10 units, then when I got home I took my sugar, which was a decent 146, and got on the bike to lower it.

This morning I called my son Dan to wish him a Happy Father's Day. I wrote a poem for him, posted it on FB. Two hours later no one had commented on it - so I pulled it off.

HAPPY FATHER’S DAY

A cinquin, syllables 2-4-6-8-2

For one
raised by Mom a-
lone, you did right by your
Grace and your Max. They call you
DADDY



Dan told me a hilarious story about Max. Somehow Max had gotten hold of some Baking Soda. Dan grabbed the box from him and then noticed Max was standing in an ankle-high pile of it.

Then Dan couldn't find his eyeglasses. "Anyone know where my glasses are?" he asked.

Shortly thereafter, Max produced them.

Reminded him of awhile ago when Dan poured Grace a bowl of Blueberries. When he returned to the table, they were gone. Hmm, he wondered, did he really pour them out or was it his imagination?

A week later he found them. They were in Grace's play-stove.

Oh, before you read my poem, a note to Roberto:

When I watched the Pledge-thing on PBS, guess where the phone greeters were from?

THE TERRI LYNNE LOKOFF FOUNDATION. There was one beautiful young Jewish woman who I imagined might have looked like your sister. 

BETHAYRES MARKET

Scott was driving so I

watched the Irish-green leaves

of early summer overhead

and like a giraffe,

stuck my head into a

huge highway of leaves

that tipped the sky

We turned left and passed

the little stores

we know like the back

of our hands

The Dairy Queen

the pizza parlor

with slices that made

you drink all night

the Remax realtor

where we dreamt of

living in ranchers atop

hills with views like

the green pastures

of Vermont

Then we saw it!

As shocked as if

a corpse lay naked on

the table:

white paper covering

the huge windows

of the market

our chorus of woe

and indignation

soared from the car windows

onto the asphalt

which puddled

with our tears

Bethayres Market

has closed!

Bethayres Market

has closed!

Let us bow our heads

in remembrance

and sign the obituary

notice on Legacy.com

I shall always remember

the kindness of the sales clerks

One, David Oliver, whose toothless

brother was in a group home

tardive dyskinesia shaking his

bones

the lady who sold me Jewish

rye with seeds – save me one,

I’d say over the phone as I

raced over

the roast beef sandwiches we ate on

the bench out front

never dreaming

never dreaming

all we’d have left were

memories.

The Best Little Church in the World / Lakota

The following is a piece I read aloud this afternoon to our Saturday Writers Group. I wrote it in half an hour before the meeting. I did not wanna come empty-handed but I couldn't think of anything to write. What memory, I said to myself, is fresh in my mind. What memory shall I preserve? Just an ordinary day, yesterday, and so I typed one and a half single-spaced pages thus:

GOING TO BEAVER POND

I’d written the directions on the back of an envelope and remembered Liz telling me, Two turns, Ruth, that's all there is, two turns. She was wrong of course. But I was prepared and left well in advance. I had to gas up which is not easy. The tiny swing door on my gas tank requires assistance from someone. When I pulled into the huge Hess gas station I swung my eyes across the dozen gas pumps to see who might help me. As I walked up to a Hispanic truck driver filling up his gas can I realized he may not speak English. But he did. Ah, he said, when he came over to my car, you need help because the door is smashed in.

Yes, I laughed. Thank you so much.

I kept the radio off while I drove down two-lane highways toward New Hope the better to concentrate. There was the bed and breakfast nuzzled in between green rain-drenched farm fields, there was Bryan's corn and tomato stand pitching fresh vegetables. You see, I’d gone to Beaver Pond before, several times, always arriving late because I’d gotten lost. Was it actually possible I could find it correctly this time?

Passing through the resort town of New Hope I detoured onto Waterloo Street where my sister once lived for many years. As I entered her former street I saw the wide Delaware River flowing swiftly from a month full of rain. The river gleamed brown with tiny wavelets streaming endlessly by and I thought briefly of pulling over to watch the river roll and smell the fish.

As I passed their house I saw the wooden frame was beginning to crumble but the brick in the drive held fast its pattern. Who lived there now?

Back on the road again, I remembered a small motel at the end of the town and braced myself to look for it. I couldn’t quite remember the details but I had loved a man who stayed in that motel, at least I thought that was correct, that was why, wasn’t it, I had an attachment to the Studio Motel, but what would he be doing in the motel? He was a carpenter and wanted to take me out, that I do remember, but by then I had become engaged to my ex-husband.

I reached over and opened up my water bottle and drank a few sips. It was fresh from the refrigerator and very cold.

The hairpin turn was just ahead. I reveled in the athletic feat of turning my wheel just so, remaining in my lane, and facing oncoming traffic who swerved slightly but not dangerously into my lane. “202 Bridge Ahead” read the sign. I pulled over and studied my notes. This was where I always went wrong. I had to select the correct lane.

