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!