Four intrepids made it to the Coffeeshop Writers Group where Hilarity Abounded - Poems: Green Nail Polish / Who I am or Old people on PBS

The snow began shortly before noon and is still snowing six hours later.

It's called a 'snow squall' said Allan Heller.

Using my gear shift in my automatic car, I picked up Allan in Hatboro, switching from 1 to 2 to help me climb slight hills and round difficult corners.

I was noivous!!!

Allan and I arrived at 1:05. We had to park in the Upper Lot.

 Allan took me up on my non-monetary bet - I'm no fool - that no one would come.

While Allan photographed me by the Hearth (his term) I saw them - with great joy - at the coffee counter.

We could commence our group.

Have we ever laffed so much?

Allan brought two poems and a short short story "Literary Friction" about two friends - Aimee and Zali - who discussed the fine points of writing good stories.

His rhyming poem "All the Lies You Tell" may not send you to hell... and ends with

be a little afraid that a price may be paid
many years before you've expired.

As you can see by the cover of this locally-produced lit mag Night to Dawn, both Allan Heller and Linda Barrett were just published in there. Editor Barbara Custer is a respiratory therapist by day and a vampire by night.

Let's just say that she's published many books in the horror and sci-fi genres, as is Blood and Shadow. Linda's "Mr Cat's Revenge" is in here.

Carly returned to us for the first time since her ear surgery which will eventually restore her hearing.

She shared her hard of hearing piece which every loved! And she read a short story about watching TV and movies in the living room with her husband Charlie.

Trained in the Navy to respond to medical emergencies, the man can't keep quiet when incorrect info appears on television about medical concerns.

Charlie! Shut up! Don't ruin that program for me with your incessant comments.... even though they're true. For example, if a procedure they tried in the ER were really used, instead of bringing the patient around, it would kill them.

Natch, she doesn't talk that way to Charlie.

Excuse-moi! I'm giving Blogspot a good talking-to.

Listen, big shot, ruler of the blabosphere, what's your problem? I can't upload any more photos cuz one is stuck there, won't upload or be canceled.

Ah, that's a good boy, Blogspot.

Doesn't Carly look great in this hounds tooth blouse?

Donna apologized for not writing a short story. She said last week she would.

No frigging big deal, Donna. You wrote a wonderful poem which equals the same amount of points the short story does.

"Mariel Revisited" tells the story, in verse, about her daughter who died at age 15 in the year 2000.

The story is a marvelous fantasy of Mariel's life were she still alive.

"Her mere presence wakes up the sleepy moon."

Damn good, Donna.

Mariel had a great sense of humor and also knew how to bring warring factions of the family together.


Don't ask.

Gosh, I just fell asleep twice.

Oh, you don't know what happened to me.

Our meeting ended around 4:40.

I was scared to drive Allan home, so Courageous Carly did the honors. She had picked up Donna, so the three of them set off, while I walked to my car in the Upper Lot, cleaned it off, and then had an aha moment.

Do not drive. Spare yourself the stress.

I had dressed for the weather and decided to walk home down Davisville Road.

It took half an hour. "It must have been awful," Marf opined.

It was invigorating! That's b/c I stayed warm. Was wearing black leather boots. They're not snow boots - uggs! - but they did the trick.

First, though, a few more photos for your delectation.

Thanks Kiana for taking the photo. I told her that next week I'll have a poem I'll write for her, in the cinquin format.

2 4 6 8 2  syllables per line.

FOR MY FRIEND GREG UPON TURNING 40

Who else
but Sir Godfrey
has won the acclaim of
RZD for his diligence?
Line one.

Mailed it today. He's one of the Phone Greeters for New Directions. He checks "Line one" for newcomers to our support group.

This man, Bill, looked so friendly I couldn't resist chatting with him esp since he wore a US Marine cap and trained in Camp Lejeune, N C, my birthplace.

Now 88, they were gonna send him to the Korean War, but someone in his family died so he didn't have to go.

