My goal last nite was to write three new poems for today's program. Carly Brown also utilized the opportunity to present new work.
He stood up and read the poem, by memory, he wrote when he first became a certified peer specialist.
Your Letter to the Editor in the Intelligencer, she said. Eleanor was one of the friendly library aides at the Upper Moreland Library.
Linda read her great poem "Lobsters." I told the audience she was a prizewinner in the Montgomery County Community College Writer's Contest.
Eleanor asked what her story "Mr Cat's Revenge" was about: An evil Muslim man who turns into a cat in order to get the woman he loves, who spurned him. The cat met his demise when he was run over by a car.
What an imagination! Donna Krause and I agreed.
Donna fearlessly writes about her bipolar disorder and also about her tragic losses. Her daughter Mariel was 15 when she died of meningitis. Her husband John died last year. See her poems at blog's end.
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I had told Mitch Davis....
Holy cow! Take a look at our late Cantor Meisels back at Temple on the Heights in Cleveland. Studied at Juillard!
Isn't this fun... going on all these amazing tangents. "Amazing" is one of those new words that means ... take your pick... stupendous, great, extraordinary. My mom still uses "swell."
My blood sugar shot up to 193. Hopped on my exercise bike, pedaled over 20 minutes, while watching about the Landing on Omaha Beach. Talked about Rommel, The Dessert Fox, who used specially invented grenades that would blow you up in the air.
I only know one man who fought with Rommel: then 18-yo Karl Rickels, who's now an MD, inventor of psych meds and professor. Read about him here.
One of the commentators on the show, a retired military man, said when you wanna win a war, men and women are expendable. Body counts are terrible, but it's what we must do.This is the price we pay to have plenty of fuel and nice things, he said.
Uncle Marvin is long gone. He fought in Belgium during World War Two. Dad was stationed at the now infamous Guantanamo.
A HOSPITAL VISITOR
She’s here,
Standing over my shoulder,
Listening to the doctors’ words,
Amazed at the tests that could have
Saved her life,
Had she wanted it saved.
She’s here,
One flight down,
from the hospice floor
Where she died,
Patting me on the shoulder
Whispering in my ear,
“ Don’t be afraid!”
She’s here,
As I write the experience
As she wrote her experiences
As wife, mother, widow and Home-goer
She’s here,
Looking for the silver lining
And opportunities
To take others
Under her rainbow
She’s here,
Still my mother
Whether here or there
MISSING MON
I didn’t think I’d miss her this much,
She who was always there.
The cushion I could fall on.
Wise woman, organizer, event planner,
Celebrator of birthdays long into my middle age,
Seeing her skinny kid,
in every holiday gift,
Sure a size M would fit my 2x body.
Always answering the phone
Even when Caller ID came out
And she saw it was me again,
Calling to complain about one thing or another,
Not for help, but to hear the sound of her calming voice.
That profound connection,
Mining the gold of who I really am.
My meaning in life -
To make her proud
And to walk tentatively in her
Giant footsteps.
Then, as it must for all of us,
the silver thread that tethered her to this earth,
Thinned and snapped.
The rites said,
Body buried,
House cleaned out
Leaving her child in a vertigo of lost identity.
Who am I without my mother?
What are the steps I should take to get through
My many crises?
I’m Eunice’s daughter
Whether she’s here or there,
I step up and take my place
in the line that stretches back to Eve.
Buoyed by my past,
Strengthened for my future.
Saying, as she always did,
“Have faith! All will be well.”
Read Allan's book in its entirety - five stars!
Uh, Kevin, darling, would you mind turning the effing speakers off!
Poems by Mitch are below. We admired his bold poems about women. We asked what his wife Karen thought about them. Hemming n hawing a bit, he said she likes them.
After all, I said, men always paint beautiful portraits of women like Botticelli's Birth of Venus below.
Mitch is a former restaurant critic, having wrin for The Trend. After the group adjourned, we talked about restaurants. The two best cuisines, he said, are Italian (!!!) and Chinese (!!!)
Told him about Lemon Basil on the Pike, where Donna, Ellen and I celebrated Ellen's b'day.
So where is it? Ruthie, we can't trust you with anything. Her mother Ellen also came along.
Below is for my friend Denis Hazam who's been having problems being "dialyzed," a term I'd never heard before. What else could I do but send him a poem. I was nominated by Sharon Katz to be Woman of the Year at a local TV station, so the title is a takeoff on that.
