Writers' Group Meets at B's Condo - My new poems: Surrealistic Pillow and Hillary for President

Beatriz is doing very well. She started her new cancer tx in December, 2015. She's been on the new drug for 8 weeks. Her doc called her with the results. She's doing great and continues to have more energy. She even made us coffee.... Maxwell House.

She mentioned that bald eagles are nesting again at Pennypack Trust.



Many folks in our group have difficulty eating certain foods. My friend Freda Samuels highly recommends Dr Charles Parker, whose website is here.

We drank outa beautiful bird cups.

Were so happy to see our Carly who can only come upon occasion due to her managerial duties at Gloria Dei Farms.

Her handsome son Eric dropped her off.

Her story MOVIES was so clever. At the Farms they have Monday Movie Night so she put lyrics from the films - Gonna Wash That Man Right Outa my Hair - into her very entertaining story.

The main characters were named Mr and Mrs.

In one voice, we loved what she'd written.

ALLAN read from his novella The Village of Blood and Stone. Gnomes have a nasty habit of dispensing of enemies with hatchets. Lots of bloodletting which Allan does very well.

What can I say about Marf's short story THE SCOTTISH MUG? The woman has an uncanny ability - from on high, she believes and who can quarrel with her? - to find cups that directly relate to her Scottish heritage.

She found a Miss Pen Pal who is a MacDonald, as is she. She writes in her story about Dumbarton, Scotland, a company town with cobblestone streets, a dye factory, and home ownership as long as you work - some might say are enslaved - by the company.

Find the town here.  Doesn't the River Clyde sound lovely?

She believes her MacDonald dad, born in 1908, is guiding her from the other side.



Cost of the mug?  Seventy-five cents.

Her story reminded me of When Calls The Heart that I'm enjoying on Netflix. 

Linda Barrett brought us THE LAST ROSE, a science fiction story about the final effect of our misuse of the earth.

A scrawny 7-yo girl is dying. She's drying up bc there's no more water left.

What a mind she has. She also emailed us a poem about her mum.

Speaking of great minds, Rem read us Chapter Two of his book, most amusing!

You could do a lot worse, he writes, than live in a world where it was eternally 1976. Of course, you'd have to put up with smiley faces and pet rocks and a whole lot of cheesy disco.

Excuse me while I get up and dance.

To cap it off, the Pittsburgh Pirate capped Rem read one of his poems

 AN OPEN LETTER TO FRANK O'HARA

Frank, he objects, shifting in his desk chair,
that's it, I've had enough of your stream of
consciousness.

O'Hara, he told us, met his death at age 40 at Fire Island, run over by a dune buggy.

Beatriz found a famous O'Hara poem online called Lana Turner Has Collapsed.

Carla mentioned that her dad met Lana. He had a cleaning establishment which cleaned a women's apparel company where lovely Lana was trying on clothes.

I think she's best known for the film The Postman Always Rings Twice with John Garfield



and her daughter Cheryl stabbing one of Lana's lovers to death.

Good, Cheryl is still alive, born in 1943.

C'est moi.

Here's my Maxwell House Coffee set atop B's coffee table. It flanks one of the best desserts I've ever had. Allan pretended to smoke one of these chocolate wafers. What a riot he is!

BTW, the moment I got home from B's, I rode to nowhere for 20 minutes on my stationery bike.

Sugar level is normal.... 97.

Carly does her own nails. She bought this ring somewhere in Peddler's Village, half price. $25.

She and a friend were driving down where she began seeing spots before her eyes and had a terrible headache.

What was it?

Ocular migraine, which a few of us, including me, have had.

It's not serious. But definitely frightening!

Amazing, all the things that can go wrong with our bodies.

I'm 70. Who knows what awaits me?

I presented the true short story Me and The Old Man about my relationship with a deceased neighbor.

Also wrote two poems I've gotta fix, but want to hurry to go see Scott.

More photos after my poems. 

SURREALISTIC PILLOW

The year I put in the tulips

not that long ago I entertained

myself with the entire

remastered CD of Surrealistic

Pillow, which boomed

over Cowbell, as I sat in

the dirt gloriously happy

and stoned.

