Hello from Blizzardland - New poems: Bloody Red Nail Polish or The Queen of Burgundy - The Blizzard - Putting Grace Catherine to Bed

Hadn't had coffee in a couple days, but chose my fave from my friend Iris.

Ellen R told me that coffee helps prevent Parkinson's which runs in her family. She drinks 3 cups a day.

Just spoke to my friend "Ronnie" who's in the psych ward at Abington Hospital. Her voice was very chipper. She was terrible when she went in.

Her two treatments of ECT have helped her. She'd had them in the past. I asked if she'd write about em for our upcoming Compass mag and she said Yes. I reminded her about our Arts Festival in April to give her something happy to think about.

She said "Stella" who also had ECT is doing better. My poem "Stella" will be published somewhere.

My friend Iris in CT sent me four absolutely stunning poems for The Compass.

Scott and Ed Quinn helped me with my 1600-word short story, The Psychiatrist Who Disappeared. Deadline to publish is March 31.

It's one of those websites - Hektoen International - where you must pay strict attention when you submit it.

Snowy view out my door. Dunno how to turn off the flash. Scott told me to look at the direx.

Bah humbug!

My neighbor Patrick Kiernan and his team of kids shoveled me out.

How much dyou want, I asked him.

Sixty bucks, he said. Forty for me and twenty for Scott.

I gave him a check and he said he'd pay the kids. They worked hard.

Scott's back went out again by shoveling, so we're hoping he can correct it by "icing it."

Last nite, I went over his house to watch TV with him. He was watching WW2 documentaries on YouTube which are excellent.

Walking over in the - what? - knee-deep and thigh-deep snow was quite an ordeal.

When I walked home, around 11 pm, in the deep snow, each foot sinking in deeply and then taking it out and sinking it into another deep hole, my heart was thumping like sparrow's. 

I was shocked. I can't die, I told myself. I'm too young and have no heart problems. Neither does my 93-yo mum.

BLOODY RED NAILS

Captured on my ten tiny fingers

is a tableau writ in paint the

color of a homegrown

orchid, burgundy

When I take my tea

they stun me with

their beauty. Quickly

I spot Snow White’s

jealous Queen

and feel for a crown

on my head that

isn’t there

But you are there

Patricia, the artist

who painted me, sitting

at your gleaming white

table, saying not a

word

At last like a bite from

a custard pie, she

begins to speak. Surinam in

South America is her

home. The conquering

Dutch claimed the lands

the same time as people

in the Jamestown colony

began to starve.

Her nose is wide, her

black hair tied back, a

blue doctor’s mask

across her mouth

against the deadly fumes

Tired, I lower myself

into bed at night. White light

from the blizzard filters

through the curtains.

Holding my nails before

my eyes, I feel safe.

Healed. Invincible. Nothing can

harm me. Not even

death. I am

The Queen.
The Queen of Burgundy.

Photo of the nails of The Queen of Burgundy. They were done at the Strawberry Nail Salon in Hatboro, the capital of nail salons in Pennsylvania. 

In a dream last nite, I was trying to photograph something very important. It was writing on a van that revealed some secret information.

As in real life, my Nikon "easy to use" new camera failed to snap a picture.

I AM THE BLIZZARD

I pace back and forth

refrigerator full

hummus from the

Mediterranean

yogurt with chocolate

and raspberry so I

won’t pass out from

a diabetes low.

I stare out the window

such whiteness

a fresh bridal gown

laced with moon beams.

Slipping on my clogs

I step onto the front

porch. At midnight

an otherworldly glow bathes

my skin a milky white.

Listen! Does snow

sound as it falls? Do

it click or tap or

make melancholy

sound? 

Its tiny arrows fall

from the sky, piercing

the peach fuzz on my

warm pregnant

cheeks with

a cold ouch!

Barely protected

beneath my

polka-dot PJs

I land in Siberia

where the cold

killed the right arm,

yes, the frost did

it, to a newly anointed

painter name of

Stankowski, not young,

His brilliant reds,

the oranges, the

Rothko blacks, slashed with

poetry, reach out to

embrace me.

I’d like to have his

work hanging on my

wall. There tis:

a painting

Huge –

squares of white

white and more

white

feathery white

Hands on canvas

I take a deep yogi

breath, the paint

smells like snow

as I walk right in

I will stay awhile

If I sleep, do not

disturb. Wake me

when it’s over

a live mummy

with frosty-

white hair and

a body that glows.

I'd hang it over there so I can see it as I write. When I compose in earnest - hello hemingway - I go upstairs. 

Was at Dan n Nicole's the other nite to see them before the blizzard. I brought over Yin's dumplings which they heated up in the microwave. Also brought some salad.

Dan asked me if I wanted to put Grace to bed.

She won't let me, he said.

She will, he said. 

PUTTING GRACE CATHERINE TO BED

Her parents were eating Indian food

in front of the TV. We smelled it

upstairs in her bedroom and looked

up the country on the wall map

I'd given her.

Her little brother Max was asleep in

the other room, wearing brown Buddha beads

to protect him from harm.

Grace’s book shelf held a Harvard

classics library for children. Included

were Little Golden Books of Racine, Wisconsin,

binding aflame in the dim light. 

My favorite, as a kid, was a book on Baby Jesus

my mother bought for me on the twirly shelf

at Heinen's grocery store back in Cleveland,

Jews though we are.

In her pink PJs with feet, she brought the

desired book to bed, where I lay, my sneakers

tucked to the side.

Bubby, she said, get your shoes off

the bed. The book was modern day

fairy tales by modern princesses

Arielle, Belle and Tiana.

Handing it over, I began to read.

It’s not Tiara, she said, it’s Tiana.

Beignets with powdered sugar

made their appearance.

Her huge brown princess eyes stared

at the pictures. We’re in a

diner in New Orleans with Buford,

a cagy man. A cad with a long

Pinocchio nose.

I was in New Orleans once, I said.

Crawling over me, she slid out of

bed. What now! I thought. Kids never

wanna go to bed.

Where is it? she said from the map.

Just left of Florida, the finger-like thing

poking out in the water.

She returns and the reading continues.

She turns toward the window. Good!

She’s asleep.

Not.

I want Dad, she says. You’re

lying on his pillow.

Just the way I lay with

Dan and big sister Sarah.

May I kiss you good night? I ask,

as I slide off the bed,

take her small hand in mine and give it

a noisy kiss.

Mom, Sarah used to say,

you make so much noise

when you kiss me.

My lips have recently

turned seventy.

The better to kiss

you with. How come

we don’t kiss ourselves?

I run my new burgundy

nail polish across my lips.

Smooth as pudding. 

Be quiet, Bubby, she whispers.

Max is asleep.

Yes, boss, methinks.

Grace Catherine as a young lass.

She would love the story  "Cold" - "a  latter-day fairy story of ice princesses and sighing suitors." 

I listen to the audio book Elementals by A S Byatt.