MAN OF THE YEAR
Again
the Beast roars, stands
over your bed, jagged
teeth itching to pounce, when Fate
cries
Begone! 
Denis and Fran Hazam came for lunch a couple mos ago.
WHERE DID YAWL GO?
What makes us old? Did the intervening years do that? Is that the way that each generation thinks?
When I see someone that is older than I, I wonder first of all what age they are. I also wonder how they are getting along. I try to decipher if they are in any type of pain. Is getting old hard for them?
I think if I will be able to deal with it.
Now that I am getting of a certain age, I recall looking in the mirror a number of years ago and instead of my face staring back, the face that was looking back at me was indeed my mothers face.
Where did all those fine lines. Okay, lets just be honest, wrinkles, age spots and that lovely turkey neck, come from?
I recall looking away quickly, scared by the reflection I perceived.
Now several years later, I have come to realize that undeniably was my actual face gawking back in the mirror.
And, I must admit it hasn't gotten any better. The one thing that I can do to make it a little more favorable, take off my glasses.
Nice! That works.
Whoa, where did yawl go?
*
I knew I wanted to write three new poems for today. Worked on em in the wee hours. Bet Carly's working on hers, too, methinks.
I need lotsa time to procrastinate before I write, so I watched one of my fave programs online - Second Opinion - a medical show produced at the University of Rochester Medical Center. Great cast of smarties.
Oh look! I found James Foxhall's photo online. Hmmm, wonder who took it.
ODE TO ROBIN FRANKLIN
When my
legs arrive at the
top of the
stairs, I listen
for her
voice, the way a child
finds
Mother in a wayward
corner of
the house, oh there
you are
anxiety
gone.
Her voice,
how shall we
describe
it, not the lark
ascending
nor the nightingale
sighing for
lost love
A blustery
low wind come
through the
upstairs window
swaying the
white curtains
wind chimes
clinking like
wine
glasses
laughing at
contact
and so I
too laugh as
I greet her
No, I am
not a pain in the ass,
No, I am
not to be dreaded and
avoided,
but welcomed on the
topmost
floor of her Penthouse
where she
presides over her flocks
as she
assigns us rooms and takes
our burden
from us in her
natty suit
and swinging earrings
her New
Yorker waiting at home
on the
bedside table, waiting,
like us, to
be acknowledged and loved.
BACKS
Backs can
mean a number of
things.
Stepping up on the
bus, you
sit behind the
driver, and
stare at his back
while
across from you an old
man scratches
his back with
his
umbrella.
A man, a
former drug addict
named Les –
ya know him? –
gave me a
smooth
white
carton of paper. Reams!
Les is
forgotten and his paper
soon will
be as I use up the
very last
ream, tearing it open
with the
franticness of one of
those obese
children digging
into his
Whopper
My printer
chugs away
blindingly-white
paper
made from tall
pines
in the
Northwest
did you
mark how
they stood
at attention
on the
mountaintop
seeking
God?
To preserve
its diminishing
numbers, I
type on the other meaning
of “backs,”
one side
already rubbed
with
ink.
My backs:
written on
flawed
letters that must be redone,
stationery
where I tell a woman
her son
must stay on the higher dose
of Abilify,
a letter to Cousin Leonard
where I
tell him after fifty years I loved
his father
and his cow-faced mother Sophie
my history
and theirs all in backs
my Dead Sea Scrolls in
Qumran’s Caves.
I told the group that in our Upper Moreland Library Book Group we read James Agee's "A Death in the Family." So I read a couple of his short stories, including the one below.
Allan Heller had read a collection of Agee's poetry, which he found excellent. Agee was a film critic who put that genre on the map with his astute writing.
A MOTHER’S TALE BY
JAMES AGEE
Published
in Harper’s Bazaar, 1952
“A
Mother’s Tale” is open to
interpretation
by the
critics
and professors
Let
me fill you in
We’re
talking cows here
the
slow comely soft-eyed
darlings
the English love
to
paint, but under Agee,
their
contentment ends
when
one comes home from
the
battlefront to warn the
others
of what awaits
they
shake their heads
when
hearing of trains
and
stockyards
they
had no idea
their
paradise smashed
their
only hope to
disbelieve,
to deny
Mother
encourages this
she
too fools herself and
banishes
the images that
legend
holds are true. Something
called
Meat. Her tail swats some
flies
and she whirls around to see
her
soft flanks that have traveled
with
her when she and her boys
roam
the meadows to graze. In a
vision,
she tries to swipe away,
her
boys are herded by
men
on horseback, she follows them
down
the green pasture, as they get
smaller
and smaller, until,
No!
she’s sure this is a dream.
