Coffeeshop Writer's Group - Welcome Tatiana Heller! - My poems: Our Bill - Who am I?

And a lovely time was had by all.

High quality work!

 Deep concentration by Tatiana and Beatriz.

B wrote one of her marvelous nature essays: The Monarch Butterfly as a Poster Child

In her well-wrin humorous essay, she talked about people at nature centers photograffing the lovely monarch, except they've mistaken its identity.

Monarch butterfly only eats milkweed plants. Pennypack Trust in Huntingdon Valley, has plenty of milkweed.

This is a Viceroy MOTH - they come out at nite - which can be mistaken for a monarch, but certainly not

The Swallowtail Butterfly

Allan and Tati went to Lorimer Park in Abington Township where they saw loads of butterflies.

"They were dancing and prancing around," said Tati.

I showed them my bruise I got when Scott and I biked there. I hadn't biked in a year and fell off when I was making a U-turn.

 Linda and Carly listen intently....

 as do Martha and Allan. Hmmm, are they passing notes like schoolchildren?

I told Allan he could pass for my BF Scott from behind... the sexy bald dome.

Here's darling Baldie on the chiropractor's table. He tore a quadriplex from having too much sex.... I mean, from exercising too much.

 Ruth Z, tilting leeward.

I keep a wrinkled blue shirt in my car and bring it inside to over-air-conditioned places.

Gee, I never got a good look at my sandals. Hadn't realized how high up they go.  Bot em a couple yrs ago in Ocean City on sale at the end of the season.

 Here's Brianna, Marf's grand-daughter, who waited patiently for Gram. She volunteered at a summer camp, but as we know the end of summer is a-comin.

Dyou know the beautiful lines:

"Sumer Is Icumen In" is a very old English song which can be sung as a round. It is the oldest example of a round that we know of. The composer is unknown. It was written down around the middle of the 13th century by a monk but we do not know whether that monk composed it, or whether it had been composed earlier.
The title means "Summer has come in". The round can be sung in six parts. There are also two parts which can be repeated again and again (an ostinato) throughout the piece. The language is Middle English and is based on the dialect spoken in Wessex, England at the time.

 Listen here on YouTube.

I'm actually listening to the Blues Show on WXPN now.


Linda got feedback for her very imaginative Chapter Four of her novel "Time for Love." She also wrote a short poem with the same title.

Martha bought this fabric of a world map and made a blouse out of it, as well as a tablecloth. Raw talent! She also does the counted cross-stitch.

Three poems today from the prolific Marf.

THE WEDDING

by Martha Hunter

It must be a demon

that takes over my mind

when faced with the prospect

of public engagements.

Poking me with the pitchfork

of doubt and self consciousness,

Bringing up the old fears of

“not good enough’.

Agonizing over clothes and hair

Packing a suitcase sized purse

with enough extras to supply a

weekend’s stranding on a deserted road.

Dreading the drive,

sure this will be the day of the

accident I’ve been expecting

all my adult life.

Uneasy at seeing no place on the road

with a bathroom

to ease my nervous bladder.

Then we arrive,

and the hotel is gorgeous,

the food elegant,

The company joyous,

Not a one looking at my

clothes or hair,

And the couple,

heartbreakingly sweet

in their fresh love for one another,

causes a recommitment

of those present to those

early ideals of sacrifice and service

which is more a bedrock than

romance and passion.

The sun sets on a glorious day

of shared rejoicing

quite apart from me and my crazies.

+

Carly and I both said we're both awaiting death by automobile.

Marf also wrote a poem with the terrific title MAX AND DUDIS, about a retarded girl who mispronounced people's names and was brutally honest with people.

Max and Dudis were actually Marf's late parents - Jim and Eunice Macdonald. Eunice is an extremely unusual name, not on your Top Baby List Names.

We knew of a Eunice Podis back in Cleveland, who was a famous pianist.

Here's her obit. She died at age 86 in 2008. I'm gonna listen to her later on YouTube.

Gosh, I've got a lotta homework.

Tati, as Allan calls his wife, gave great feedback. She hails from Russia, a city near Moscow. She emigrated with her parents. Her dad is Jewish and yes, they give Jews a hard time.

Everyone does, said Beatriz, with a laff. Sometime I'll share my poem "Nazi Waters" with the group.

Wedding rings please!

Tatiyana Heller

Allan and Tati

Talking about watches, here's Carly's.

Carly read three short poems that were really good.

Noises pollute everything, she wrote. How dare they disrupt her personal space?

If I had a mind, I could remember her two other poems.

Allan read a superb intro to one of his cemetery books.

Carly said, "Now I know what you mean by 'tight writing.'"

Not an extra word in his piece.

Here's what Scott and I had for dinner.

Our garden zucchini served as al dente pasta. I sauteed the mushrooms and peppers in olive oil, then poured over it Muir Garden Spag Sauce, rated numero uno by America's Test Kitchen




Here are my two contributions:

OUR BILL

In memory of Bill Sanders

December 31, 1963 - July 13, 2013

A drunk your whole life

you were part of our neighborhood,

liked, if not loved,

in your stupors that had you

swaying like a windmill

smelling none too good

but that was Our Bill

Memories, we have a few.

William Adams, whose yard you

claimed for your own,

met you after you’d

walked the tracks to

the Oreland Inn

“the last of the old-time

tap rooms”

booze couldn’t ruin

those walkin’ legs of yours

Sweet Bill.

When William mentioned his

evergreen

growing like a beanstalk next to his house

he heard a chainsaw

from his upstairs office

looked out to see the

top of your head

swaddled in the red bandana

you always wore

gave you a C-note

a six-pack and Marlboro Reds

You cared about everyone

asked how my new kidney

was doing

I was moved by your concern

while wondering what could be

done for you.

Nothing.

A masterful gardener

you taught me

names of weeds

Creeping Charlie

and assured me my maple

was not a goner, like you were.

You knew, yet didn’t.

Booze, your forever companion,

swelled your liver

with each delicious

slurp you poured down

your once-virgin throat

as your mother rocked

you in the cradle of her love.

Why stop?

You were caught,

a bear in a trap,

and accepted the chains

that would one day call you

home to the Sweet Jesus

you loved

He waited for you on

that sweltering day in late July

when the cicadas

sang their songs of joy

and the aloe vera

waited for you in the family room.

When you breathed your last

in the nursing home where

they put you after your fall

you were in and out of

consciousness

the nurses hurried in

when your heart flat-lined

by then you were greeted

by your dead mother Joan

and Sweet Jesus

as you cried out, “Do you love me still?” 

*

WHO AM I?

Nervous breakdowns, I was told,

leave a tiny child inside.

Is that why I step onto

the backyard deck

and greet the birds

“Hello guys? Who is

visiting me today?”

“Who are you, Ruth?”

said Phil, the crew-cut

admissions officer at Goddard College.  

I was taken by surprise,

a sheltered girl from Cleveland

who read deep books but

never thought deep thoughts

At sixty-seven, you know what?

I don’t care who I am.

Oh, sure, I’m a repository of

all my history,

sandwiched like a Dobos Torte

inside my aging freckled shell

When I step outside

I answer to no one

but the honesty of the sky

and the innocence of the new stray

cat who streaks across the backyard

hiding behind the forsythia

Who am I?

A woman who loves nothing more

than walking on her own two feet

around the block on Cowbell

Wave when you see me striding by.