The moon was full when Ada and Rich picked me up and drove to Tamanend Park in Southampton, PA.
None of us took any chances. Ada, whose hair looked shiny and beautiful, wore long underwear, Rich had on a snug hat, and I was dressed in layers.
We actually peeled when we got there.
I sat or lay belly down on a sleeping bag the whole time.
The hot dogs smelled delicious but I couldn't have any - too much sodium - but I enjoy watching people wolf them down with mustard and relish.
Here's Helen, flanked by Noam and Mike, who with husband Larry organized the shebang:
Helen and Larry always stay until the last piece of wood is burned. Last year, I stayed w/them until around 2 a.m. When I got home, Scott came out of his house. He was terrified that something awful had happened to me cuz I told him I'd be home around midnite.
We toasted marshmallows for S'mores, which was the highlight of my night. How many people on Death Row choose S'mores for their last meal?
The food is always great at our Bonfires. Lenny brought hummus and pita bread so that was my protein. I asked him if he liked my poem The Vigil I sent him. He works at an oil refinery and I said, Oh, I wrote a poem that takes place in an oil refinery. It's about a poor old alcoholic who's a security guard at a refinery and watches the meteor showers one August night.
Larry, who's a professional videographer, brought his camera and we took a group shot. Any idea what'll be on the cover of the Compass? Lenny didn't wanna be in it. Stigma of course. That's not his real name.
Here's Linda's poem.
AUTUMN’S EULOGY
by Linda
At this time she dyes her leaves in various reds and oranges
Tries to get that still youthful look
Even though her leaves fall from her branches
Wither away in the cold air
She knows she’s dying
Won’t accept the truth
She loses her energy quicker
Snuffs out the day’s candle quicker and quicker
Wraps herself up in black night’s cloak
She shivers against the quickening cold
We all gather around each other
Comfort ourselves at her approaching funeral
Bow our heads low for her chillier winds
Blows it on the backs of our necks
Rakes whisper prayers for her impending death
Nighttime fireplaces give off pagan smoke
Beseech gods to spare her
With their burnt wood incense
Outside bonfires remember her
As how she lived before her death
In our black final rites.
No comments:
Post a Comment