What
I want to know, Mr Agee,
he
of the Library of Congress best books
a
farm boy himself,
who
loved nothing better than the smell
of
the manure and hay and straw on his
Daddy’s
farm, how did you turn yourself
into
a mother cow, with a moo that would
melt
in your mouth?
Am so used to seeing Mitch with his earring I'd forgotten about it until he included it in a poem.
Read two of Linda's poems below.
WINTER HOPE
Gray Skies overhead
Melting snow exposes
Dirty mounds and fog
Parking lot's wet asphalt
Reveals garbage can contents
lying flat against it
resembling dead hideous sea creatures.
Trees on the hill
Flowers in pots in the Roslyn Giant's entrance
once green and lively
turn various shades of rust.
SEPTA trains in the station
wail dinosaur death cries
Above Susquehanna Road skies
clouds part for a moment
allow a rainbow to stretch
across the sky's open dome
reveal God's loving promise
in its multi-colored arch
Even in sad times,
He comforts us.
LOBSTERS
They sit in the cramped corners
of the water tank
face each other
armored claws bound
with thick rubber bands
These shelled warriors
take on boxer's stances
wait their chance
to attack each other
in impromptu bouts
They step over one another
pick fights for dominance
of their watery ring
Some desperate crustaceans
decide to make their escape
reach out for the tank's top
but fall over backwards
onto each other
Those lucky ones
usually win
when the sea food man
in his white coat
pulls them out
makes them champions
of someone's dinner.
REMINDED me of The Lovely Shall Be Chooses by Robert Frost.
Yes, he was young once.
Later in the show, Saul asked Mitch what happened to Sue.
Who's Sue, said Mitch.
Read two of Linda's poems below.
WINTER HOPE
Gray Skies overhead
Melting snow exposes
Dirty mounds and fog
Parking lot's wet asphalt
Reveals garbage can contents
lying flat against it
resembling dead hideous sea creatures.
Trees on the hill
Flowers in pots in the Roslyn Giant's entrance
once green and lively
turn various shades of rust.
SEPTA trains in the station
wail dinosaur death cries
Above Susquehanna Road skies
clouds part for a moment
allow a rainbow to stretch
across the sky's open dome
reveal God's loving promise
in its multi-colored arch
Even in sad times,
He comforts us.
LOBSTERS
They sit in the cramped corners
of the water tank
face each other
armored claws bound
with thick rubber bands
These shelled warriors
take on boxer's stances
wait their chance
to attack each other
in impromptu bouts
They step over one another
pick fights for dominance
of their watery ring
Some desperate crustaceans
decide to make their escape
reach out for the tank's top
but fall over backwards
onto each other
Those lucky ones
usually win
when the sea food man
in his white coat
pulls them out
makes them champions
of someone's dinner.
When
I am an Old Man
M.
Davis, June 2012
When
I am an old man I shall wear an earring,
A
necklace, and baggy pants below my hips.
I
will sit in the park in the sun without a hat,
And
watch the world go by.
I
shall stand with my shirt unbuttoned in the rain,
And
hand out flowers to young couples in love;
Perhaps
even get a tattoo behind my shoulder.
I
will take long naps in the afternoon,
Waking
in time for another “happy hour.”
Have
a “Vesper Martini” (Bond’s favorite cocktail),
Maybe
two, with some half-price apps. at the bar.
As
Jimmy put it, “…Wasting away in Margaritaville.”
I
shall spend my 401k on trips to Bangkok,
And
on women half my age but twice as smart:
Or
maybe my age and half as smart.
But
right now I’m not old enough to be a vagabond.
I
still have respectability, a mortgage to pay,
And
a loving wife at my side who is my guide.
Besides
there’s the role I must play to show the way
And
be a proper example to the children.
Yet…
maybe I have begun my vagabond journey…
Notice
the earring if you haven’t already.
Isn’t
there a tattoo parlor ‘round the corner?