Off I went. No sooner had my little Nissan with its windows open for the cool breezes traveled a few hundred yards than I saw the church on the left. It sat among tall grassy fields, all alone, its fieldstone masonry firm and steadfast, built in 1862, its spire piercing the sky as if to say I have survived all these years and so shall you.

I was early. No one was there. I backed in my car and took another sip of water. Getting out of the car I smoothed down my fancy black lace skirt, slipped on a jacket and began walking around the church. Liz, a landscape architect, had planted a garden. I walked on the flagstones and let the leaves of her plantings tickle my hands. Further down, a small tree shaped like an umbrella had been planted in memory of a woman with three names who died at age 34.

A strong sound rose up from a neighboring field. A huge boing! Then another one. The bullfrogs were singing. I moved from the remembrance of the young woman whose memory still reigns in the people who knew her as I tried to find the pond that held the frogs. I longed to see their bulbous throats.

Their noises had stopped. And so had I. The pond was beyond my reach. I should never see it. And now the first car pulled into the drive. I caught a brief glimpse of the driver. It was not Liz. It could only be Carole, a woman I had not seen in a year. These are the people I would always remember, the people of Beaver Pond.

*

Beaver Pond, of course, is St. Philip's Episcopal Church a mile north of New Hope, PA. Liz is the keeper of her flock of poets and writers. When I spoke to her on the phone she said, "You know, Sandy Bender will be there with his banjo."

"Good," I said, "I just may try to make a fool of myself and sing my poetry while he strums behind me."

Ya know what? When you mention something like this to someone, you are fortifying yourself to do it. I just about always sing when Sandy is there. It's tough tho cause I never sing in between. I don't practice. When I'm by myself, which is most of the time, I only think, not sing.

A little group of us gathered on the stones outside the red door of the church. I met so many new people. Some of them shake your hand. I met a fellow named Alan. His last name, I remarked to him, sounded like halibut, the fish. When we were taking seats inside the church, I said to him, "Alan, can I sit next to you? I must have someone I can whisper to."

He had a huge smile. His friend was filming the occasion. Liz announced that we would all rise to read our work when the spirit moved us, just like the Quakers do. I was about the fifth one to rise and amble toward the podium. Many people had come just to listen, like they were watching a play. The readers themselves were very dramatic. We had all learned to read our work like actors. It was expected here. Liz brings out the best in each person. It's a gift.

I remembered when I invited many of these same folks to a party right here in Willow Grove. I felt so privileged to have these people in mine own backyard, even Sandy the banjo player. I whispered to Alan that Sandy's wife left him for another woman. I am probably the nosiest person - and the noisiest - in the whole group.

What is it with poets, I asked David Mook. You're always getting divorced. This of course also includes me who divorces herself from one bad boyfriend to another. Boyfriend Scott, says my daughter, is her favorite boyfriend of all. Mine too!

Before I met Scott, there was a man named Lincoln I met right here at Beaver Pond. He was short like me and had a small white beard, just like me. He liked me and I looked forward to meeting him again at Beaver Pond.

What happened to Lincoln? I asked poet Bob Muller one time.

"Oh," said Bob, "he had a heart attack and died."

They loved the poem I read about my ex-husband and I also dragged out an oldie called Lakota. That was the one I sang. Altho I didn't mention this to the group, as I began singing, I imagined I was soprano Eleanor Steber singing Knoxville Summer of 1915 set to music by Samuel Barber. I tried to emphasize the important words by pausing on them like Eleanor Steber. Here's Lakota:

LAKOTA

I was in the company this evening
of people who take death seriously.
Until then, I hadn’t realized
I was not the only one.

We sat at a table in Houlihans,
the noise level was excruciatingly high,
but you got used to it.
There was Judy and her grown son, Michael,
a mountain climber visiting from
Boulder where he lived with his wife Tory and
their faux son, Lakota, a large and
handsome dog who looked like a domesticated wolf.
The three of them lived in a trailer
while they saved up money
to buy a house.
Each had a job. Tory was a food broker,
Michael a cabinet maker who carried
a business card
with a picture of a silver hammer.

“How's Tory doing without you?” I asked.
“Oh, she’s missing me,” he said with that
glittering smile that must have disarmed her
right from the start.

His bright eyes didn’t for a moment
flag from the knowledge that the
presence of death bound us all together,
making everything important.

I was spooning into my mouth
the special baked potato soup they had
with the fresh-cut chives,
while his mother was sipping from an odorless
martini with four olives skewed onto a toothpick
set across the top of the glass.

