Coffeeshop Writers Group - Welcome Emma Calore and Allan Heller via Beatriz and the Hatboro Writers Group / Poems: Driving Toward Oblivion - Screened-in Back Porch

Always great to get two new members who contribute to the group, both with their own work and in critiquing others.

Newcomer Emma made a big splash with her well-wrin short story Homecoming, a fictional foray into coming home from a mental hospital.

Emma, who switched from University of Pittsburgh b/c she didn't like it, will attend McDaniel College in Virginia in the beginning of September. None of us had heard of it. Her high school guidance counselor suggested it.

She'll probly major in English Literature and Political Science, with an eye toward finding a job when she graduates.

I had the pleasure of sitting next to Allan Heller, who corrected manuscripts with a red pen, like a teacher.

He's co-author of



Author of....





All are available for purchase on Amazon.

Allan and his wife Tatyana live at Moreland Towers in Hatboro, a true main street town, where you can walk to the PO, the Wawa, and Daddypops, among other places.

Sadly, Allan's dad died a week ago Wednesday at age 80 from lung problems. But his mom is nice and healthy at 73.

Coincidentally, or maybe not, Allan, author and former reporter, is working on a new book about West Laurel Hill Cemetery, whose distinguished lifers include Mr Strawbridge and Mr Clothier plus some poor souls, including dead miners who were exhumed and brought here, and lay under a huge Celtic cross.

Click here for the b'ful cross. They have it rigged so that I can't copy it and use it for my own gravestone.

Immaculata College, an active partner in the Duffy’s Cut project, is collaborating with West Laurel Hill Cemetery to provide the final resting place for the remains of the 57 Irish immigrants who came to the United States in 1832 to work on the railroad.  The Memorial and Burial will be held on Friday, March 9, 2012. at 2:00 p.m. 

Hey, let's take a break n have something to eat.

My version of potato salad, made instead with green beans and asparagus, since potatoes spike my blood sugar. I also add a handful of sunflower seeds for the nice cr-runch they give you.

As many of you know, I got insulin-dependent diabetes from my kidney antirejection meds.

You get used to everything in this life of ours, n'est-pas Allan?

Even loss of hair, for the both of us.

In the Jewish tradition, Allan is wearing a black ribbon of mourning for his late father.

About one of his ailments that comes with age - he's had Parkinson's for nearly 4 years - Allan quoted John Milton in Paradise Lost

“Did I request thee, Maker, from my clay
To mould me man? Did I solicit thee
From darkness to promote me?

Wouldn't it be fun to have a Book Club and read ye olde classics like Paradise Lost?

The intense Linda Barrett also attends the Hatboro Writers Group. She presented the second chapter of her sci-fi novel, taking place centuries from today, in a ruined Philadelphia. Everyone loved the concept and the names she chose, a main character is Borax, and Scarab is a hovercraft.

Beatriz the Biologist read another one of her amazing nature essays, this one about Preying Mantises. A non-native species, introduced from China but promoted for its benign bug-killing properties, is misrepresented by advertising.

Don't look now but this 4.5 inch Chinese mantis is - gulp! - eating a hummingbird

The mantis lay in wait in the bushes and then --- BAM! How delicious, feathers and all.

Carly, showing off her self-painted nails, and charm bracelet I failed to pay attention to, b/c someone came into the Coffeeshop who I didn't wanna talk to.... no, no, it was not my boyfriend Scott, but a woman with a speech impairment. I can't understand a single word she says and it's terribly embarrassing for me.

Carly read a smart essay that detailed all the choices people make every day. The heart of it was her feelings of 'alienation' in a new social group she attended.  She was really accepted and treated the same as the veteran members, including the rather insulting jokes they made toward her, just as they did to the other women in the group. 

After a while, she realized she wants to be a part of this group.

How dyou feel when you're part of a new group? Emma? Allan?

This emanates from our childhoods, the way our parents made us feel.

Donna, always of the spectacular nails, and the person who got me into getting my nails done, didn't bring anything to read, but as always gave good critiques of others' work.

Leave it to Martha to write WONDERING, a superlative poem about a Giant employee she has seen whose face tells a hard-living story. She wonders if he has a history of drugs, jail time, or even is part of Meagan's Law.

Ultimately, she said, his fate is in the hands of God.

Her second poem was also very good. If I weren't so narcissistic I could remember it.

A third poem, really terrific, was about some of her health conditions.

Here's my screened-in back porch. I take some of my meals out here so I can pay attention to the delicious taste of food while watching nature.

 In fact, when I went downstairs just now to take these pix, a female cardinal was fluttering about. I'm certain there's at least two cardinal families in the backyards with nests.

That they chose me! I'm so honored!

Furniture is from my friend Judy Diaz before she moved away... yes another loss... to Niwot, CO, home of healthy people who jog, mountain climb, bike, and are totally into creating a clean ecosystem.

Judy sits. And contemplates. Watches C-Span. Knows everything about politics.

SCREENED IN BACK PORCH

At dusk I stumble barefoot

onto the back porch to

see the what the world has to offer

The shadows of trees

rise like mountains

against the darkening sky

when suddenly I hear it

something I’ve been waiting

for though never

realized it

an unstoppable fanning

sound

a giant air conditioner

swooping down to offer

consolation from the

enduring heat wave

You know what it is

and so do I
the sound of the cicada

set free from his underground prison

barely nourished and offered

no exercise like volleyball

or lifting weights

or tattoos scratched

across his beefy arms

We know what prisoners want

the moment they’re set free

we’d want it too

as their love call penetrates

the porch screens

sinking onto the

wicker furniture

and making the ceiling fan twirl

I stand in obedient

meditation

hands clasped in prayer.   

DRIVING TO OBLIVION     

 

Something about Terwood Road.

The roller-coaster hills.

The views that take you by surprise

Look! The horses graze head-down

on the hill

Their soft black lips envelope

the tender grass

as they slowly

turn their heads to see

what the others are doing.

I unbuckle my seat belt

and watch them off to the left

no cars behind me

I pause in the middle of the road

and remember

People I know

are moving on

my mother wants to move

to a “boom”

my word for the cruel

“facility”

what will become of her in

nine years when she turns

an even hundred

I drive on toward the

Bryn Athyn post office

the Pennypack shivers below

as I cross the bridge

then head back home

with a new idea

since death’s as near

as a whisper
the game:

I must drive

onward

stopping only for gas or food

if I linger

I am dead.

Nothing of value is at home

I could give it all up

the children have grown

no one needs me anymore

a feeling of freedom

light as the white fluffy clouds

and blue sky

I will head for Vermont

a person in a small

unobtrusive car save for the

green Mental Health Awareness magnet

on the bumper

I’ve read all the books

mouthed all the songs

Dylan and the Four Tops

Is this Plainfield Vermont

already?

students in backpacks

walk along the street

a woman smiles at me

I wave

is she me when I was young?

I get out of the car

lean over the bridge to

see if the trout are running

we fished there once

Frankie and I

As I lean over the railing

a little sweaty from the road

hearing the sound of the

cicadas in the faraway trees

I am swept by silent arms

into the Winooski

my white shorts billow around me

it is cool down here

a silent world among

the fish and minnows

and spermlike tadpoles

glancing against my cheeks

silent, without compassion

as I sink to the bottom

knees collapsing

bleeding, I think,

on the rough pebbled

bottom where all

thought vanishes as

I climb toward home.