His wife Evelyn was there - she just retired from teaching quilting at H-H adult evening school.  Daughter Janet was there, clad in her gorgeous winter furs.

 Who besides me noticed this new space-age looking vending machine?

Sex-y!!!!

Choose from all these delicious drinks, guaranteed to give you a sugar high and if you keep it up you might get diabetes.

Hey, I broke one of my addictions today.

Refused to buy it. Not only bc it sticks in my teeth but bc it gets all over the house. Big vac job this morning.

What did the manic-depressive do this morning?

Big vac job
for the
wack job

Relax, don't take offense.

 Walking to my car in the Upper Lot, not to be confused w Upper Darby or Upper School

 Okay, I'm out of the Giant property and heading home. Several cars pass me. I hope they don't swerve into me. But no. And some go at a good clip.

 I take a short cut through the SEPTA train station, walking up unshoveled stairways.

 Ready to walk down snowy Davisville Road, where cars go slowly OR some of em pass one another.

 New Directions had an office here for four or five years. We held our Movie Night here. I also counseled some people here.

 Perky decorations.

Sit yourself down and I'll bring you out some lemonade.

With or without ice?

 Johnson Brothers paving company and snow removal.

Watering can.

Walking up the steep hill of Keystone Screw right behind my house.

May I take your photo?

Sure.

Where you going?

Upper Moreland High School. (huge hills)

You cut through my yard, I said. Yellow house.

Yes, they said.

I didn't recognize them, but there was only one way they could've come, unless they lived in a cardboard box in the little woods.

 Am in the Screw's parking lot. See the footprints on the little path behind my house?

 Aha! Home sweet home. Was hoping I'd see some deer. Saw three beauties this morning.

When I got to Scott's, he told me I should've called him to pick me up.

What?

I would've walked over, he said, and driven your car home.

So, the group reviewed my new CNF - creative nonfiction - called David's Photo Album. Will read the comments when I bring it to Scott's in 15 minutes. We'll watch a couple Netflix films on "our list."

GREEN NAIL POLISH

I fall asleep while Charlie Rose

interviews for the twenty-fifth year

Oscar nominees, the ruckus they

make in the film clips lullabies me

to sleep in my mis-

matched jammies, stripes on top

polka dots below

Jolting awake

I push my hoar-frost

hair aside and wonder, Whose

green nails are these?

Like a baby discovering

her hands are attached to

her arms, they move with

a simple mind command

I view in wonder approaching

alarm, like Moses did the

Burning Bush, green nails

attached like postcard stamps

to my very fingertips.

A thing of beauty

like the snow-stung maple

in the backyard, the hoof prints

of the deer who tiptoed softly

to the orange peels in the

compost heap, the ripening

Bartlett pears on the kitchen

table, the two new Cezannes

found by open-mouthed curators

at the Barnes Museum, my

green nails spar with the Cezannes

for attention, the color beyond

description, a child has chosen

a green Crayola from the box

and stroked it across each nail

simply to get God’s attention,

He, who created both beauty

and the Bald Eagle minding

her young in the nest.  

See her website here.

WHO I AM or OLD PEOPLE ON PBS

The African-American

The Queer

The Asian

The Fatso

all had the same line

“It wasn’t until I saw myself

on the big screen that I

knew who I was, that I’m

okay in my own eyes and

the eyes of God.”    

Didn’t matter what the

preacher said on the raised

wooden platform with

the tormented Christ

watching

or mother, speaking

softly as she kissed her

almond eyes goodnight. 

It wasn’t until I entered

the last eight stanzas of

this life where DNA plopped

me down with a thud like

the mailman delivering my

Social Security check,

I saw, with exclamation points, who

exactly I am.

There they were! Don’t call them

elderly or seniors or retirees

they are students

disciples of the yoga teacher Peggy Cappy

who has them balancing on one foot

sitting in lotus position bending their

creaky necks back and forth

and telling them, not them, but us,

that as long as we move

… and watch me walk without a cane

across my silken lavender carpet

I will never get old.