Then he read his poem, "So Now I'm Poet Laureate." In the poem he mentioned he can now thumb his nose at all the online magazines which clearly couldn't appreciate his creativity.
Save the date: Thurs nite, April 24, at 7 pm, Allan's inaugural reading at the Hatboro Library.
Donna Krause on the right always shares her poems with her boyfriend Denny. Her poem "Time" concerned how quickly time fades away. Wish I had some quotes.
In her poem she used ellipses - ... - dots, as if to say, here's what's coming next.
In the book I'm reading for my book club - Despair by Vladimir Nabokov - he mentions the suspense generated by those three little dots. Natch, I said to Donna, I thought of YOU!
Linda Blue Sweater Barrett wrote two wonderful poems: "Winter Hope," in which God gives us a rainbow to make up for the bad weather and "The Spring of Living Water" about Jesus appearing to the poet who has a deep spiritual hunger, sorta like my hunger for a hot cuppa tea.
Best tea I ever drank! Reuse your tea bags, readers! Life isn't cheap.
Beatriz and Carly, where art thous?
Carly had a tuff time hearing the actors so she finally got up and asked for some sort of hearing device they did provide her with. YOW! TOO LOUD! By the end of the play, she figured it out. Tho she didn't say it in her piece, she probly missed the entire play b/c she was so concerned with the awkward device.
Next victim! Beatriz. "Brainy Bumble Bees" was about the larger cousins of honeybees, all female, who learn where to gather the best nectar. She referred to them as "The Einstein of Bees."
Undoubtedly, they return to our flowers many times as they must remember their food source, just as we return to shop at the Giant. A keen observer, biologist Beatriz can spot young bumbling bumble bees who are just learning their trade. They LEARN to be better foragers.
Martha read a fascinating poem about being a substitute teacher to children who are caught up in the technological generation. At first she complained about it - she does have one of those iPads - but at the end of the poem, she grew to accept it.
I was SO not in the mood to write this morning, but finally dragged my fat ass upstairs to write a poem I thot of last nite when watching "The Card" on Netflex.
Note that Petula Clark - yes, the singer - was in it. She's now all of 84 years old. And married to the same man since 1961.
I always visit Mom and Ellen after the Writer's Group. Potholes? I actually wrote a Letter to the Editor which goes like this:
Here's my temporary solution to protecting our cars from potholes.
Road crews should go out and paint white circles around the potholes so vehicles can spot them from afar.
They might also fill them with pebbles, until such time as they can patch them up.
THE SORROW OF THE GIFT OF NETFLIX
They have
all gone away.
Ann Todd,
Trevor Howard
Claude
Rains.
Caught in
a lover’s triangle –
poor
Annie was obsessed with
her first
love, tall, straight-backed
Trevor,
with long brow and
eyes that
even David Lean
could not
capture on the
Silver
Screen – she stares
down the
railroad tracks
and we
fear …..
but I
shan’t give it away.
On the
small screen of my laptop
I press
the “Pause Button”
and
falling into that smoky sleep
that
comes before the deeper one
find the
three of them
at the
Masquerade Ball
I arrive
in dyed blond hair
and a
slinky white-sequined gown
“Let us
sit and sip the
champagne,”
I say
cocking
my head.
We sit
beneath the clock.
“I am the
Countess of Chell,”
I say,
referring to the movie
“The
Card” with the late
Alec
Guinness, much more
handsome
here at table
than the
older one
whose
ears could power
a wind
mill atop Raytharn Farm
“I say,
quite a good crowd
tonight!”
I toast, then sip the
bubbling House
of Rothschild
champagne
My mouth
won’t speak
as I try
to warn
Ann,
Trevor and Claude
about the
battles ahead,
their own
little war waged
in two
hours, rather than
the
mighty battles
on our
green planet,
soiling
the earth with red,
my
companions’ battles are
fought
with their own blood
dribbling
from three
separate
hearts.
Alas, I
have drunk
too much
and am
tipsy. My
head falls
upon the
table,
next to
the burgundy
linen
napkin.
“May I
escort you
to the
terrace?” says
Trevor.
I take
his arm, lift
up my
skirts so as
not to
trip and we
breathe
the fresh air
of the London suburbs,
looking
down at all
the
twinkling lights
of the
city and then up
at the
galaxies
far far
away.
“You are
beautiful, my
Countess,”
he says,
and
kisses my hand.
He is a
gentleman.
I tell
him I must take
my leave,
kiss him on
both cheeks,
such a delicious
man is
he, and dissipate
finding
myself back in
my living
room, savoring
my dream.
Or was
it?
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