THE ONE BELOW WAS PUBLISHED IN THE INQUIRER, one of three chosen that year in April, National Poetry Month.
Checkerboards
in Winter
The diehard players are there,
Hunched over their granite
board,
Wrapped in scarves and capped in
wool,
Their breath like puffs of pipe
smoke.
One had brought a snow scraper,
His buddy a bath towel.
Together they had wiped the
Early snow from the checkerboard
squares.
Around them three kibbitzers
stand,
Watching the play move by move,
Shuffling their feet to stay
warm...
A wintry tableau in the park.
These men come in all weathers,
Retirees with little else
But each other and their game,
Apart from the city's life.
Once they came with wives and
kids
In days of spring and summer.
But now they bring their
checkers,
Their castles, bishops, and
pawns.
Mitch Davis, Nov. 2011
The Sadness of Beautiful Women
Mitch Davis, Nov. 2006
Rev. 07, June 2014
Most think to be a very beautiful woman
a blessing.
Little do they know
how distressing,
even depressing.
You’d have to be in her skin
to understand
How her attractiveness
is its own imperative,
a constant demand.
Each day drawing attention,
unwanted, unwarranted.
Staring eyes burning her,
Stalking men concerning her,
Lustful minds undressing her,
Lewd minds caressing her.
Everyone thinks: This pretty thing
has not intelligence, skill,
nor toughness inside.
Bosses, peers, subordinates deride:
“This ‘bimbo’ can’t really do the job,”
Or something equally snide.
How sad such a gift turns a handicap…
“Does my new man love me, or just my body?”
“Is my dress too revealing?”
She cries….
And wishes:
She’d never been given
a
face and form so appealing!
When
I was a Boy
M.
Davis, Nov. 2011
When I was a boy
I'd hold my breath.
My friends would think
I was very near death.
“Missus Davis, Missus Davis
He's turning blue!”
They'd all call.
Why'd I do this... wish I knew.
When I was a boy
I had no girls.
A strange species, girls,
With narrow waists and curls.
I bloomed real late,
How sad but true,
To see at last
They are..., well..., human
too.
When I was a boy
I went to camp
And saw them more...
Sue Klein made my crotch damp.
Went to her bunk
One late dark night,
Raised her blanket,
Lay down and held her tight.
When I was a boy
I loved my Sue,
Kissed her mouth,
And got her crotch damp too.
I never held
My breath again
Or turned blue,
Not since then, when I turned
ten.
Later in the show, Saul asked Mitch what happened to Sue.
Who's Sue, said Mitch.
I vividly remembered the below poem from our Coffeeshop Shindigs.
Women in Airports
Mitch Davis, May 2006.
What is it that makes women in
airports so alluring?
Is it their mystery?
Who are they?
Where are they from?
Where are they going?
There is one now….
Is it her aloneness?
Is it unaccustomed, just
temporary?
Will some gentleman be waiting
at her destination,
To carry her bags, and warmly
hug and kiss her?
(What would it feel like?)
She is so beautiful, yet is she
truly alone?
She is not young, but older
now,
Yet still lissome and lovely,
her hair still full and dark.
Something in her knowing eyes
and thighs
Express she has been married
once.
Is she recently separated, or
by now divorced?
I watch her from across the
flight gate area.
She stands aloof to all, her
back to a huge window.
The early morning light is
streaming through her hair
And partially silhouetting her
appealing profile.
She is tailored, in a
figure-contoured black suit;
Yet feminine ruffle softens her
white under-blouse.
Her heels are just so high to
raise and taper her calves;
She holds no business attaché,
only a small “carry-on.”
(What does she do?)
I try not to overly gaze, but
my eyes are drawn to her.
I want to know her name, to
caption her image in memory,
But my legs will not dare to
close the distance.
Her head turns toward me…I look
away, feigning detachment.
Mercifully, the disembodied
boarding call begins filling the space.
We move methodically,
separately, toward the bridge tunnel.
She is ahead of me…my
out-of-control eyes are mesmerized;
Her undulating female walk…a
promise of her sexuality?
(What would that
feel like?)
We board the plane….
Perhaps the airline’s
unknowing, uncaring computer
Will randomly choose to seat us
next to each other.
And I will learn the
answers,….even after we land.
*
Jews have never been afraid to confront God and challenge him. I think The Book of Job set the standard.
After Mitch read this stirring poem, I read my Nazi Waters, which is too long to print.
