Crisp winter day for our Coffeeshop Writer's Group - More Xmas Houses / Poem: Gift of the Century

Martha aka Mama Willlow on the right regaled us with a new short story, based in the 1850s, a retelling, of a Bible story. It all came out of her mind, not based on any true stories.

Well-done, Marf!

Donna, middle of the back row, was stupefied by the Newtown, CT, shootings and wrote a moving poem about it. She offered special insight b/c she had lost a daughter, Mariel, many years ago due to meningitis.

My friend Coach Iris in Bloomfield, CT, also wrote a moving tribute about the shootings. I encourage you to read it here. 

Christmas was cold and cruel for Donna since this was the first one w/o her husband John. She is doing well despite her great loss. Better photos coming up.

Linda in purple refined her poem "Stepping out in Provincetown, RI" which made you feel you were there, walking along the cobblestones, drinking coffee, and eating a Bear Claw.


Now we see where it gets its name.


Or would you rather.....

Beatriz aka "Iza" looks up info on her iPad.

Beatriz read another one of her outstanding nature essays, this time about a




SYRPHID FLY, which mimics a bee. He eats aphids, which we don't like b/c they destroy plants including roses.

As usual, Beatriz, whose native tongue is espanol, has a great command of English and uses wonderful action verbs like "hover" and "stroll."

Look who joined us at the last minute:  The Laughin' Redhead Carly Brown.

Over Xmas, she had some sort of bug, no not's Beatriz's bugs, which knocked her down for an entire week. She couldn't celebrate Xmas with her family she felt so awful.

It's always a treat to have Mr. Carly Brown aka Charlie visit with us. I told him he has a good head of hair. Charlie is recovering well from cataract surgery at Will's Eye Hospital's Warminster branch.

We all buy our beverages at the Coffeeshop. Here's Adryn - say "Aye-drin" - who was our lovely server.

Look, if you bring a camera you might as well use it!

Which I did after the group.

 Here's a new house that went up on beautiful, shady Huntingdon Road, which is on the way to Mom's house.

 Mom's house in Huntingdon Valley, PA.

"It wasn't your usual distinctive knock," said Mom, after Ellen let me in.

"That's b/c Ellen saw me and let me in," I said to Mom who was in the kitchen.

"Mmm," I said as soon as I walked it. "The sweet potato smells great."

Then I called Scott and told him I'd like to eat our home-made pizza dinner at 6.

 Terrible picture of b'ful decorations on Ball Road. This is the house my friends Sonja and Lee Ann sold. They are now living in Victorian Village in Hatboro.

 These Xmas revelers live down the street from me.

Here's the catty-corner Masser family. Bob was Dan's cub scout leader.

Jim Sutcliffe, a man I only met once at Nikki's T'giving celebration in Jersey, got me a one-year subscription of The New Yorker. I allus read it online but can't 'unlock' some of the articles cuz I'm not a subscriber.

When I tried to log in, it would not work.

Here's an email the New Yorker sent me. One should study they way they write since some of the finest writers in the country, except for the obvious omission, RZD, write for them.

It will come as no surprise to you, Dear Reader, that I dared to send Andrew, who signed his name above, a copy of my poem The Gift of a Century.

During my first mania, I called them up, but fortunately it was after-hours and the guy said to call back. By then, I was riding in the back of a police car.

THE GIFT OF THE CENTURY

dedicated to Tim Sutcliffe

No good mail anymore

but what’s this?

a shiny New Yorker

a gift from a man I met only once

I throw it on the purple ottoman

then mount the stairs for bed

my reading pile

does not excite

a diabetes book that makes me yawn

a new translation of the Brothers Grimm

I sit up in bed

then run downstairs

the new New Yorker

how have I forgotten you?

I lie in bed

and hold it aloft

when have I ever felt this way?
the birth of my first born

the discovery of sex

a ride in a cop car to lock me up

for manic-depression?

The world is mine

I no longer live on Cowbell

among the infidels

I’m a woman of the world

strolling down Broadway

in the middle of January

Ninotchka plays on West Houston Street

the Bad Plus at the Vanguard

I shall take them all in

and more

I shall visit the MOMA where

Anthony Lane tells me about

the beginnings of abstract art

and a tiny embroidery not to be missed

by a long-gone woman named Arp

I lay down the issue

with aching aging still-

freckled arms

there I am

sailing 90 minutes through the air

across the Brooklyn Bridge

birds-eye view of all I love

but will never see

my preferred stance

is home in bed

my art a covered bridge by

an unknown artist in Bristol

and a pink tulip by Carl Yeager

that winks at me when I arise.