Thursday, December 10, 2015

Got a thing or two published - Mark Padmore poem - Scott poem - Krissy and Tom

What a terrible picture of a wonderful sandwich - grilled cheese from the Giant - with cheddar cheese, spinich, onions, grilled peppers, on pumpernickel bread.

The danger is that my blood sugar zigged and zagged all day long.

Sent in my two writings for the Montgomery County Community College Writing Competition. The instructions were very poorly written.

Both Martha and Freda read my selections and said Yes! Martha read my 250-word fiction piece - Soulmates - and said it made her cry.

I'll print the poem - Krissy and Tom - at the end b/c the font is different. I chose the name Krissie as I read part of Chrissie Hynde's memoir Reckless. I've always liked that name. But I won't name my next child Krissy.

Image result for mark padmore              Ada sent me an Inquirer article about new music awards. Mark Padmore, British tenor, was among them. She knows that Sarah and I stayed at his country home near London when we visited Paris and London in 2013.

On FB, Sarah said that she attended the award ceremony. I spose it was in Manhattan.

I knew I wanted to write him a letter of congratulations.  A letter?  C'mon. A poem. I called it I DO NOT WANT TO SPEND MY LIFE TRAVELING.  He said that during an interview. In the poem I quoted lines from his songs.

It only cost $1.20 to mail. The closest PO - Bryn Athyn - had three cop cars in there - so I went to the Huntingdon Valley PO, with a bag full of stamps.

I thought they'd like our American stamps.... two gingerbread houses and one Ingrid Bergman.

A lil over a week ago, I wanted to get some of my unpublished short stories published. Literary Yard has never said No to me.

W/o even revising it, I sent over The Obituary Writer - quite long - and they published it.Am guessing it was rejected 8 times prior. Even tho I knew I liked it, I had little idea what it was about or how long it was.

Creatures of the Night will be published by The Lengendary. I've never heard of it either but it's great to find a new venue. The editor gave me a nice compliment about the 'devastatingly painful events' of my late brother David's passing.


Krissy at the red light
awaits the lovely green
arrow and here it comes
made to order. With deft
hands she makes her left
but – what’s this? – a truck
crashes through, she honks
as quickly as Jimmy Rollins
throwing home, proceeds
down Davisville, thinking of
her car as a grey trotting
mare, well-fed, its shine
reflecting the day’s December
sunlight. Kremp Florist on
the left mouths “special deals”
red poinsettias – should I? –
she wonders. Nay, Blue Bloods
awaits her on Netflix. Tom Selleck
regal behind his thick mustache
needs her help in solving Tuesday’s
crime. A crazy woman, Jennifer, heard
God speak from a tree. The crime is
solved, thanks to her perspicacity.
Watching, while munching peanuts,
Krissy remembers when she, too, was crazy,
little Krissy, locked up behind thick
steel doors. Wasn’t it Kubler-Ross,
the Death & Dying doctor who said, The
only people who speak the truth are the elders
among us and the psychotics.
Krissy drove hundreds of miles cross country
watching flocks of sheep on the Great Plains,
tall thorny saguaro in New Mexico, a total
of ten years on that Secretariat of hers
until she left her psychosis behind.
Damn it all! Being normal is not all
it’s cracked up to be. “Boring, if you
ask me,” she said to the maple tree.

- Ruth Z. Deming
Note:  The Montco instrux didn't say where to put your name - sometimes they want it 'blind' - so I stuck it on at the end.


“I have been a man of
action and have fought
for my country at sea”
One of those tiny fruit
flies we find that hangs
around the apricots in
the market took a liking
to him, and perched
atop his ear.  

What the fly knew of music
would surprise you, his
double set of wings made
such a delightful noise the
honey bees came ‘round to
listen and hum along.

Padmore, newly awarded
a Musical America Award,
called the wife and kids,
blowing kisses over the
transatlantic phone, then
turned his attention to
the odd itch above his
satiny ear.  

With his tenor’s silky
fingers he lightly tapped
the winged fly then pledged
his protection as he spun
“Heav'n smiles once more”
across the room

With his open honeyed mouth
notes spun like silver swans
gliding along the gilded
ceiling. He, Padmore, as
a lad, knew nothing of
open-mouthed opera,
as he and his terrier roamed
the plains searching for
seashells and shiny rocks
then slipped home just
in time for dinner.

What was this, then,
finding himself fifty
years later on a stage
dogless and mostly
hairless named a
winner of a contest he
hadn’t even entered.

I will sing to the end of
my days till the stars
fall from the sky and
Vicky and Maisie and Elsie
must peel me off the stage.

And bring, if you
please, chocolates.
Cadbury Dark with the
caramel filling. Run on
down to the corner store.
We’ll share.


When Scott and I were napping together I had a mild anxiety attack about sending the poem. It's very different!


They’ve all been on, James Woods, Buddy Ebsen, Marty Milner and now a phone call on his answering machine summoned him.

“Hey, Scott,” said Garner in his slow Los Angeles drawl. “We’re hiring an extra, a train fixer, call me right away.”

The limo picked him up at his blue rancher on Cowbell, his girlfriend waving goodbye.

Rockford himself took his duffel bag at the airport and placed it in the back seat of his Firebird.

The car screeched and took off on the famed Interstate, slowly at first, then finding an opening, Rockford switched gears and zoomed through a slowly chugging line of
cars. Scott’s head swiveled back and he looked at the unfamiliar surroundings. The
sun was blinding his hazel eyes.

“Ya wanna try it, buddy?”

“Sure,” said Scott, “when we get to the trailer.”

They came to a smooth stop. Who do you think was waiting outside, beer in hand?

“Rocky!” shouted Scott, grabbing his hand. “Water for me, I’m not old enough to drink,” he laughed.

“How old are you, boy?” asked the dad.

“Why, today’s my birthday,” he said, pushing his red Phillies’ cap back on his head.

“Fifty-seven. We’ve got these cold Decembers back in PA.”

Rockford found his name on an endless online blog, knew he was a train fixer, a left-handed mechanic.

“We’re having some trouble with some cheap golf carts we rented for our episode “Who’s the Robber Here?” with – ever heard of Sharon Spelman, Scotty?”

“Nope.”   “Oh, she’s a pretty one.”

Scott looked around. Just like on TV, with the beach off in the distance. He’d make sure to get in a swim.

“Wanna grab some chow, bud?”

Scott chuckled. “I’m not much for tacos but I tell you what. You take me to a place that has a salad bar and I’ll fix any old goddamn thing you have and give you my autograph.”

“Sold!” cried Rockford. 


Don't just sit there with your arms crossed. Get up and cheer.... or boo.... show some emotion.

BTW, when I submitted my work to The Legendary, I went a little out of character - believe me, these editors don't brook no nonsense, and I said something like, Mayhap you've been waiting for years for Ruth Z Deming to finally submit her poetry.

Oh! here's my new photo... it's my FB photo.

No dice. Can't find it. Here's the old one.

Hi, Little Cutie!

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