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.
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.
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.
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.
VETERANS
DAY, 2015
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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