Wednesday, November 11, 2015

No mail today, Veterans Day - Asparagus Soup - Poem: Veterans Day 2015

Whereas the 11th of November 1918, marked the cessation of the most destructive, sanguinary, and far reaching war in human annals and the resumption by the people of the United States of peaceful relations with other nations, which we hope may never again be severed, and...

So saith The  U S Dept of Veterans Affairs.

View this website about wonderful programs for our vets, thank you Fran Hazam.

While I was in the kitchen making some soup - don't worry - recipe and photos will come later - I knew I had to write a poem about Veterans Day. BTW, it's spelt correctly, no apostrophe.

Very bright day, today. Hold on, here comes a pic.
  Since my audio book was skipping - All the Pretty Horses - I turned on the rad. Yesterday I said I didn't like the new morning gal on XPN. Discovered today I DO like her but she says her name every two seconds.

Maybe it's so I'll remember it, but I don't.

Then I turn to the classical station. They always play great American music on Veterans Day. Played

Bold Island Suite

COMPOSER: Howard Hanson

ENSEMBLES: Cincinnati Pops Orchestra

CONDUCTOR: Erich Kunzel

Temendous! It's about an island off the coast of Maine.  Hopefully they'll play a few by Charles Ives. I've wrin a nice poem about him, long ago, doubt if I can find it in the detritus.

Goody goody! I found it. Clicksville.  

Got up at 4 in the a m. Such an addict I am that I went on my laptop in the living room, where I'm typing now - remember the view out the window - and by Jehoshaphat -  somebody liked me poetry and is gonna publish it!

The site, whose name escapes me now, wanted all poetry on a Gmail account, which I have but rarely use. They liked "the compose" feature. When they wrote this, I thought, I will NEVER be able to figger it out. 

I sent them six poems - and they accepted them all. Only yesterday, my friend Claudia, said she loves The Potbellies Storm the IHOP.  Some fool wants to publish that!

I'm waiting for a ND call. It concerns cancer, bipolar, heroin addiction. I'm carrying my phone around with me. NO! Not my iPhone. Haven't figgered out how to work it yet.

Luddite? C'est moi.

Guess what I'm doing today? Working on Chapter Seven of my novel and rewriting Shep's Miracle Cure, a short story about a man with a bad back who works at SEPTA.

Here's what Scott said about it.

Great story! You must've looked at my 'work orders' to get all that info. 

Was at Scott's this a m when we heard the racket of blackbirds who are migrating. This happens every year.

 They also go to Mom's house, 10 minutes away.
 Went to Scott's so he could take a pic of me for the lit mag as they didn't like this one... I don't know how to crop a foto, which means cut the excess out

Ellen took this of me when we ate at La Fontana's in Hatboro for a magnificent T'giving meal last year. The restaurant has since shut down.

I wanted to get a shot with my white hair. 

Image result for judy collins Here's Judy Collins with white hair. Watching her now on Tavis. She's 76, born in 1939.

Scott took two dreadful closeups of me that distort my face. Remember when we were kids - way back when - and would look at our faces reflected in the toaster? We looked so strange and cute!

So, I ended up sending em

In fact I was wearing that shirt only yesterday. 
Here's Dad.

So I knew I was gonna write the poem but I didn't feel like leaving my sunny, cheery living room to lug my lard-ass (thank you Nelson DeMille - btw, I returned the audio book b/c it was a frigging bore and I didn't like the way he talked to his female partner)

Upstairs I went and wrote the following in quick time.


I have posted a photo

of my late father on

Facebook, a Marine during

World War II

No mail today in honor
of the dead who laid
down their lives as they
lay dying in the mud, or
on the sheets, or, brains
spilling out like spaghetti,
they still haven’t found out
they were dead.

In the end my dad got it
in the brain, that’s what
killed him before he was
sixty, a cup-sized tumor
in his brain. How we wept!
And still are. Silently now.

Think, if you will, of awaiting
the mail back in World War
Two-Land. A different country,
wives tiptoed to the door to
see if Mailman Jack was on
the street. Panic would ensue
until the next letter arrived
and the next and the next.

“I’m pregnant,” she’d exalt
in her note. Some women
were pregnant with lovers –
he’ll never know – but most
were faithful back then,
thinking, If Harry dies at
least his son will be born.

The son of God or God himself
is drying his tears today. Such
odd creatures he created, loving
one day, murderous the next.
Ah, well, he snuffled, and picked
up his pipe to think more on it.


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