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.