Coffeeshop Writers Group - Martha's "Call in the Night" - Happy Birthday to Me - More of Ruth's award-losing poems: The Giant Coffee Card Club - Of a Tuesday Evening in June - Driving Home on Lower York Road

Marf and Arlene. But I was really trying to photograph an 88-yo man you can barely see. He was standing next to me in the coffee line. He asked for a "senior coffee."

It was Martha and Carly's b'day this week. They each bot treats for the group from the Giant. Pardon my honesty, but the cookies and cupcakes looked barfingly unappetizing.



HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME by Martha Hunter

She thinks I'm old

daughter of the dinosuars

plodding along the downside of life's mountain

my mind disintegrating with every passing footfall

my oft recounted memories - mythological

She, smarter in her 13 years

than I in my 60s

for after all, her science teacher

taught them about the eventual death of brain cells.

She doesn't know that inside ever grandma

is an 18 year old beauty

replaying history on endless loop

hoping for a different outcome.

She pats my hand,

and shouts into ears that work just fine,

HAPPY BIRTHDAY GRANNY AND MANY MORE!"

wondering as she says it,

how many more can there be

in one so old as I?

*****

You'll understand why I wrote the following poem upon ordering a barfingly rich drink. It was scrumptious! When I got home my blood sugar was a disgraceful 279.

 THE GIANT COFFEE CARD CLUB

We call ourselves the Coffeeshop Writers Group

cuz that’s where we meet

I have written all manner of poems and short stories

entered them

in prestigious magazines

expecting rejection

receiving rejection

won’t stop me from trying

First thing I do when I get to the group

is get me a decaf

a small buzz is always nice

nothing dramatic like

a full-blown mania

but that was in the past

I’ve worked my way up

so that today the decaf

is free with my Club Card

what’ll it be on this last

Saturday in June?

None of the coffee’s any good

I doctor it with

cinnamon which floats on

the surface

like grease on the griddle

impossible to

homogenize

I'll order a free cup of cold decaf

ice clinking on the bottom

I feel ashamed to enjoy it

while Alan dies of lung cancer
in Cleveland

Who knows?

maybe Cleveland Clinic

has a pilot program

to keep him alive
the only one his
crippled son
loves at Beth Israel

Ever feel helpless?

ever feel like standing

beneath the big ole moon

and craning your neck

and saying

Please.

Please.

Please.  

Martha Hunter wrote:

A CALL IN THE NIGHT

She struggles up through a dream,
briefly wondering where she is
A coldness grips her stomach
Calls in the night rarely bring good news.
A voice gives her the message
no mother wants to hear.
She wonders,
is this a cruel joke?
She thinks to hang up in disgust
But her hand grips the phone too tightly
to let go.
She doesn't want to believe it's true.
Primal instinct holds off the force of the blow
An island of motherhood
in an ocean of tragedy.
She'll do what she needs to do
And collapse later.
Her son needs her now.

And now, gleaning from my stock photos....

 
Beatriz had a bout of exhaustion so she stayed home. I spoke to her and she was laffing about it. These episodic cycles have occurred since she was in her thirties. She will get tested again to see if it's a certain type of bug bite she got while living in Argentina, altho it never showed up.

Her son is exhibiting mild symptoms b/c it can be contracted in utero.

What was God thinking?


There's no treatment, said B, but at least she'd find out the cause.

Linda Barrett below. All these fotos are from my archives.


Linda and her 83-yo mom just joined LA FITNESS!!!

Linda shared a chapter of her sci-fi novel. Some idiot at a writer's group she goes to at B & N told her she could get sued for writing about the SEPTA transportation system.

He's probly jealous of her imagination.

Donna Krause was nervous about reading her new poem "Alone at Night."

Since she was widowed a year ago, she hates being alone esp at night, when she sees eerie shadows on the wall.

Everyone thought it was a wonderful poem.

Carly Brown .... Carlana

Carla and Donna have become good friends. They encourage one another and read their poems and other work to each other.

Donna asked Carly "What's happening with your story about Nails, the roofer?"

That gave Carly the incentive to get back to work on it.

Carly read an obit about the roofer  - nicknamed "Nails" - who died a natural death and transformed it into a suspenseful story about a roofer who falls off the roof.

