Writers Group - July 11, 2015 - Beatriz Moisset's poem "First Day of School" - My poem "The Three of Us"

Donna Krause wrote one of her descriptive poems about bipolar disorder called "I Want to Live."

The sun is out
and pushes away
the groggy moon

That's superb poetry.

Her boyfriend Denny came to pick her up at the end of the meeting. He'd never read it before and is a keen critic. No, you don't have to be Harold Bloom to critique a poem, just a regular person.

I listened to an interview on Tavis Smiley with Dr Ruth Westheimer, the sex therapist, who lost her beloved husband Fred to a massive stroke.

She said you must work on a relationship every single day, like cultivating a flower. At 87, she's very active, and is out promoting her newest book The Doctor Is In.


 Dr Ruth is very short and sat on some cushions during the Tavis show.

They got along splendidly and I could view her therapeutic techniques. Par example - and she was trained at the Sorbonne - she said "Tavis, I like that serious face you're making."

A native of Germany, her parents sent her for safe-keeping to Switzerland due to the efforts of a Swiss humanitarian. Read her extraordinary history here.

She has moved forward without bitterness. "Be better, not bitter."

Linda's "Summer Rain" was written the day before.

As she read, we could feel the rain and then "the boiling blood in our veins" and saw a three-tiered rainbow fall over our table at the Giant Supermarket.

   We were glad to see Beatriz, who wrote a poem after seeing a photo on Facebook of Ruby Bridges. "She wore a cute dress and bow and a pair of Mary Janes."

From Wiki -
Ruby Nell Bridges Hall (born September 8, 1954) is an American activist known for being the first black child to attend an all-white elementary school in Louisiana during the 20th century.^[1] She attended William Frantz Elementary School

President Eisenhower sent Federal marshalls to New Orleans to accompany her to school. She was very frightened - people called her names, spat at her - but the worst thing was when a woman put a black doll in a coffin.

Her mother suggested she pray all the way to school, which did the trick.

First Day of School or the Little Shoes That Could

The black and white photo shows a little girl on her first day of school.

She is cuteness personified from the bow on her black hair

to the impeccable socks and little Mary-Janes.

One thing seems out of place, the grim determination on her face.

Shouldn’t she wear a sunshine smile?

Even more incongruous are the three big men

In dark business suits and hats surrounding her.

Their stark expressions mirror hers.

Their badges and arm bands tell us something about them.

U. S. marshals, read the photo caption.

I am sure each one carries a loaded gun under his jacket.

And so it was that on that November day of 1960

a pair of little shoes trail blazed a path towards racial integration.

And so it was that a school girl named Ruby Bridges walked into history.

Beatriz Moisset, 2015

We had read Floyd Johnson's true short story online. When he was a plant manager he had many problems he had to deal with. They make fascinating reading.

I began a short story called  "The Doctor in the Bikini." I was explaining it over the phone to my friend Ellen Rosenberg.

"How do you know so much about this psychiatrist?" she asked incredulously.

"I know everything about her," I said. "I'm creating her."

THE THREE OF US

Ellen never sits down

rather she leans on

the counter behind us

as the coffee from Ocean City

drips into the pot.

Smells great, I say.

Can you smell it, Ell?
Oh, I forgot, You’ve

got early Eisenhower’s, can’t

smell a thing.

Was it only last night that the

flash flood came through? Their

electricity went off, the only one

on the street. My car splashed home

from their house and Ada’s, I could

barely see a thing, a ship floating

without a compass, and then of all

the times, could feel my sugar was

low, so I reached into the glove

compartment and peeled me a

chocolate bar, crunching it down

like a condemned man his last meal.

At the shore there were so many

zealots, “Jesus Saves” tee-

shirts raved. “He has arisen” tattoos.

Greg’s cancer came back, Mom repeated

about the disabled young man, one of

six children of the Austin Morris Family.

Margie finds solace at Mass every morning.

Whatever works, said Ellen. I just learned

that at my age.

I used to believe, I said, wondering

at my foolishness. Sometimes I

try to pray but only feel a connection

to the pink-lipped walls of my room

and the old fan tousling what used

to be mounds of dark princess

hair, now lying soft as corn silk

and white.

We should be grateful we’re all

together, the three of us, I said at

the table, spooning a serrated teaspoon of

yellow cranshaw melon into my

mouth, talk about smoothness,

like riding bareback across

the sky, the cranshaw a gift

from the breeder, not from

God,

Grateful we’re all together,

still alive, thinking, sentient

beings.

That’s what I say to myself,

said Mom, when I wake up.

Another day to be alive.

I stare at her face. Memorizing

it, the way I did my father’s, when he lay

dying upstairs, in their bed, under the

huge Monet print of poppy fields.