On music.

Now Paul Kantner, 74,

has passed. Organ

failure from a heart

attack. What were

his final thoughts

as his life slipped

past, quick as

the draining of

his IV.

At Scott’s, I let

myself in. Music

booms. Surrealistic

Pillow. I stare from

the plastic-covered

couch from Gramma Yetta

at his smooth face, the

hairs on his goatee like

budding crocus

in spring, he looks

beautiful to me.

I lie myself down and

swivel my ears toward

the stereo, where the

Jefferson Airplane take

the stage in his vinyl

recording.

Eyes on his white ceiling

with not a cobweb in

sight, I find myself in

the Fillmore West

accepting a toke,

small and brown and

fragrant - the Vietnam
Vets smoked them too -

my hands upraised

in joy and ecstasy

as black-haired

Grace Slick

falls down her rabbit

hole, unaware of

future discontents,

alcoholism, rehab,
death of Paul Kanter, 
father of their child China.

All this on invisible

Side B of the vinyl

Who mourns for

the Starship now?

Not I. Snug in my

jeans I await
the coming of
spring, 
planting time.

HILLARY FOR PRESIDENT

The Times has endorsed her.

Hardly a surprise. My friend

Ellen will move to Ireland if

hairswept Trump wins. The

vets last night were shocked

when he tried to embrace

them. Didn’t know how,

poor inept master of wealth.

Did his blond bangs

rub the angular faces of

the vets, taut with

readiness?

The Times likes her

preparations. You’ve heard

of folks who know a little

about everything. The Hill

knows fathoms about

everything: the wars we wage,

how to make friends and influence

leaders, how to sit like a

lady in those pant suits

she prefers.

Women’s rights? She’ll

fight for us. Like me,

she’s a grandma to

little Charlotte

“Hey Char! Come to

your lovin’ Grammy!”

Safe driving, Hillary,

and no more falls with

concussions. America

is counting on you to

save us from the

beasts roaring all

around us. Be our

Saint George killing

all the dragons.

 

B's friend Lorraine took this photo of a Russian Orthodox church when she visited Russia.

Beatriz is stumped by Van Gogh's Starry Night jigsaw puzzle. All those blues!

Shhh! Ed's reading The Last Lawn Party - New Poems: Who's that blonde in the mirror - Wine from the Central Valley of Chile - The Blizzard and I - Wendy of the Rolling Hills of Vermont

David Kime, creator of Transcendent Visions - look! he's listed in Writers' Market - said he was getting ready to work on the 25th anniversary issue.

Send me some poems, he said.

I'm really busy David, I said, but I'll send them within the week.

Well, I have so many things to do, but I thought this would be easy, so I wrote three new poems and reworked a fourth.

It was far from easy. But I'm really happy with the results. I emailed one or two to Ed Quinn who pronounced them 'dark.'

I wrote back 'dark is good.'

Following the poetry are some pics you won't wanna miss!

WHO’S THAT BLONDE IN THE MIRROR?

Whoever she is, she looks a lot like her father

with the thin lips and the worry-crease upon

her brow.

Whoever she is, she leaves home and drives

to the nature center for a 10:30 nature

walk. Where is the leader? The tall man

with the beard? It is not unthinkable he

has turned into a strutting wild turkey

or a proud antlered deer, rubbing his

itching antlers on some unprotected

tree bark.

“I’m Ruth,” she says to a short

slightly bent-over woman with

fire in her eyes. “Judy” doesn’t

notice the resemblance to Ruth’s

father, who pre-deceased her

mother as phrased

in the obituary notices.

Judy knows her way around the

park. Where the trails split off

like a wishbone, she chooses

the one to the left. Wherever

thou goest, Judy!

They stop by the banks of

the rushing creek, stop to

hear the splash of the waters

upon the rocks, timeless as

a ray of sun.

Then they hear it. Squawking

that takes over the air.

Geese, Canada geese, come

down from Ontario,

Quebec, Nova Scotia, to

their summer home. What

a view: rushing waters,

huge boulders, tiny bullfrogs

with bulging eyes – and oh

the sounds the geese hear.

