The show was made in 2013. Watch it here.
I was on my Diabetes Bike, reached into the pouch, pulled out a pad and pedaling, wrote The Last Neanderthal.
Also knew that I'd write a poem about the Summer Solstice.
Now I just had to find time to write them. Did so in 45 minutes right before our group of five.
Not only is there a photo, the entire Egg Roll is now digesting in my duodenum. Blood sugar was 194, but rode my bike and it's now a normal 96.
Don't gimme no fortune cookie, I told the woman, and handed it back. Diabetics have no fun.
One was about kids playing hide and seek. The last to be found was the winner. Except, in this story, there's a twist at the end.
He hid himself in the closet of his best friend, forgetting that he was afraid of the Boogie Man in the dark.
When he was found his number had expired.
The Assassin concerned a nice karmic piece where the man hired to assassinate a journalist in Russia killed a bellhop in order to wear his uniform, which was a few sizes too small.
So when he went to deliver room service to the journalist and dispose of her with his traditional bear hug, he himself was bear hugged to death.
He said his wife Tati had laffed when he read it to her and he no like dat.
What dyou think happened when he read it to us?
Allan Heller is poet laureate of the little town of Hatboro, PA. The town will celebrate its centennial and our Allan wrote The Ballad of the Billet - complete with catchy refrain - to sing during the program.
He sang it softly and it sounded great!
The Father of our Country, George Washington, led the battle, astute commander that he was.
Apparently the slaves he owned were his wife Martha's. He freed em after he died. She had been married before and had two children, both of whom pre-deceased her. George didn't approve of the boy who was a slaggard. I believe the girl died of cholera. Too tired to look it up.
Beatriz was good enough to join us. The group always feels complete when she's there. Weak from chemo, she said "I can still get some juice out of the orange."
Who knows what's gonna pop outa Linda's head, like Athena being born from Zeus. Whew! His awful headache was simply the birth of his daughter.
Linda's poem Motorcycle Getaway is a gift for her nephew upon buying a new bike.
"You and I become one" - "We crash the laws of physics"
The shocker was she's never ridden on a motorcycle. And probably will not when she sees her nephew.
Floyd led the discussion about motorcycles. The first Harleys were terrible, couldn't compare to the 'rice burners' aka Japanese-made.
Okay, here are my two poems. Then I'm gonna find me a couple good movies to watch, either Netflix or YouTube.
When I spoke to Judy Diaz earlier today - she's in Niwot CO - I told her to watch "What Happened, Miss Simone?" about the late Nina Simone.
Very difficult watching her slide into a very tragic life. And don't blame it on her bipolar disorder. She had choices about being a mother, about accepting beatings from her manager/husband.
THE LAST OF THE NEANDERTHALS
Their huge grinning skulls,
masks that could not speak the
horrors of their waning days
are all that remain.
The spacious caves
high and black and
fuming with fungus
were safe from animal
claw and teeth
They had torn granny’s body
in two. The family watched her
eyes plead for help as
blood spurted from mouth
and limb onto the forest floor
falling onto the acorns they used
for food.
Finally they were down to one.
One remaining sentient being
who knew the truth. With sad
eyes she wandered over the
decaying bodies of her family
too tired to bury them. Tears
slid down her face. With one
last look, she ventured outside
onto the forest floor.
Looked above at the tall gray
sky, the wondrous trees that
swayed with leaves, heard the
call of birds who seemed to say
hello, but they did not know.
She had come to say goodbye.
In her fragile tattered unclean clothing,
she lay down among the short
tender grasses, tiny two-tone
acorns the babies used as spinning
tops, she lay herself down, stared
at the sky, closed her eyes
and awaited her fate.
***
SUMMER SOLSTICE
Monday, this year, always on
the twenty-first of June,
Cleomedes the Greek found it
for his mariners.
Did he have the same thoughts
as me as my ship is bound to
flounder within the next thirty
years.
Did he meet a peaceable death
surrounded by friends? Or, like
fellow Hellene Socrates did he
drink the poison that silenced
every limb?
I shall miss the earth when
the time comes. The maple
in the backyard, softly throwing
its writhing shadow of leaves
upon me as I fill up the bird bath.
And all the books I shall never read.
The flowers in the front yard, pink-nosed
milkweed that never a monarch did
visit and the tasty oregano for my
morning eggs.
The feeling when I awaken in the morning
and stare around my newly painted pink
room, the curtains blowing in the breeze,
How did I get this old, this fast?
Can’t I have one more day?
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