My assignment today was to write three poems. Just finished the Wendy poem. Thanks to Martha and Marcy for reading them.
Black coffee should not be bitter. This was a Starbucks that had an excellent taste.
The first poem is called FREDA SAMUELS WROTE A BOOK.
The next is BLUE NAIL POLISH.
Donna Krause from our Writers' Group painted my nails, so I thanked her with a poem. After these two women give me permission, I'll print the poems.
I mailed off les deux at the Hatboro Post Office, where I bought b'ful new stamps.
You may wonder why I just left my Red Couch Office. Here's why.
Recipe idea from Burt Plaster over at Willow Grove Bible Church.
I couldn't finish since I pigged out writing the poems on a new kind of popcorn that was excellent.
Nearly Naked Popcorn is popped in canola and olive oil, with added salt. Quite good.
Yesterday, our family was sposed to go see relatives at a rented house in Mantoloking, NJ. We hired a livery cab who would've driven us for around $325 including tips. Not bad at all.
Mom, however, was feeling terrible. And she felt awful about disappointing everyone. I went over to visit her to see how she's doing. Much better. She was in bed, sorting her papers.
Afterward, I drove over to see "the kids" and here's a few pix I took.
See if it works. It doesn't work but look at Max's face. It changed since last I saw him.
She also said that she was gonna test herself to see if she's allergic to poison ivy. Her mom is one of the lucky ones who is not.
Told Grace I had a little patch of PI from when I walked Scott through our back yard to the train station.
I'm gonna mail Wendy a few photos of me and the kids.
I asked her if she wanted me to visit her in Burlington, but she said no.
After seeing the kids, I drove to Masons Mill Park to see the featured Sunday Night Band, a women's trio called "Full Circle." They were really good.
Didn't realize I published this already. I'm removing The Pope b/c I wrote a better one.
WENDY OF THE GREEN
HILLS OF VERMONT
Flowers
by wire on their way
A
selection of violets
which
will live long after you
my
dying friend from Goddard
College
in Vermont
The
trickle of blood
your
own Winooski River
went
unnoticed until
too
late. The cancer
has
spread through your
insides
like blue plum jam.
Who
knew your third floor
pad
in Burlington would be
your
final home. “I should have
stayed
in Maryland,” you sighed
over
the phone, as memories
of
your parents fill you with
longing,
longing now that the world
grows
small as a mattress
with
a morphine pump
on
the side.
You
beat me to age seventy
We
were risk-taking teenagers
when
we met, sun-bathing nude
in
the cow pasture, wishing our
great
unrequited loves could
ride
over the hill to caress us, Lenny for
you,
Frank for me.
I
will ride the wild stallion when
you’re
gone, galloping to the
high
hill on Terwood Road
to
tell you who came after Obama
and
if they’re advancing in
Alzheimer’
and dementia
Your
shoulder-length hair
is
gray. Like me, you stopped
coloring
it. A slow concession
to
time. I still remember your
articulate
sentences you spoke
at
Kilpatrick Dorm, while people
were
screwing in their rooms.
What
must that be like, I wondered.
Sip
on that licorice tea I sent you
it
might have healing properties
Who
decided to kill you off
Who
planted that curare flask
in
your womb that never bore
fruit?
As
we speak on the phone
you
from your bed
me
on the red couch
a
cardinal appears at your
window.
“He is there on
account
of me,” I say.
“For
sure,” you say in that
voice
I can summon at will.
The
two of us lying beneath
the
stars awaiting the blackness
that
will come when it will.
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