We loved it and are looking f/w to reading more at our meeting next Saturday.

Auteur! Auteur! of the next poem. Oh, here she be, riding the NY subway with daughter Sarah Lynn:

OF A TUESDAY EVENING IN JUNE

it’s late

but the coffee’s hot

and I am reading

on my red couch

Remains of the Day

it’s taking off, finally,

is it the coffee that

makes it so?

I stop for a sip

and a “think”

the cup between

my legs

warming my

inner thighs

The back jacket

calls the novel

“brutal”

but like a

bad marriage

we quickly accept it

marveling at the

author’s roundabout

language

sentences so long

you hurry to

the finish line

So many stories

like my own,

the needle marks

I glance at casually

in the crook of my arm

made at the last blood draw

Don’t worry,

I’ll be around for a while

I lift my still-warm

but not hot cup

and bring it to my lips

how fresh it smells

I made it myself

Roasted Sumatra

When Stevens the butler

and star of the book

decides to alight

from his Ford

where he is motoring

about the famed

sloping green meadows

smooth as a tear

I insert the bookmark

switch off the light

and whirring fan

then open the door

for one last look

smell the misty rain

which wants

nothing to do with me

and hoping for a

crack of thunder

or something

exciting, since the

book is not

and

about to close

the door

see a giant

orange moon

plum over

the street light

and the sleeping

baby birds,

swallows, this time,

we think.  

 
This book by Kazuo Ishiguro, b. 1954, is on The Guardian's list of 100 Best Books. Kazuo was born in Japan but lives in London.  Sarah suggested I read it.

DRIVING HOME ON LOWER YORK ROAD, BUCKS COUNTY

This is the kind of road I like

hilly 

with vistas

green meadows

farmlands sown with corn

The Sox Lady

art galleries

and restaurants

the well-heeled “others” go to

The gray Ford pick-up is behind me

never saw his face

but it’s the kind of man

I’d choose were I looking

and I always am

I try to be a good

road companion

soaring well in front of him

then braking to show there’s

traffic up ahead

Meanwhile the erratic

Lexus, who should know better,

is holding up the fast lane

with the narcissism

we expect from the

nouveau riche

I am unconcerned

as I sip my Columbian Decaf

I bought back in Peddler’s Village

when I got off the bus from New York

I could be home on my

red couch

watching the birds out the window

but I’m in the front seat

sipping hot coffee

with my right hand

watching my man

in the rear view

and thinking of home.

The light is green

I take off at great speed

breaking off our brief affair

my car a steed racing toward home

I turn the radio off as I climb

my hilly street

so the neighbors

will think me sedate

and orderly.

Could my frontyard pink Buddha give me away? 

In and Out of New York - Brooklyn Museum - Adelaide's Top Drawer - Sarah and Ethan

Sarah met me at Gate 10 of the Port Authority.

Sarah asked an official which gate TransBridge buses meet at.


He told her and then said, "Has your mother seen your hair yet?" thinking she was younger than her 39 yrs.

It's a deep brown with bright RED stripes! Ethan can't see it all that well cuz he's 'color blind' by not being able to distinguish similar dark color contrasts.

We subwayed around town.

So many new skills I learned to master, like going thru the turnstiles and exiting.

Note how stylish everyone is, except the woman below - oh, for chrissakes, don't put yourself down - I was the only person in NY wearing white pants, but did I care?

On the subway, there were recorded voices telling you what stops were coming up.

These voices are very important, I said to Say. They have the power to affect your mood. Some of the voices were very chipper. If you're lonely and in NY, perhaps you can ride the trains just to hear the chipper voices, tho I wouldn't suggest it.

I'd suggest going to a food store, like below, and conversing with the friendly people behind the counter.

A Mideastern Food Shop. They do a massive catering biz. Sarah bot lunch for us: hummus, falafel, olives and pickles and cucumbers. Mon dieu!

Another stylish woman in line. AND people are slender. At least the slender ones are.

The new Barclay Center. They have a huge inflatable rat outside it now, protesting the lack of union workers. See them bikes on the left? They're part of a bike program where you pay a fee and then can borrow any of them bikes. Partly sponsored by CitiBank.

Barclay Center, built by Bruce Ratner, formerly of Cleveland, to host the Nets, is a boon to boxers, said Sarah. Music of all kinds now has a beautiful home.