Close out the night, Mitch!!
The Longest Hate
Did You know oh Lord,
When
You chose Abraham and his people,
What
You were doing?
Did
You know oh Lord,
When
You made your covenant with them,
What
You were brewing?
You
gave them Canaan, and your sacred Torah,
In
trust forever your laws to keep.
You
promised them a great nation, a light unto the world.
Then
what did You do, go back to sleep?
The
“Chosen People” – give me a break!
This
ancient agreement was just a fake.
Did
You really expect they’d be loved forever?
For
an omnipotent God, you’re not very clever.
No,
for thousands of years, they’ve been shunned and scorned,
Exiled,
ghettoed, gassed, and burned…have You even mourned?
This
then, oh Father, is what you gave them,
In
payment of the burden of being your chosen.
They’re
consigned for centuries to this fate:
‘Ever
being the object of the world’s longest hate.
©Mitch Davis,
April 2014
Poems by Donna KrauseBARELY THERE
I’m barely there.
Hanging on to life.
Hands cracked and giving way.
Face so raw,
From the blustery summer wind.
Searching to find the good.
That life has to offer.
Tears blinding me now.
My spirit slowly melting,
Into an ugly abyss
Please help me to find a peaceful place,
I cannot see a trace.
Decision to keep on breathing.
The next chapter of my life.
Finding a trace of goodness
Through my grandson’s eyes.
CHELSEA'S MORNING
It’s Chelsea’s morning.
Sun coming up,
Peeking up and over the hills,
Of Boulder, ColoradO.
Huge Rocks sit with dignity,
Kissing the horizon.
Bronzed skin from hiking,
Ascending to the highest peak.
Sky is painted royal blue.
Lives on the side of a mountain.
Perfect solitude.
Delightful country home.
Fireplace roaring,
Snuggling with her dog and her special love.
Guiding her as if she was my own.
Childhood was grim, at times.
As her second mama,
I see glimpses of myself, in her.
Fighting the stress of everyday.
Chelsea’s smile reflects the moonbeams.
Full of sweetness with a kiss of honeysuckle.
She and my daughter are united spirits,
In unison with nature.
Their beauty matches the view of Colorado.
Chelsea surprises me with her visits.
Tears wash over my face.
Loves me like delicate butterflies,
They fly into her life just in time.
A piece of her sits softly in my heart.
CIRCLE OF HOPE
Kind souls formed
A circle of light
Arms linked
Weaved in and out
Sweet empathy
Heartfelt and warm
Tears trickling down my cheeks
Hiding a familiar wall of dismay
Light came towards me now
Afraid to join them
Shock from John’s death
Melted away
Easier to be alone
Fear lurked in my heart
Voices calling me still
Found the courage to belong
Sunlight danced in my eyes
Taking in the fresh winter air
Enveloped by the circle of living
GOODBYE TO ALL THE ROOMS
Goodbye to all the rooms!
All dressed up
Walls painted with pretty pastels
New shades of green
Tiles so unique
Water bath
Takes one to a fresh relaxed state
Dining room furniture
Cries out to stage
Holiday feasts
Champagne toasts all around
Bedroom adorned with gothic taste
Good character and strength
Out back brimming with snap shots
Of birthdays for small or tall
Are playing in my mind
Our Christmas mornings
Full of magic and glee
My younger days were gone
Like a tired old porch swing
Recalling the sting of deaths
Heavenly births captured my heart
All slipped away from me
Like snow melting
On the evergreen trees
How can I leave this haven?
This memorable place called home
HEAVENLY CONNECTIONS
Calming vibrations, humming so serene.
Land of colors, too vibrant,
For the eyes to see.
Burdens are lifted, no more despair.
Time to drink in this peace,
And let God guide our path.
Glowing beams of light, play on the gold threaded swings.
Eternal connections from heaven to earth.
Luscious fragrances from bouquets of flowers.
Delivered to their loved ones.
Smiling with tears that trickle from their eyes.
Beds become cradles,
Rocking tenderly, there are no words to speak.
Footsteps are heard in the stairway,
Leading to euphoria.
Doorbells ringing, once, twice.
But no one is there.
Our sweet child’s presence.
A gift that is so poignant,
Our hearts cry out for more.
END OF BLOG POST. But don't worry. Another one always comes along.
Enjoyed everything here, but too tired to comment on specifics.
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