Coffeeshop Writers' Group Observed - I rearranged my Outdoor Living Room

Gerry Dungan, editor of Upper Moreland Patch.com visited our Writer's Group today, staying for the entire two and a half hours. He listened to our poems, our critiques, our conversations.

Here's his excellent article, published the following Monday. He took 87 mins' worth of videos, culled down to just 5. Well done!

Two new people joined us, which we love.

Gerry was so invisible we hardly knew he was there. Yeah, except me, when he brought out his video and I began reading my poem Shoes. Since this was the first time I read it aloud, I was speaking the rhythm awkwardly.

And I begin thinking, This is awful. This is a good poem and I've botched it. Should I ask Gerry to stop the camera?

Nah, I don't wanna take up more of his time.

So I'm reading the poem and thinking these thots all at once, our fabulous thousand-thoughts per second brain.

Linda Barrett, Kym Cohen, Donna's hair, Carly upon arrival, Newcomer Kathy

Kym began with a poem and a well-written Letter to Obama, she posted on Facebook. The US is cutting costs for important things like education, she said. What about the huge waste in military expenditures. Who keeps track of that?

Linda, second left, read Coming Home dedicated to a friend who just died of cancer and is now dwelling in Heaven.

The group went wild!

Well, as an atheist apologist, I felt the need to say something.

It's a wonderful thing, I said, to be a Christian and believe in an Afterlife. However, I'm not a Christian, and it's fine w/me that there's no afterlife. I enjoy every day here on earth and try to do my best.

I don't believe in rewards or judgment for a life well-spent.

They nodded. And Beatriz said, Won't we be surprised if there is an Afterlife.

I told her, That's what Richard Dawkins said. He's a famous British evolutionary biologist, who, even in 2011, is disliked for his belief of the nonexistence of God.

Richard Dawkins, b. 1941

From Wiki:

In his 2006 book The God Delusion, Dawkins contends that a supernatural creator almost certainly does not exist and that religious faith is a delusion—a fixed false belief. As of January 2010, the English-language version had sold more than two million copies and had been translated into 31 languages, making it his most popular book to date.

Carly, on left, read a clever essay called "The Trouble with Tribbles." In case you're wondering, the 'tribbles' is 'the mean girl' inside us, as Kym put it, that tries to defeat us when we have good ideas.

Beatriz read one of her biology essays, this one on Ladybeetles, aka ladybugs. They are powerful insect killers. But in larvae form they are called grubs and are hideous looking. When she showed us a color photo of them, I mumbled, Oh no, I regularly flush clusters of them when I see them in my basement, where they stay to keep warm.

Got up early cuz I had so much to do, most importantly to present a poem I'm proud of to the group.

Gabrielle of Abington Hair Cuttery cut my hair really short. I was trying to grow it long but since my hair is thinning out, it never looked right. Okay, Ruthie, I said it's back to your old pixie cuts.

The mirror showed a face I'd forgotten I had.

After that I marched over to the Rite-Aid to buy me some hair dye. I didn't like the colors but on my way out I saw some lawn furniture that wouldn't bother my back so I bought it and said I'd be back later to pick it up. We couldn't fit it in the backseat of my Nissan.

Mary read a wonderful poem about Hatboro, yes, our own Hatboro, PA 19040. She had some great lines in there. "Her songs sang to me."

Mary, blind and accompanied by guide dog Garland, brought Therese, her vision-impaired friend. They were roommates in college, both becoming social workers.

Therese read a poem "I Love You" about her husband Oskar. We suggested she change the title to something using the word Oskar, since he's unnamed in the text.

To Oskar with Love?

Since we had an all-female group, as usual, it took a long time for these once-strangers, now-friends, to say goodbye.

I was jonesing to pick up my new outdoor furniture, and used my cellphone in the car to call my sister Donna so she could take me back to Rite-Aid.

When we got there I decided to buy another one. I'd gotten a Rite-Aid card that morning to get extra savings.

I thot of all the factories in China that produce a majority of our hard goods. In fact, years ago, I wrote a poem about a female factory worker, after I bot some pink fluffy slippers.

Coming home, I took a pic of George and Elinor's house at the bottom of Cowbell Road. Five years ago they moved to Ann's Choice, "the old lady's home," according to George.

This morning I received a sad note from George. Elinor passed away today at age 85.

Presenting my new lawn furniture direct from China.

My sister Donna arranged them on the lawn. She moved the birdbath to a new location.



It was interesting to see the birds' reaction of the new location. Some arrived and flew off. Others went directly to the new location.

If you have a birdbath you have an obligation to keep it filled for the little creatures. If you do, they will drop you a soft thank-you gift.


SHOES


When you were my age, mom,
you had a daughter they locked up
and fed Haldol
for pushing you down
and mumbling:
I’m gonna kill you.
you always stand in my way.

So true, I can see you
with your thick legs standing
in front of me
a basketball defense
stopping me from scoring points.

no matter. today’s a new day and
we ride together to Trevose Family Shoes
mother and daughter to buy
ourselves brand new shoes for this phase
of the Marathon:
I am the battered.


it’s assumed that the one nearing eighty-nine
will finish first but
the new antirejection meds for my new kidney
bring with it
a forecast of new problems such as
opportunistic new viruses that kill the
AIDS folks
and the peculiar germs
that cause discoloration, hair exfoliation and ugly devastation
in more ways than there are shoes at Trevose.


You abjure your new black velcroes a
senior sprinter might wear.
I say nothing but allow you to stare down
and find fault with the way your new shoes
look, the way you always find fault with me.
I try on ten pair
walking briskly about the showroom
viewing the shoes and my body in one tall mirror after another.


Oh, mother, I like the way i look. i am not you.
I like myself and my faintly protuberant thighs beneath
tight pants, my unencumbered eggplant breasts
and my new kidney having alighted in its new home
three weeks ago,
I sing to it at bedtime.


I choose three shoes: one for every kidney.
They leave the native ones in.
They deserve new shoes. Each, a benevolent
engine of piss production, blood pressure regulation,
acceptor of potassium-laden bananas tomatoes and potatoes.


I shall dine alone tonight in my sassy-brown clogs
reading the paper and
trying not to think of
how much I love you.