Here's Ethan relaxing after our delicious lunch. He and his band will drive to Ottawa to play at a jazz fest. He was pleased to hear that the guy at the Mideastern food place recognized him as Ethan Iverson of The Bad Plus.

Here's my sweetie pie, who poured us a glass of delicious white wine. I took three sips since I'm not used to drinkin.

Here's my plate. New York: the best food in the world, tho I sure enjoyed my huge salad when I came home today.

And the people in NY are incredibly nice and friendly. A woman on the subway said she liked Sarah's hair. And Sarah complimented one of the dozens of people who got off at the Wall Street stop. They were a different breed than the other people. The men wore suits. The women look fabulous.

Sarah saw a woman's shoes which had little bunny's at the toes.

"Really cute," she said to the woman, who said she got em online.

What's this? Oh, we walked to the Bklyn Museum and Sarah said we should stop in the main Bklyn library b/c it's such a wonderful library and she knows how I love libraries.

Like the Princeton Library, where I went with Nancy Pollack, this one offers a cafe before you go into the library. So now both libraries are immortalized on my blog.

Prepare yourself! We are about to enter THE BROOKLYN MUSEUM and see wonders you have never beheld.

Below is a floor to ceiling sculpture. All his art is made with 'found objects.'

The next series of shots are from the new exhibit by El Anatsui, born in Ghana, but living now in Nigeria.

We went up real close so we could see the tin tops of milk containers, sorta like condensed milk, that poor people drank in parts of Africa, where Nelson Mandela lies dying now. 

Here's the master himself on a video. He was born in 1944, so he's a year older than me.

This reminded us of the exterior of the Barclays Center.

These were monumental in size - several of em - reminding me of the pyramids, each done by Africans. Where you live is instrumental in your perspective of life.

This looks like a shawl a giantess might throw over her on a cold night looking over Victoria Falls.

The photos below are from the John Singer Sergeant (1856 – 1925) Watercolor Show. An American, he lived in Europe.

Sarah and I were fainting away, they were so delicate, fresh, and moving.

THE CASHMERE SHAWL. His niece was his model.




Above is from his series on BEDOUINS. Ignore those women on the left. These fotos are from the internet cuz I got caught using my flash and I haven't learned how to turn it off yet.

Hey! It's not easy. It's not as if there's an On-Off switch.

Below is Medici Villa. He loved painting the varieties of the color white and how the light plays of the color.


Below is GOURDS.

Ethan wore this cape when performing a John Cage piece. He was afraid the audience might be bored so someone suggested he wear something outrageous.



Here's Adelaide Mestre, who is actually not as tiny as Thumbelina, performing in her one-woman show Top Drawer. The 100-seat dinner theatre was nearly sold out.

Adelaide told the true story of her family life. Her dad was a gay manic-depressive who ended up killing himself. Adelaide sings and dances. Incredibly talented!

I left this.....



with her BF, Eric, in the lobby.

Afterward, Sarah and I subwayed back to Park Slope to dine.



Thai food. My pad thai used papaya instead of noodles.



Coconut Ice Cream. Un-friggin-believable!

Farewell to NY from the bus.

Did a few things on the 2-hour bus ride home.

Made good progress in Remains of the Day.

Slept.

Looked out the window.

I realized I had to choose whether or not to read or look out the window. What's the difference? Filling my head with beautiful images that are real.... or creating false images in my head as a result of the marvelous book.

Gotta finish it quick cuz I've got four others waiting to be read. I request em at the library and then they all come in at once.

Isn't that fascinating?

This was Flemington, NJ, home of outlet stores. When my dad was alive we used to drive there as a family. I remember buying a yellow two-cup coffee maker made by Stangl.

The Stangl company was originally in Flemington, but closed in 1996.

One of my boyfriends - Crazy Tom - broke it when we lived in the apartments.



The bus drops me off on Street Road in LaHaska.

I wrote a note to myself, which you can see above - "Behind House of Coffee."

Where the hell was the House of Coffee?

Took me arf an hour to find it.

Silly girl, you forgot it was on the other side of the street.

Above is the interior where I ordered a cup of strong Columbian Decaf and a breakfast sandwich of egg, mushrooms and leeks.