Birds of every variety – the cow bird,

the cuckoo, the scarlet tanager in

its bright Red Riding Hood

feathers.

The two short women

one in Keds, the other in

hiking boots, are drawn

to the three-tiered wood fence

by the warlike sounds,

the raving bellicosity,

This early spring day

dawning with daffodils and

lesser celandine, the geese

play out the millennia-old

mating game.

The whole world turns

upon who mounts whom.

We look up at the sky

and soldier on.

<>

WINE FROM THE CENTRAL VALLEY OF CHILE

Alan and Elaine’s gift of pinot noir

for my 70th birthday

sits unopened on the counter.

How can I drink the bones

of the good Doctor

Allende bespectacled president

of Chile? A bullet pierced

his brain, a man who dressed

each morning in suit and tie

after rinsing off his

eyeglasses. His country

not yet ready for justice and

fair distribution of land.

His family fled to Havana

leaving his bones shivering

and alone, unloved, uncared

for.

At midnight one January

eve, I walk into my dark

kitchen, stars twinkling

out the window, and

grab the shapely

“made in Chile” bottle and

twist off the cap

with a satisfying clickl

I pour the chilled wine

into a small white

coffee cup, sniff it

then hold it in the

dark kitchen, near

the window bursting

with stars and cry out

“Doctor Allende! I am

here with you now. I will pour

your blood down my

throat, slowly, with

admiration, and you will

be lonesome

no more.”  

<>

On the Blizzard poem below, I put David Bowie as I know David loves his music. My sister Ellen told me about the DOA guy who works at Bunn's in Southampton, I made up where he died. And I asked myself, should I put a third dead person and decided Yes.

Question:  What song is "And I asked myself...." from.

THE BLIZZARD AND I

David Bowie will never see it

his cancer devoured him

nor will young Nicholas, the

round-faced young man

at the health food store. We

cried when we learned he

was DOA after a crash on

the turnpike. Neither did

did famed blind poet

David Simpson – I’ve

loved him forever

– but he flew away

on a golden cloud

of ALS.

I watched the flurries

come in slowly

like honey dripping

from the jar. I drank it

in from my living room window

which houses a menagerie

of dime-store objets-art

on the vast plain of

the windowsill.

Delicate porcelain coffee

cups, a ceramic bird house –

reds and flaming oranges –

it’s all I have left of my

dead brother David – and

my bottle collection – sexy

Coke bottles and a muddy

brown bottle of

Stout Beer.

My eyes lifted to watch the

tops of the bird houses

grow mounds of white hair

as a defeated wren sung

the blues, a refugee who

would find succor, unlike

the millions of displaced

and forgotten across the

sea, stranded, forgotten

by God.

I stand outside on my front

porch in polka-dot

pajamas that are

no match for a

blizzard. I shiver

remembering the

ride to Dachau.

With a moan, I

go back inside and

pour myself a

cup of tea,

Wondering, as I

often do, who I am

and what I’m

doing here.

<>

WENDY OF THE GREEN HILLS OF VERMONT  Read obit here. 

(1945 – 2016)  

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 tomb. “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 the

battle against Alzheimer’s

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.

<>

 My red amyrillis is growing nicely on the plain of my windowsill, as I said in a poem.

 So, I'm whizzing by the self checkout counter when I spot this cookie tin in the cart of an Indian fellow. I ask if they're good. Yes. Where are they, I ask.

Cookie aisle on the bottom.

And there they are. Really really good. I ate two, which you can see on the table. Now they're sleeping in the front seat of my car, for obvious reasons.

In the slo cooker I made this asparagus soup - quite good - with grated cheese on top.

Scott and I had been talking about how much we love lox and bagels. So I went over to Manhattan Bagel and bought this whipped cream with lox spread.

Very hard to stop eating em, but I did go on bike, while talking to Freda Rose. Told her I'd applied to several old age facilities but hadn't heard a thing.

I'm now gonna bow my head - am wearing my warm polka dot PJs - and say a silent prayer to get the job.

Feel free to join me.