She was getting on in age,
not terribly old,
newly collecting retirement funds,
but getting forgetful.
She wouldn’t lie and told us she left the
burner on once and had gone upstairs.
“It’s when you do it five or six times!” she shouted
pounding her fist on the table,
“that they throw you in the old age home!”

We were not as yet picked off, none of us,
none of the three, four, if you count Tory,
struck down
the way you might imagine a lone bowling pin
waiting in its station while a well aimed black
ball – or maybe it was blue with white streaks -
came hurtling down the shiny runway
with velocity unrivaled.

It was dark on the way home and
I stopped at the Wawa,
the one I used to go to when I worked in Bensalem.
They’d changed the place around.
The new arrangement had a large
open feel to it,
fluorescent lights spilling down almost like
the sun.
The same woman was behind the deli counter,
making someone a sandwich. A lovely woman,
who I noticed quickly looked older than when I
used to come in. Older people, I thought to myself,
look older quicker.
“Hello, Louise,” I said,
and watched to see if her face lit up
and she remembered me.

Max's Birthday Party - Passover Poem

Luckily they have a big house and a big backyard so the partiers could all fit inside.

I carefully followed direx to get there as the Edgehill Road Bridge will be out until 2018. Did I tell you they work in the middle of the night, shining their lights directly into my friend Rem's apartment?

Nikki had kindly driven me Mom there. Mom had plopped herself on a couch in the family room. I was so glad she was there. Born in 1922.

Am sitting here now - 8:45 am - drinking SnickerSomething Coffee that Iris and Art brought when they visited.

The best conversation I had at the party was with Haley, who sat next to me on the couch, wearing a lovely polka-dotted dress.

The name Haley is back. She knows a few.

Mom had worked very hard on gifts for Max and Grace.

She had made a charm bracelet for Grace. Mom obsessed on whether the bracelet fit her but I insisted it did.

For Max she had about 6 tiny tin boxes that fit into each other like Kachina Dolls. (Thank you memory!) Wrong! 



These are Russian dolls.

Yesterday I called Mom to report on the reception of her gifts.

Me? You're asking? I brought a gift card to Barnes and Noble.

You wish....you pauper You!!!

I called Dan to inquire if they liked the gifts.

First Max said he LIKED the tiny tins. Then he said he LOVED them!!!

Grace, in soto voce, said she liked the CHARM bracelet.

Let me reaffirm how B'FUL it was. Great work, Mom!!!

NANCY AND THE HAGADAH

That good man Moses led us
out of bondage so we
could be free.

We remember his endurance at this
happy time of year, as we
enter Dave and Natalie's
sweet-smelling home

Where someone finally
remembers to turn off
the blaring TV.

Where is she,
we wonder, where is
the guest of honor?
Bzzzz! The buzzer
announces Nancy's
arrival, all the way
from a small town
in Virginia, where
once the first Pilgrims
starved to death
on the unfamiliar land.

Scott and I have brought
orange tulips as gifts
their prodigal blooming
continues. So many
living things, and the
creek ripples in the
moonlight.

Next year, reads the
Hagadah, we will be in
the Land of Israel.

Food, love, and mystery
are the Trinity of Passover.
On the glass table are
photos that mark the
passage of time.

The photographer from
Castor and Cottman has
rouged their cheeks,
painted their lips
preserved forever
the beauty that was
youth: Jews, once
conscripted, now
serve proudly in
our wars, our ceaseless
wars.

Young Matt's
girlfriend Rube is
from Iraq, Matt,
exhausted, snoozes
on the couch.

Quarrels great and
small ensue in the
living room and everywhere
the free-thinking Jews
gather around

Who are YOU to question
the wisdom of Jehovah?

Raise your hand if you
want a cup of coffee.
Mine goes flying into
the air like the volleyball
serve I once had.

The knedlach soup is worth
crossing the Red Sea, the
matzoh balls tasty and
porous as the moon.

Dessert comes booming from
the kitchen, Debbie carrying
black and white cookies, marble
cake, and the mandatory macaroons
that even flat-bellied Scott - the
only one - deigns to eat.

His Grandfather Sy dead of diabetes
at 65. Natalie's mother, Yetta,
owned a luncheonette under the
ELevated train where Scott now
works at SEPTA.

Workers all of us, who make
America what she is. Scott
has calluses on his hands
while mine are soft as
Philadelphia cream cheese.

Goodbye Goodbye Goodbye!
The death of Nancy's mother
brought her back to our
family, still growing.
Kaia Rose with her smiling
Chinese eyes is almost
three months now.

The smell of coffee follows
us home, as Scott and I
talk softly in the car.
Danny, his mother Carol who
can't be with us, Tommy and
Amy with their cats and cigarettes,
my eyes close softly, not for
the final time, but that's
the mystery of life.

Live to the hilt, the expiration
date is known only to The Man.